Where the River Ends (13 page)

15

A
few minutes after 5 p.m., a 5 Series BMW with dark windows parked at the meter in front of my door. She rolled down the window and waved at me. I locked up and set my easel, a blank framed canvas and two fishing tackle boxes filled with paints and brushes in her trunk. Another woman sat in the front seat so I hopped in the back. Abbie turned around and introduced me. “Doss, this is Rosalia.”

Rosalia was heavy-set, maybe mid-fifties, probably South American and had evidently spent a good bit of time in the sun. She turned toward me, offered a calloused, dry hand. Her eyes were baggy, she had no eyebrows to speak of, her nose was crooked, one ear was missing and she had no teeth.

We drove across town, toward some docks and large warehouses. Abbie talked while shifting gears. “We set up this studio for last-minute shoots. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do.”

The warehouse was cool, expansive and, thanks to the concrete floor, every whisper echoed back at you. In the center, a gray curtain hung across a cable stretched taut between two poles. Studio lighting, comprised of dozens of different types of lights, angled toward the curtain. Some shot up from the floor, some were direct, others filtered down onto a black mat and small stool.

Rosalia wore a long dark brown skirt, a large dirty white apron and old running shoes—one of which was untied due to a broken lace. Her top was a baggy lavender uniform shirt that most “house help” had been either told or conditioned to wear. Something about her struck me as off, but I couldn’t quite place it. Something was off balance.

Abbie sat Rosalia on the stool, whispered something, then moved to a control box and began flipping lights on and off. Rosalia sat on the stool wiping her hands on her apron. Abbie spent several minutes considering the lighting. She’d turn one on, add another to it, turn a third off, only to immediately add accent with a fourth. She turned to me. “What do you think?”

“I like it, but if you add something soft at her feet, it might get the feel I think you’re looking for.” She flipped another switch, chewed on her lip and then swigged from a water bottle. Finally, she nodded.

She grabbed my hand, led me to Rosalia and spoke in Spanish. “Rosalia, this is the artist I told you about.” Rosalia smiled, did not look up at me, and nodded. Abbie patted her knee and looked at me. “Doss, some of my first memories include this lady. She would comb my hair and tell me I was pretty long before I knew the meaning of the word.” She turned to Rosalia. “It’s okay. Go ahead.”

Rosalia straightened her apron, then began to unbutton her shirt. When she’d loosed the last button, Abbie stepped behind and helped her slip it off. Quickly, as if she was afraid she’d change her mind, Rosalia reached behind her and unclasped her own bra. Then, without pulling her arms through, she let it fall, exposing the imbalance.

Abbie knelt next to her, patted her on the arm and spoke to me. “Rosalia fled her country when I was just a baby.” She pointed at a crooked and wide scar—nearly an inch and a half in width—that ran from the nipple of her right breast, across her sternum, across where the left breast used to be, under her armpit and around onto her back. “But not before a man with a machete got ahold of her.” Rosalia’s right breast sagged nearly to her waist, held up only by the roll of fat pushed up by her apron. Abbie stood behind her, untied Rosalia’s jet black hair streaked with white and let it fall across her shoulders. It came nearly to her waist.

I looked at Abbie. Searching. Abbie kissed Rosalia on the cheek and lifted her chin. Then she spoke to me. “Rosalia has always wanted a portrait. I told her you could do it.”

I stepped back to my canvas, made it look like I was prepping pencils and paints, wondering how in the world I was going to do that when Abbie walked behind me and put her arms around me. She whispered in my ear, “Doss, look with your eyes.” She covered my eyes with her hand. “Not these.” She slid her hand down onto my chest. “These. Look through here and show her what she’s always wanted to see.” She slid her hand into mine. “Show her that she’s beautiful beyond measure.”

I stared at the horror staring back at me. “How?”

Her breath was warm on my ear. “Search what you see and find the one thing that makes you want to look again.”

Rosalia sat on her stool, staring back at me. I shifted uneasily on mine, my palms sweating, mouth dry, thinking, What do I do when she discovers that I can’t do what she hopes I can do. Abbie walked around us, talking on the phone with her agent, booking flights, managing her career. She could multitask on a level I’d never comprehended. Before me, sat Rosalia. Quietly waiting.

With nothing to hide, and nothing to hide behind, she lifted her chin, pulled one shoulder back, looked down her nose and out of the corner of her eye at me.

In three seconds, she went from pitiful and broken to towering and magnificent.

Four hours later, I had the bones of a sketch. Abbie flew to New York, but I spent the next eight days sweating and hyperventilating. Abbie flew home, called me at 2 a.m. and I held her at bay. “Not yet.” Okay, yes, I was afraid. So I spent another two days tweaking it, getting my courage up, then finally, because she nearly beat the door down, I let her in and clicked on the light.

The light hit the canvas and Abbie stepped back. She sucked in a chestful of air, dropped Indian-style onto the floor and covered her mouth, crying. I stepped back into the shadow, wondering. Worried. Growing sicker by the second. Abbie pulled the light closer, then lightly brushed her fingertip across the texture of the scar on the canvas.

She turned to me, her lip quivering. Tears were pouring off her face. “Oh…I don’t know how to say this.”

Me either. I started backpedaling. “This is just one option. I can start over. Maybe try it from a different angle or—”

She began shaking her head. “No…” She stood, placed her palms on my face and pressed her lips to mine. I remember her face was wet, her mascara had smeared like a raccoon and my knees buckled like the Tin Man.

That kiss traveled down my face, through my throat, it parted my shoulders and cut into the deeper places in my soul before coming to rest. She placed her head on my shoulder and just shook her head. “Magnificent.”

Standing in my loft, staring at Rosalia, with Abbie pressed to my chest and the taste of her tears on my lips, Abbie taught me to breathe again.

Oh, and with Rosalia’s permission, I graduated.

16

JUNE 2, AFTERNOON

S
outh of the Bare Bottom, the river makes a head-fake east and then darts back south again. She does this until the St. Marys Bluff road. The level of the water allowed me sporadic moments of paddling. Other times I stepped out, walked along the bank or in the water and slid the canoe through the shallows.

Midafternoon, I stopped to adjust the straps on my shoulders, looked down and a pine snake had coiled about five feet away. Pine snakes are long—like five or six feet—skinny, light brown in color and make an awful hissing noise if you hack them off. I had, so he was hissing at the top of his lungs. Abbie asked, “What’s that noise?”

I studied the ground around me and realized he wasn’t hissing at me. At my feet, maybe twelve inches from the toes sticking up out of my Tevas swam three pygmy rattlers. Usually less than a foot long, pygmy rattlers gnaw on you more than strike but they’re no less venomous. Give them enough time and they’ll chew on your toes, turning your foot a bunch of weird colors. Antivenin works but it’d mean a trip to the hospital and it wouldn’t be fun or pretty.

Abbie’s not too fond of snakes. I don’t like snakes either, but if you’re going to travel this river, especially this far up, you better get used to them. Normally, I’d shoot them, because the only kind of snake I like is a dead snake, but I didn’t want to risk the noise. I splashed the three at my feet and they skittered across the top of the water. Then I splashed the pine snake. He made a U-turn and slithered up the bank and into a tree. That’s one of my least favorite visuals—a snake going away. Snakes and disease have much in common—they are far better at sneaking up on you than you are on them.

R
IVER
B
LUFF
R
OAD
parallels the river for a mile or so. It’s the first river frontage road we’d come to and it’s on the Georgia side where the bluff is noticeably higher. Most homes are old farmhouses with tin roofs and porches that run the length of the house. Nearly every house has a row of dog kennels and a garage nearly as big as the house. We passed beneath a stolen Winston Cup Series banner that stretched across the river behind a house whose yard was lined with a dozen or so stripped and rusting parts-cars sitting on blocks in various forms of disarray and dysfunction. Sun-faded plastic chairs were scattered across the lawns and three plastic pools sat above ground bulging at the seams. The sign above the door read,
PROTECTED BY SMITH AND WESSON.

RVs complement most large garages. Mangy, collarless dogs roam free. Most sleep in the middle of the road and snap at the bumper of the rural mail carrier as he drives by. Pink flamingos are a common yard decoration, as are bald tires, old bass boats, burning trash piles and
SEE ROCK CITY
mailboxes and birdhouses.

Down here, everybody goes to church. And while there are many buildings, they all fall under one banner. It’s one of the largest denominations in the world—it’s called the First Holy Congregation of NASCAR. Most worship outdoors. During rainouts, they wear ponchos or poke arm holes in the sides of black plastic can liners. It’s a come-as-you-are, pretty free-flowing place. A lot of hand waving, screaming and cheering with two hundred and fifty thousand of their closest friends. To say these people are evangelical would be an understatement. Their hats, T-shirts and jackets outline the tenets of their faith. The flags hanging off their garages identify their particular arm of the church while their bumper stickers give the name of their favorite pastor. Services can run several hours, which is why most folks bring coolers with food and refreshment. Some attendees even camp out in the parking lots on Saturday waiting for the doors to open. Most services conclude with a combination communion and baptism. Surrounded by his deacons and other staff, the pastor of the day—always a flashy dresser—stands on the podium after he’s whipped everybody into a pretty good frenzy and then he just sprays them with the elements. Folks up front can drink or swim—it’s up to them.

We slipped beneath the banner as a knee-high, mangy, collarless, mostly white dog walked down the bank and sunk her muzzle in the water. She had one black eye and a hungry litter somewhere, because her freckled teats were engorged and the milky tips were dragging the sand. A half mile further down, we passed three pit bulls with spiked collars rolling in the mud. Two of them had cuts above their eyes while the third was missing an eye entirely. The fence beyond them held a spray-painted sign that read “Forget Dog, Beware of Owner.” Behind them, cows ambled through a pasture flanked by pesky cowbirds and horseflies the size of half dollars.

We paddled through the wafting smoke and pungent smell of a burning trash pile as six more pit bulls raced across the yard aimed at us. They crossed the hundred-yard distance before I had time to fumble for the revolver. When they reached the river’s edge, they stood ten feet off the bank in a perfect row and bared their teeth. They growled, spewing spit across the river, and a few even barked, but they did not cross the imaginary line. Each wore a collar with a small black box and a little antenna that suggested an electric fence for which I was grateful. I hoped the inventor of that gizmo was enjoying his retirement on some beach served by cabana girls carrying little umbrella-decorated drinks. He’d earned it. I made no sudden movement and slowly push-poled us through the shallows. Abbie cracked one eye and said, “Am I about to be eaten?”

I shook my head slowly but didn’t take my eyes off the bank. “Not as long as the power stays on.”

“And if the power goes out?”

“Well…I’m bigger, so they’ll probably chomp on me first. You should have time to reach the top of the bluff before they pick me clean and come looking for dessert.”

“That’s comforting.”

W
E MADE FOUR MORE
miles by sundown. The river began to open a little, requiring less portage and more paddling. Long white sandy beaches paralleled us on either side. Palm trees shot up like rockets and palmettos bent over the sides of the bank, dipping their fronds in the water like tender fingers. Redwood-sized pine trees, anchored into the banks, towered like skyscrapers along with sprawling scrub oaks.

Mom was right.

Sundown came and found me looking over my shoulder. It wasn’t like I could go running to the police. I thought maybe we could outrun them, but I had a feeling they knew this river about as well as I did. A gentle breeze picked up and the river made a hard right turn. Almost a complete 180-degree. This was Skinner’s Beach. Up the bank was a small screened-in outdoor kitchen and an artesian well fitted with a rusted old hand-pump that used to work. Church youth groups, Boy Scout troops and Friday-night tailgaters regularly frequent here due to its many campsites, availability of water and the large grill, tables and covered area in the event of rain.

I beached the canoe, slid it beneath the shade and lifted Abbie into my arms. She didn’t open her eyes or move—the pain had returned. I carried her up the bank, pushed open the screen door and laid her on the table that was long enough to seat some twenty people. I propped her head up and then started priming the pump to bring the water up. It finally gurgled out, rusted and stained. Three minutes of pumping and the water was clear, cold and sweet. I washed out a stainless-steel mug and carried water to Abbie. She sat up, sipped and then lay back down. I grabbed the Pelican case from the canoe, uncapped one of the dexamethasone syringes and then turned Abbie on her side. I swabbed her skin with alcohol, then slid the needle into what remained of the meat of her left cheek.

I returned to the pump and bent next to the spout, letting it rain down over my head. It was cold, clean and helped open my weary eyes. When my right arm grew tired of pumping, I stood and let the water run off me.

Dusk fell around us. I returned to the outdoor kitchen and pried the locks off the wooden storage bins beneath the table. Scout groups and churches used them to keep paper goods dry and away from the mice, but oftentimes they’d leave canned goods because they didn’t feel like hauling them out. The first box held nothing but paper plates, some plastic Solo cups and three rolls of toilet paper. The second one contained a tarp, a box of unopened but stale saltine crackers, two cans of sardines marinated in Louisiana hot sauce, three Swiss cake rolls and some matches. In the third, I hit the jackpot—graham crackers, marshmallows and a few Hershey bars.

The fireplace was more of a pit, open on four sides, and the metal chimney hung from the roof, drawing the smoke and heat upward. It was a safe way to let kids cook s’mores.

A dozen or so straightened coat hangers had been laid across the rafters. I pulled one down and placed it into the fire, burning off the rust. Once hot and sterile, I stabbed it through two marshmallows and pulled a bench up close to the fire. I wasn’t too crazy about lighting a signal fire, but I had a feeling that whoever was following us already knew where we were. Besides, the warmth felt good. A minute or so later, Abbie appeared next to me. I placed two chocolate squares on top of one of the crackers, then slid a gooey marshmallow on top and capped it with the other graham cracker. Abbie smiled. “Honey, you shouldn’t have.” Melted chocolate and marshmallow goo squeezed out the sides of her mouth as she bit into it.

I pointed the poker downriver. “Tomorrow, a few more miles and we’ll start coming upon the weekend getaways. Most have outdoor kitchens and refrigerators. Until then…”

She smiled, marshmallow dabbed in the corner of her mouth. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’d done this before.”

“What? S’mores?”

She shook her head. “No, dummy, the stealing.”

“Admittedly…” I glanced out over the river. “I’ve had some practice.”

The fire died down and coals turned white while we ate every crumb, including the saltines, but Abbie turned up her nose when it came to the sardines. I set aside the Swiss cake rolls for breakfast. The quick energy would help get me going. I was tired and I had a feeling I wouldn’t get much sleep tonight either.

The night passed with little excitement. A light rain drizzled around midnight, cooling the air, so I stoked the fire, and then unfolded the tarp and towel and laid both over Abbie. About two hours before daylight, I lifted her off the table and laid her cocoonlike in the bottom of the canoe. She was sleeping fitfully, so I gave her a lollipop; she flew to la-la land and stayed there until daylight.

At Highway 121, the Okefenokee Trail turns due east for six miles until Stokes Bridge where she makes a hard left and bends due north in a relatively straight shot to Folkston and Boulogne. In topographic terms, it is here that the river has begun rolling off Florida’s shoulders.

The river widens here to eight car lengths—give or take. ATV tracks cut the banks along with bog holes, and several trash piles, tucked up in the palmetto bushes, are used as regular dumps by the locals. A waterlogged mattress, the corpse of a bullet-riddled refrigerator, half a motorcycle, several dozen
National Geographic
s, and a myriad of Budweiser cans and bottles had melted into the mud and sand. Below the bridge, a three-wheeled, rusted shopping cart sat upside down, its once-chrome basket clogged with sticks and plastic bags. A newer model—shiny red plastic—lay in a mangled pile atop the concrete chunks having not survived the drop from the bridge.