I suppose that’s the next generation of river people, but they bear little resemblance to the first.
A red-tailed hawk dropped out of a tree on my right, scooped along the bank and lifted an unsuspecting squirrel out of its hole in the sand. While the squirrel barked at the top of its lungs, the hawk flapped higher, struggled with the acorn-fat, hairy rodent and then lit on a tree limb and sunk its beak into the chest cavity, at which point the screaming stopped.
Trader’s Hill was once a thriving port on the river. British and Portuguese sailors used to come this far inland to fill their casks with fresh water and rest in the cool waters. Later it served as a clearing house for lumber. There was even a treaty signed here. The U.S. and Spain signed the Treaty of San Lorenzo, or Pinckney’s Treaty, declaring that the boundary of Georgia and Florida would run to the start of the St. Marys River inside the Okefenokee. Today, Trader’s Hill provides a much-used boat ramp because it’s the first truly navigable place in the river for fishing boats and other watercraft. It’s here that the tubers, wakeboarders and Jet Skiers begin to populate the water. There’s a public phone and bathroom, camping hookups and several big blue Dumpsters covered in maggots, flies, blue-tailed skinks and fat lizards. Here, the river cuts deeper, grows bigger fish and even bigger alligators. Some as long as twelve feet. Reports say that sturgeon, too, grow here. Some as long as eight feet and weighing as much as two hundred pounds. Sightings are rare, but twice in the last year, kids on Jet Skis have been unseated and knocked unconscious by a sturgeon that wanted something its own size to play with. In both cases the kids survived, but when they woke up they had one heck of a fish story. Trader’s Hill is also the first place we began to notice the tidal influence. Meaning, if I began timing our runs, we could hitch a ride on the outgoing tide, saving energy in the process. And if timed incorrectly, it would cost me dearly as I’d have to pull against a swelling incoming tide. Lastly, and most importantly, it was here that the river became recreational.
If I had grown “uncomfortable” between Spread Oak and St. George, the hair was really raised on my back now. I just could not shake the idea that the trees had eyes.
U.S. 1 runs across the St. Marys at a little border town called Boulogne. Gas station, bait shop, lottery tickets and beer are the hot commodities. We reached the bridge at nightfall where a hundred purple martins were engaged in aerial combat. The bridge sat on huge concrete pads and pilings the size of houses. A wooden ladder hung down off the center pad. I tied off the canoe and we climbed up the ladder to the platform some ten feet off the surface of the water. Every few minutes a truck or car would drive across the metal grate, sending echoes off the water. It was dry and safe, so I carried up Abbie’s fleece sleeping bag and her towel pillow. I wrapped her up and then smelled the air. Yesterday’s rest on the beach had allowed her to store some energy in reserves. She was awake and listening. I eyed the thick white clouds on the horizon. “I think it’s gonna come a rain.”
She turned up one eye. “Come a rain?” I nodded. She slid both hands under her face and pulled her knees up. “Where did you learn to talk?”
I pointed upriver. “About fifty miles that way.”
A raised eyebrow. “Well, you can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy.”
Under the bridge, some local artist had written REPENT—JESUS IS COMING SOON and FOR A GOOD TIME CALL RHONDA, and then given her phone number with extension. On the bank, a thigh-thick wisteria vine climbed up the underside of the bridge where it met a Confederate jasmine that had come up from the other side. Both were in bloom and draping us in fragrance. Dozens of honeybees and five feisty hummingbirds flew from one bloom to the next, sucking in the nectar.
For us, U.S. 1 was significant. I stretched out alongside Abbie and took her into my arms. “Guess what?”
“What?”
“We’re halfway.”
25
Six years passed. Abbie handpicked only the design jobs she wanted her name associated with. I supported her, helped her manage a sometimes insane schedule and continued to dust off the canvas. Somewhere in there I bought a twenty-two-foot Hewes flats boat and taught Abbie how to bait her own hook. While Abbie had tried to put modeling behind her, it simply wouldn’t go away. Unlike other teen-wonder models, Abbie aged beautifully, so New York kept calling. Occasionally, she’d accept a job if it meant a getaway for us. Given her success in two careers, we couldn’t go out in public—at least in Charleston—without feeling like we were on display. Our boat, The Empty Canvas, became our escape. We’d motor back up into the flats or beach it on Deweese Island and disappear. Oftentimes, we’d overnight beneath the stars. I outfitted Abbie in her own fishing getup. Wide-brimmed hat, vest, she took to a fly rod like Brad Pitt in A River Runs Through It. Give her a flood tide and she’d spend all afternoon sight-fishing for reds. I’d stand on the poling platform, push us in close, point out the fins poking up through the water’s surface, and she’d throw right on top of them. She’d roll the line, drop the fly and slowly pull the retrieve. I loved to hear her hook up, hear the bail peeling itself empty and then hear her howl at the top of her lungs as the fish headed for deep water. For Abbie, “wet a line” meant standing in knee-deep water and sight-casting.
Seems like I blinked and we celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary. Abbie had established herself as the premier designer in Charleston, which meant South Carolina. I quit guiding, began painting full-time, she decorated her studio with my art and once a month when her body told her it was “right now” time, we snuck away and tried to start a family.
It was better than Camelot.
Then we flew to New York for what we thought was a routine shoot. Some cosmetic line needed her face and shoulders. So we spent the day shopping and gazing at polar bears.
It was spring, most of Central Park was a wave of color and powdered in pollen. Ducks, birds, cyclists, double strollers, runners and lovers were everywhere. We had stolen a few hours between photo shoots and were shopping somewhere on Fifth Avenue. One of those high-dollar stores Abbie dreamed about and the kind I couldn’t wait to get out of. Abbie leaned against the counter, sprayed some perfume onto a small sheet of paper, waved it dry, then held it to my nose. My nose has never been really good at smelling much of anything, so she was excited to have found something I not only could smell but liked. I paid the man, we walked across to the park, bought ice cream and spent the rest of the afternoon staring through the four-inch glass wall watching the polar bears swim. Every now and then someone would ask her for an autograph. Eventually, a small crowd gathered, so we slipped away and wandered the park, passing Balto and the brick fountain where Stuart Little flew his plane into the hawk.
Later that night, we found it.
Abbie had finished shooting and met me at the Ritz. We had a suite on the club floor that overlooked the park. I had just finished running and we were getting ready. Dinner at the Spice Market followed by the 8 p.m. of Les Misérables. I untied my running shoes and found her in the tub. She turned, lifted her hair off her shoulders and lifted the bar of soap above her head. “Wash my back.”
After ten years of marriage, I didn’t need a translator. It meant, Wash my back, rub my shoulders, take that little pumice thing and rub the rough spots off my feet, then leave me alone. But only after you refill the tub with hot water. And if you’re good, and don’t turn this into something else, I’ll let you shave my legs.
Abbie wasn’t selfish about much, except this. Tub time was her time. She might as well have hung a No Trespassing sign across the bathroom door. No matter how seductive the whole wet, bubbly, sweaty, hair pulled up picture might look. I sat on the edge and scrubbed her back. Abbie’s problem is that she’s a lot like a dog. When she doesn’t want you to stop, she’ll find places that don’t itch.
I don’t guess you need me to paint you a picture.
A little while later, we sat in the tub, having missed our dinner reservation and chances were slim for t
he show. I refilled the hot water and she lay back against me.
While the steam and heat spoke to us, I wrapped my arms around her waist. Her back to my chest. She placed my finger on her temple and said without a sound Trace me. So I did.
And there it was.
Just beneath the nipple on her left side. I pretended not to notice, but later that night, after the show, there it was again. There in the glow of the clock, my face betrayed me. She slipped her hand beneath mine, her face drained white and fear bubbled back up. And for some reason, amidst all the fear and horror of the months to come, when I look back on that moment, I remember smelling that perfume.
WE FLEW HOME the next day and her mammogram was the following morning. They took the pictures, brought her back to the waiting room and Abbie sat next to me, legs crossed, and quiet.
Twenty minutes later, three doctors walked in. Given Abbie’s high profile, the hospital assigned us a team of three doctors. The senior doctor, Dr. Ruddy Hampton, was what you might think. Gray hair and a reassuring bedside manner. The other two, Dr. Roy Smith and Dr. Katherine Meyer, were younger and credited as being on the cutting edge of knowledge and technology.
They hung Abbie’s images on the wall behind us and, for reference, hung up prints from a set of disease-free breasts. We didn’t need the diagnosis. Dr. Hampton spoke first, “Abbie…” He pointed at the picture with a pencil. “These pictures confirm invasive ductile carcinoma.” The clusters he circled looked like miniature Milky Ways. He drew imaginary lines on the films and said, “These are what we call satellite lesions. In English, this means that your cancer has invaded the milk ducts.” As he spoke, I wrestled with the term your cancer.
While he explained the films, I realized that the bump I felt was just one of many, and even worse, it had spread to both breasts. If you doubt that cancer is evil, then why does it start in the milk ducts? Answer that. Abbie studied the films and turned her head sideways. “It looks like someone shot both my breasts with white paintballs.”
Dr. Smith continued, “In oncology, there are three ways to attack cancer: surgery, chemotherapy and radiation.”
Abbie interrupted. “Don’t you call that ‘slash, poison and burn’?”
He nodded. “Yes, but here’s what’s important for you two.” He looked at Abbie. “We can address your particular situation with just chemotherapy and surgery.” That’s when I clued in to the fact that they intended to cut on my wife.
I scratched my head. “How’s that?”
Dr. Meyer broke in. “Abbie needs a double mastectomy in order to give her the best chance.”
“The best chance of what?”
“Beating this.”
Somewhere in there, it struck me that the three of them were drawing a distinction between life and death.
Dr. Hampton had been quiet, but given the awkward silence, he spoke up. “This is an advanced form of cancer.”
The word advanced floated around the room. Dr. Smith continued, “Before surgery, we will want to administer a strong and aggressive dose of chemotherapy—to shrink the tumors prior to surgery. Another aggressive course of chemo would follow—just to make certain.”
“Will it get rid of the cancer?”
Everybody nodded. “Survival rate is ninety-seven percent.”
I looked at the three doctors looking at us. “What about the other three percent?”
They reassured me, “We caught it in time. We’ll look at the lymph nodes and make sure our margins are clear, but I wouldn’t lose sleep over it.”
Lose sleep? I wasn’t worried about losing sleep. I was worried about losing my wife.
After outlining some breast reconstruction options, they left us alone in the room. “Honey. I’m so sorry. Maybe we should get a second opinion. I mean, they don’t know everything.”
She nodded, but there was no agreement in it. I compared the two sets of films.
We didn’t need a second opinion.
She pressed her forehead to mine. “I’m glad you’re in my corner.”
“I wish I had a magic wand.”
“Me too.”
26
JUNE 5, MORNING
Just after daybreak, a mile south from Boulogne, we crossed Scotts Landing. A local boat ramp on the Florida side used mostly by fishermen. There’s also a trailer park, rope swing and bait shop where they sell crickets, minnows, worms, artificial baits and absolutely no beer whatsoever. Lining the boat ramp a sign reads WARNING: IT IS NOT ADVISABLE TO GO SWIMMING AFTER IT RAINS, SUDDEN AND DANGEROUS UNDERCURRENTS OCCUR EVEN WHEN SURFACE APPEARS CALM, IN MEMORY OF SAM COVINGTON, 1/12/89 to 4/30/04.
Undercurrents occur whenever too much water starts swirling between a river’s banks. The increased volume changes how she flows. When she is full and overflowing her banks, she sucks down the surface and rolls it along the bottom, only to resurface it a few feet later.
The parking lot at Scotts was filled with people milling around, comparing baits and telling fishing lies, but we needed water and some food so I tied off the canoe and told Abbie to hang tight.
Somewhere somebody was frying sausage and eggs. I walked into the store and was immediately “Howdied” by four guys at the counter. I waved and tried to disappear among the grocery aisles. The wall above the cash register was decorated with locals’ pics of their largest catch, first deer, biggest hog or senior prom date. Sort of a Wall of Fame. I was filling my arms with saltine crackers, a jar of peanut butter and a few bottles of Gatorade when the guy behind the counter raised his remote control and pointed it at the TV. “Hey, ya’ll, shut up.” He mashed the volume button several times. “Here it is.”
The blue background of the weather channel flashed onto the screen with the words SPECIAL REPORT—HURRICANE ANNIE. INCHING CLOSER.
A reporter wearing a yellow rain slicker and standing in sideways rain said, “Five days ago, Annie strengthened and measured the fourth-lowest pressure ever measured in an Atlantic hurricane, tying with Hurricane Camille of 1969. On May twenty-sixth, Annie recorded sustained winds of a hundred fifty-five knots or a hundred eighty miles per hour, spinning itself into a class five hurricane with winds gusting at over two hundred miles an hour. On May twenty-seventh, Annie moved west and then northwest with sustained winds exceeding a hundred and eighty, causing the governor to evacuate the Florida Keys, Miami and most everything south of Disneyworld.” The weatherman smiled and shrugged. “Given the pictures we have been broadcasting, along with the radar pictures, folks didn’t seem to need much convincing to evacuate.” He held up a map of the state. “The three main routes out of Florida, I-95, I-75 and I-10, are little more than parking lots, promting the governor to reverse southbound flow making all lanes northbound.” The woman behind the desk in Virginia asked a few questions to which the reporter nodded and said, “She’s acquiring energy and mass like the Tazmanian Devil. Through evaporation and sea spray, a hurricane in this stage sucks up more than two billion tons of water a day. Each whirling second, it circulates some two million metric tons of air in, up and out of itself. In doing so, it releases enough energy in one day to equal the energy of four hundred twenty-megaton hydrogen bombs. If scientists could convert all that energy into something they could shove down powerlines, it would supply the United States for six months.” Satisfied with his science lesson, he paused to answer another question. He said, “Most of South Florida is a ghost town and will be for days to come as folks try to return to their homes. Problem is, Annie isn’t finished with us yet. From midday on the twenty-seventh to early on the twenty-ninth, Annie hovered over Florida, tormenting Florida’s west coast and bringing a definite stop to any highway traffic. Flooding is rampant. More to come after this…”
The man behind the counter flipped the channel and waved off his four friends. “Ya’ll hush! Here it is. Four to one says the sucker killed her, dumped the body and is sitting on some beach in South America counting her money.”
I looked up but something inside me told me I didn
’t really want to watch.
The commercial ended and the bottle-blond newswoman turned to the camera. “And in national news, former supermodel and Charleston designer Abbie Eliot is missing.” Abbie’s picture flashed upon the screen, followed by a running slide show of some of the images from her career. “Her husband and local Charleston portraitist, Doss Michaels, is being sought for questioning and is a suspect in what is described as ‘possible foul play.’” On the screen, Abbie’s picture moved left, making room for my face as it flashed upon the screen. I don’t know where they’d gotten my picture but it looked like a mug shot. “Following a double mastectomy four years ago, Abbie Eliot, once widely thought of as one of the ten most beautiful women in the world, became the unofficial spokeswoman for breast cancer survivors when she invited the public to follow her through her radiation and chemotherapy treatments. But two years ago, the cancer returned. This time to her brain. We take you now to a press conference held by her father, the former governor of South Carolina and now in his fourth term in the United States Senate. Senator Coleman.” The screen flashed to a live shot of the Colemans’ house on the Battery. Senator Coleman, dressed down in jeans and a white oxford shirt, opened the front door, walked onto the porch and spoke over the railing to the cameras below. “Good morning. Thank you for coming.” He panned the crowd of reporters. “Two years ago, Abigail Grace’s cancer was found to have spread.” He was never too comfortable with the way Abbie so publicly talked about her breasts or their absence once they were gone. He turned and pointed to the back of his own head. “The cancer traveled upward and took root somewhere in here. She has what is called a stage four central nervous system metastasis. These several lesions can be found in the back or base of her brain, which because of their sensitive location, exclude surgery as an option of treatment. Abigail Grace is a fighter, so like everything else in her life, she has fought this.” He wiped his face with a handkerchief. “As many of you know, I was the donor for her second bone marrow transplant. But that, too…didn’t take. Something I think about every day.” He folded the papers in front of him. “Two weeks ago, we ran out of options, brought her home, circled the family and called hospice.” He took a deep breath, back beneath the limelight. The sympathetic father—courting and counting the votes. He beckoned behind him to his wife—Abbie’s stepmother—who stepped forward and put her arm around him. “We know that Abigail Grace would want to be here with her family.” His practiced tone and measured cadence were near perfect. “She needs to be under the constant supervision of her doctors. We don’t know Doss’s intentions…” My picture flashed a second time onto the screen, filling the top right-hand corner. “He’s our son-in-law and has been for nearly fourteen years, but certainly his actions cannot be in her best interest if he has taken her from her family and her doctors in what could very well be the last few days of her life.” Senator Coleman looked directly into the camera and held up his right arm, beckoning someone off camera. A shorter man wearing a doctor’s coat and a serious expression stepped into the frame, where the senator put his arm around him. The senator cleared his throat. “This is Dr. Wayne Massey.”