CHAPTER 4

Jake woke to the familiar screech of shorebirds soaring over and dropping into the river. He smiled, still in a state of half-sleep, as out on the water someone fired up a small outboard motor and cut a gash across the tide, heading out toward clots of cobia, redfish and trout.             

He opened his eyes and examined the room he hadn’t occupied for over twelve years, recalling the days when the walls had been covered with posters of the Beatles, the Stones and a bevy of sensuous, young blondes in skimpy outfits or, better yet, no outfits at all.  He showered, dressed for the day, sat on the edge of the bed and opened the bottom drawer of the nightstand and pulled up short. It was still there, buried in back, a polished mahogany box, chock-full of Jesse Cochrane. Mementos of high school days: hormone tortured love letters, theater tickets, prom photos, his high school ring.  “Damn, what a sap you are, Slaughter.” He closed the drawer and walked downstairs, running an index finger along the scar on his stomach. 

He filled a coffee cup, fired up the pickup and headed into town. He stocked up on groceries at the Winn Dixie and then motored along the town’s quiet, shady streets, little surprised that he remembered the area so well after twelve years. Still, Old Point in Beaufort’s Historic Downtown with its two hundred public and private buildings now included a marina, a waterfront park and a revitalized business district awash with art galleries, bookstores and restaurants. This was a quiet romantic town, where the differences between the mid-1800s and the present seemed trivial. Visitors felt either desperately out of place or home at last. Jake wasn’t yet sure into which camp he fell.

He avoided all the old haunts but still managed to drive by a half-dozen women he thought he recognized and an occasional old high school friend. He realized he wasn’t yet prepared to stop and reintroduce himself.

He arrived back at the beach house at three o’clock and spent the rest of the afternoon readying his camera equipment. Afternoon thunderheads streaming in from the west augured a spectacular southern sunset and he would be prepared.          

By eight-thirty he was set up atop a knoll at the edge of the Morgan River, a four-by-five field camera fitted with a wide-angle lens ready to go. Satisfied, he sat back against a large Water Oak, sipped Scotch, closed his eyes and inhaled the pungent scent of summer pine, warmed and salted by a soft breeze. He loved this place, was enamored by the brackish creeks and marshes, the mist drifting in off the water and the flat expanse of the river. 

“Going to be another biblical beauty, isn’t it?”

His heart skipped a beat. “Jess,” he muttered, opening his eyes and peering up beneath the brim of his Stetson.

“Hi there.”  Her voice was soft and mellifluous. Short-cropped, curly blond hair framed her face, a face whose most startling feature was the eyes, an astonishing pale blue, the color of a cloudless Arctic sky. She was dressed in a white jogging suit, a towel wrapped around her neck, and white jogging shoes. “Haven’t seen you around here before,” she said and held out her hand. “Name’s Darcy Winthrop.”

Years of training had taught him to proceed cautiously, which allowed for only a veneer of sociability.

She cocked a polar eye at him, hands on her slim hips. “The correct response is ‘Nice to meet you, my name is…’ ” When he still didn’t answer she added, “You’re new around here, huh?”

He pushed up the brim of his hat and sighed. “You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?” He thought for a moment, watching her stare down at him. He’d forgotten the southern way, slow, laid back and proper, overly so at times. “Name’s Jake,” he finally said. “Jake Slaughter.”

A smile touched her mouth. “There now, that wasn’t so difficult was it?” She glanced toward the horizon. “So, how will you know when it’s time?  You know, the perfect moment to trip the shutter?”

He scanned the landscape. “A wise man once said, ‘be still with yourself until the object of your attention confirms your presence’.”

“Minor White, one of the exceptional photographers.”

“That’s right.” His grey eyes found hers, stayed for a moment.        

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “Good luck. Nice to meet you Jake Slaughter, see you around.”  She ran off along the edge of the river and waved back at him over her shoulder.

He watched after her for a moment and then turned back toward the western sky.

PROLOGUE

Christmas eve, 1954…                                                                                  

We gather at our family home on South Carolina’s Broad River, anticipating the laughter of a fat man with a beard and the scratch of tiny hooves on the roof.                                                                                                    

Darkness descends as I walk down to the river beside my grandfather, who always smells of Old Spice, cigars and peppermint. He is a jolly man with gentle eyes, wise with age and faded with time, who usually communicates through a series of grunts, snorts, and laughter, sounds my Dad says are akin to our prehistoric ancestors.

The river is flat and black, moonlight annealed to its surface like tin foil, a burnished silver ribbon stretching from shore to shore, and the chill night air brings tears to my eyes.

Behind us, light filters through the house windows and shadows dance along the walls as aunts and uncles, some by blood and others by lifelong acquaintance, gather around the fireplace. A piano plays, accompanied first by a fiddle and then by the soft melody of a Christmas carol, familial voices blended as if by a master vintner.

I shake with a chill and my granddad pulls me to him and wraps his sinewy arms around my shoulders. “Tell me what you see, boyo?”

I look up and his eyes are shut. “What do you mean?”

“Close your eyes and tell me what you see.”

I squeeze my lids together. “I can’t see anything?”

“No?” he whispers. “Listen then and tell me what you hear.”

“I hear the waves lapping at the shore and the family singing up in the house.”

“Good, now turn those sounds into a memory and you’ll always remember this night.” He points out to the river, to a wall of vapor rolling in from the opposite shore. “There are ghosts out there, boyo, dancing in the mist. Can you see them? Specters of those who’ve come before us; our kin. Got to come back and visit once in a while. It’s the way things work. Promise to always come back for a visit. They’ll be here waiting for you.”

I peer into the darkness, watching the mist skip across the surface of the river. It swirls forming into tendrils as if directed by some otherworldly force. Granddad watches and says,

“Don’t be afraid, memories are buried treasure, possessed of a power all their own. They’ll hammer at you if you let them, but you’ll find yourself half a man without them.”

A series of distant mortar thumps and the sky explodes; class-A fireworks, a tradition with the locals, complete with reports, flashes and shimmers of every size, shape and imaginable color.

It is getting late as we turn and start back toward the house, toward the comforting murmur of family and friends.

Warmed by a candle of wonder, carefully tended by the child inside my grandfather, I go to bed and lie in darkness. Just before I slip into the long blank of sleep I think, was it a dream?

Twelve years pass in a blink and Jesse and I stand waist-deep in the sun-warmed crystalline river; the early evening air cool as the sun drops toward the horizon.

I hold her close, her youthful, summer-tanned body firm and warm. Still, she shivers in my arms. “Will you come to the bus station tomorrow?”

She hesitates, then, “I don’t know if I can take it, Jake.” Her shoulders quiver. “This damn war, first my brother, then Jack and Bill, your best friends, and now you off to Ft. Benning and then…” Her voice trails off and I feel her tears fall onto my chest. “Please, just hold me tight. I don’t want to talk about you leaving.”

Later, we build a fire on the shoreline, open a bottle of wine and curl up inside a large, cotton blanket. Soon after, we are naked, her body moving in sync with mine as we make love in the warm sand with only the stars and moon as witness. A sexual union that, I believe, includes the bonding of our souls.

I wake early the next morning, after a discomfited night of sleep, not knowing what the day will bring. I shower and pack my shaving kit along with one extra pair of civvies. The Army will supply the balance of my wardrobe for the next eighteen weeks.

I look in the mirror, at the beginnings of circles under my eyes and at the lone wrinkle creasing my forehead. Nothing I can do about that, time alone will weave a fabric of them across my face. I run a brush through my hair and manage a smile. One of Fort Benning’s base barbers, ‘the great equalizers’, will make sure I have no need for a brush or a comb for the next few months.

An hour later I sit alone in the back seat of my dad’s Chevy as we make our way toward the Greyhound bus station.

Dad eyes me in the rearview mirror. “She may already be there son. Perhaps her folks drove her.”

I wait for over an hour as bus after bus pulls away, wait and watch, hoping that she will show, though in my heart I know she won’t.

Finally, the driver calls for boarding. I hug my mom who, with tears streaming down her face, can’t seem to find her voice. My dad, ever the stoic, a man of few words, dabs at his eye, then throws his arms around my shoulders and whispers, “I love you son, take care, now.”

I sit in the back of the bus and wave to my folks.

As the bus rolls away, I resist looking back, knowing that I am leaving behind all those that I love, that my Jesse is not there waving to me, and that the last long, lazy days of summer fun and desire are over. A thought comes out of nowhere, searing through my heavy heart: It was during those last days of warm, bright August sun that our youth slipped into oblivion.

The steady hum of wheels on the pavement seeps into my bones and I sit back and close my eyes.

Just before I drift off, I recall my last conversation with Jesse; “What are we going to do, Jake?”

“You are going to go off the college and I’m going to fulfill my duty. When you graduate and I get back we will pick back up and begin our life together.” 

I close my eyes and think of a cold winter’s night on the river, all those years ago, and of my grandfather, gone now, though the memory of him lingers still.

And, lastly, I think of ghosts.