Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [56]
“You feel like going for a walk?”
“You think there’s a wheelbarrow around here?”
“Might be.” I found one leaning against the house. It was one of those large plastic kind with two wheels in the front making it more stable. I hosed it clean and set Abbie in it, facing forward. “Your chariot, madam.” I handed her a bottle of water and said, “And drink this.” The more fluids I could get into her, the better she would feel. It’d keep her blood pressure up and help flush out the toxins caused by all the poisons we dumped into her.
She tucked the bottle between her legs and held on to the sides, making a whipping motion with her arm. “Mush!”
“Cute. Very cute.”
I rolled her along the rim of the bluff—the river flowing on our left, thigh-high grass waving on our right. I pushed her maybe a half a mile, stopping every few minutes for me to get a better grip. Sitting up and sipping seemed to do her good. It put color in her face.
We rounded the bend beneath the stub of the rope swing. Further to our right, some hundred yards into the woods, stood the first row of trailers. Long since abandoned, vines covered most every square inch like long, fraying strands of wet hair.
We pushed through, ferns brushing our shins, and walked out into the open. Before I was born, twelve ragged trailers had been arranged in a circle—tucked up against each other with all the order of derailed train cars. In the middle, out by the bonfire stain, everyone parked their cars, threw the trash, flicked cigarette butts and spun the bottle. Made for a rather unhealthy environment. At the time, the trailers were all owned by one man—a landlord of sorts—who believed in upkeep as much now as he did then. I pushed Abbie into the center and turned in a slow circle. It felt like someone was stepping on my chest.
The trees had grown and now towered over the park. Doing so had created a canopy of sorts with lots of shade and little direct sunlight, keeping everything relatively cool and damp. She sipped her water. “Which one was yours?”
I pointed. Huge vines of poison ivy climbed up every side. Three leaves, red stem, just touching it would make me blister and itch for two weeks. It formed an intricate web that closed itself somewhere on top. What wasn’t covered in vine was discolored due to mildew and black mold. All the glass had been broken, the front door was gone, the three steps that led up to it were nowhere to be found, and like most of the rest of them, it was riddled with shotgun pellet holes.
“Where was your room?”
I rolled her around the back side and stared at the window frame where my window air conditioner once hung. The gaping hole suggested that somebody had stolen it. “My air conditioner used to be right there. It didn’t cool too well, but it rattled a lot. I’d switch it to high to drown out the sound—inside and out.”
Abbie nodded and said, “What about the bench?”
The path had grown tall with weeds, downed trees and palm-sized banana spiders—who’s six-foot webs stretched across the path. I picked up a long stick, pulled down the webs like I was making cotton candy and threw the stick aside. Abbie watched the spiders and pulled her legs in tight to her chest. We bulldozed through the grass and twice I had to lift her over a dead tree. While Abbie nervously ran a branch along the top rim of the wheelbarrow, I pushed her out into the clearing atop the sandy bluff.
Made out of an oak log, cut in half and resting on two pilings, the five-foot bench sat in the middle beneath the spindly arm of a live oak that reached out across the river. Wood rot had collapsed the pilings and worms had eaten through most of the bench seat. I rested my foot in the middle and it crumbled, too soft and soggy to crack.
I stood there staring at the anchor in my memory.