Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [9]
She swallowed. “Ride an antique carousel.”
I prodded, “Number two.”
She read the list off the backs of her eyelids: “Do a loopty-loop in an old plane.”
The items were printed in no particular order. When one didn’t make sense to him, he’d inquire and she’d explain. To keep the simplicity of her list, he printed it the way she said it, but the clarification became a parenthetical note in his article. “I just love the way you say ‘loopty-loop.’ Say it again. One more time.”
She licked her lips. Her tongue was cottony white. The first l stuck to the top of her mouth. “Loopty-loop.”
“Keep going.”
“Sip wine on the beach.”
“We’re not even halfway.” She placed her head on my chest and breathed deeply. “Number four.”
She paused. “I’ve forgotten.”
It was good to know she’d not lost her sense of humor. “I highly doubt it.” She almost laughed. I shook the ziplock bag holding the article. “Still waiting.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Go skinny-dipping.”
“And number five?”
The vein on her right temple had appeared blue and bulging. Meaning her head was throbbing. She pressed her palm to her forehead and held it there.
I asked, “Scale of one to ten?”
“Yes.”
That meant nine point eight. I flipped open both the latches on the Pelican case and dug through the contents. River guides call them “otter boxes.” They’re watertight, they float and are crash proof. Chances are good you could load it with your mother’s china dinnerware, fling it off Niagara Falls and when you found it at the bottom, you could eat dinner off the plates. I found what I needed, popped the safety tip on the syringe, squeezed out the air and injected the dexamethasone into her arm. She didn’t even flinch. After four years, I was better than a lot of nurses at giving Abbie her shots.
Minutes passed. Slowly, she spoke, “Swim with dolphins.”
“Keep going. You’re on a roll.”
“Wet a line.”
“Number seven.”
“Pose.” She chuckled.
“Number eight.”
She spoke without reading. “Dance with my husband.”
“Two to go.”
“Laugh so hard it hurts.”
“And? Last but not least.” I mimed a drum roll with my fingers and made a trill sound with my tongue.
“Ride the river…all the way from Moniac.”
She pushed my hat back. It was felt. Called a Banjo Patterson hat. Made in Australia by Akubra. A 41/2'' crown, 23/4'' brim. I bought it about eight years ago because I thought it made me look like Indiana Jones. Now it was faded, the brim rose and fell like a roller-coaster track and my thumbs had worn a hole where I pinched the crown. As much as I wanted to look dashing and heroic, my reflection looked more like Jed Clampett.
“You’re not gonna actually wear that silly-looking hat, are you?”
I nodded. “My head spent five years just breaking it in.”
She laughed, “It’s broken alright.”
The problem with a wish list was what it told you about the person who wrote it. If it’s honest, it’s a rock-bottom, barebones, clear shot all the way to someone’s soul.
Hats can do the same thing.
3
Most said it was a match made in heaven. Those who didn’t were just jealous.
William Barclay Coleman had been born with “presence.” Tall, handsome, well-spoken, he commanded attention and even those envious of him treated him like E. F. Hutton. His gentleman’s pedigree was flawless. The Citadel, Harvard Law, European summers abroad. A young political up-and-comer, he grew up with a speaker’s gavel in his hand and was the youngest candidate ever elected to the South Carolina legislature. But that was just the beginning.
Ellen Victoria Shaw was the poster child for Emily Post and Gloria Vanderbilt. A fifth-generation Charlestonian, she attended Ashley Hall and then, as a freshman at Randolph-Macon women’s college, no less than eight suitors asked her to accompany them to Fancy Dress—Washington and Lee’s annual formal. By her junior year, most every Kappa Alpha in a hundred-mile radius invited her to the Confederate-themed Old South Ball where the whispers and jealous mutters of the Hollins, Sweet Briar and Mary Baldwin girls voted her the unofficial belle of the ball.
She graduated