Page 30 of Where the Rivers Merge

The cicada is a large insect with long, transparent wings. Since ancient times, the cicada has been seen as a symbol of resurrection, an association that owes to its life cycle.

1918

The bodies of Heyward and Hugh were never recovered. Thus, the caskets were empty at the memorial services for the Rhodes and Rivers families. I stood quietly dressed in black and looked at the caskets dully. I thought they were as empty and void of life as the discarded shells of the countless cicadas that hung on the tree barks.

Well-meaning people uttered worn-out phrases like They are in a better place, and They will be greatly missed, and Life is for the living. The trouble for me was, living held little meaning for me. I couldn’t face the Rhodes family and mutter those meaningless words. Instead, I retreated to the barn, my usual sanctuary, where the scents of horses and hay comforted me. I brushed Captain over and over in a monotonous pattern, and when tired, slumped to the hay, my head against the wood, staring out at dust motes floating in the dimly lit stalls.

After several days in a stupor, my mother dragged me from the barn and set me in a bath of perfumed water. She and Clementine washed me and dressed me like a china doll. My clothes hung from my thin frame as though from a mannequin. Clementine combed my unruly hair while Mama fed me a few bites of egg. I had no appetite. Swallowing was a chore.

* * *

Only Tripp, who had come to Mayfield for the funeral, was able to lure me from my room. One morning he knocked on my door.

“We’re going fishing,”

he declared. “I won’t take no for an answer. You’re pale and thin, holed up in the house. This isn’t you. Hurry up. Get your britches and boots.”

He wouldn’t take no for an answer. Tripp loaded up the gear and a picnic while I slowly dressed. We hiked to a favorite spot on the Combahee River as the sun began its slow descent in the western sky. I stood on the grassy bank, my boots digging into the soft mud, as Tripp set the lures. He’d taken to fly-fishing during his years out east and was determined I should learn.

I wore my usual cotton riding britches, a wide-brimmed hat, and a long-sleeved shirt. Tripp, though, was fully outfitted with waders over a shirt the color of grass and a wide-brimmed straw hat that was rimmed with a band upon which he’d attached colorful feathered fishing flies.

I leaned against a poplar tree and watched as he fussed over his gear. He checked his fishing creel and patted the multiple pockets of his vest, each bulging with an array of supplies.

I laughed and called out, “I think you like the accessories more than the sport.”

He made a face. “The match is the hatch,”

he said, bent over a small case filled with flies. “I have to choose the fly that closely resembles the insects currently hatching on the water. This increases the chances of enticing a fish to bite.”

He looked over his shoulder at the water. “Midges,”

he said decisively.

He led me to what he declared was the perfect spot on the riverside. He went on and on about the fine points of casting, but in truth I understood little of it. At length, Tripp gently placed the long fly-fishing rod into my hands for my first cast. He stood behind me to place his hands over mine on the fly rod. He was not a tall man, just a few inches taller than me, but his shoulders had broadened, and his arms encircled mine.

“Now relax and follow my lead.”

As one, we raised the rod tip in a sweep backward. After a second’s pause he said, “Now push.”

Together we propelled the fly forward, sending it sailing over the water to delicately land on the surface.

“We did it,”

I said, delighted and more than a little surprised.

“Again.”

Together, we repeated the casting motion, over and over, allowing me to get the feel of the back-and-forth movement.

“Don’t rush it,”

he said, close to my ear. “Feel the rhythm. It’s a dance.”

I became increasingly aware that his arms were around me, and that we were no longer children. Sensations flooded me and an image of Hugh flared in my mind. I suddenly felt uncomfortable with Tripp’s closeness.

“I think I can do it by myself now,” I said.

Tripp released me and stepped back, seemingly unaware of my discomfort. “Give it a go,”

he told me, placing the rod back into my hands. He put his hands on his hips and watched.

I thrust the rod forward and watched my line flail in the air before landing in the leaves of nearby shrubs.

“Oh no . . .”

“Don’t fret,”

Tripp said, covering his smile with his palm. “It’s more common to catch leaves than fish when you begin.”

He walked across the shallows to untangle the line from the shrub while I watched, embarrassed. Tripp called back good-naturedly, “It’s the dance with the fish that I enjoy the most. Whether I catch one doesn’t matter.”

He slowly made his way through the water back to my side. “Try again?”

I shook my head. “I think I’ve done enough damage for one day.”

He laughed and reset his line. “It just takes practice. Someday I’ll take you to our place in the Highlands, Eliza. There’s great fishing there.”

In the final hour of light, I watched him fish the river. Once he found his spot on the bank, Tripp raised his rod into the air and began masterful casts that fell into a natural rhythm, back and forth, allowing the line to unfurl longer and longer in a ballet of tight loops. I couldn’t help but marvel at how the fly rod seemed to be an extension of his body and arms. I’d never seen him in this way before. Tripp had been the clumsy one in sports. The boy who didn’t like to pick up a bat for baseball, or the pigskin for football. I was delighted at seeing him excel in the sport of his choosing.

He continued deftly making the fly skip in the riffles, teasing, until a fish rose up. He swung his face toward me, beaming. “Lizzie!”

he called out victoriously.

“Tripp, you’re wonderful!”

I understood the metaphor of a dance as he brought the fish to the net. Once in range, Tripp scooped the fish. “Got it!”

Bending low, his long, slender fingers deftly removed the hook from the mouth of the fish. Then, he gently opened his hands. In a flash, the fish darted away.

“You let it go?”

I asked, surprised.

He looked out over the water. “There’s been enough death.”

We fell into silence. It was twilight, that otherworldly time between light and dark. A few tardy birds darted to the trees. The cicadas began buzzing. From the woods, nocturnal yips and rustlings sounded.

Tripp began packing up his supplies in the fading light.

“When will you leave?” I asked.

“Tomorrow. I’m on Friday’s train for Harvard. You’ll be off too. When do you start Brenau?”

College was on the horizon, but I felt no desire to go. “I don’t know, exactly. Sometime in September.”

“Good. You need to be busy.”

“Please Tripp, if you tell me life goes on or some such I’ll scream.”

He tried to smile but it fell. “I won’t say it. But it will.”

I pushed from the tree and bent to pick up the fishing rods. “Please hurry back.”

Tripp searched my face for his answer. “Is that an invitation? Can I come, even if it’s not summer?”

“Don’t be silly. You know you’re always welcome here. Please come,”

I said more seriously. “You’re my dearest friend.”

“And you mine. We’re blood brother and sister. My dearest sister.”

He paused. “Eliza, will you be all right? I worry about you. You don’t have Covey—”

“No. She left,”

I said crisply. “But I’ll be fine.”

Through the fogged lens of his glasses, his eyes shone with concern. “I’ll come to visit you, Eliza. As often as I can.”

Fireflies were beginning to rise from the grass, hovering low, aglow with their love lights. Tripp looked out at the river again.

“You know, the beauty of fly-fishing is you don’t need to be particularly good at it. You just want to get to the river. To stand under the sky, listen to the water, and accept whatever comes.”

He turned to look at me, his blue eyes sparkling. “To fish is to hope.”

* * *

The Dog Star rose high in the sky and with it soaring temperatures and hellish humidity. The house was in an uproar as Mama packed for her move to Charleston. In another few days I would travel separately to Brenau College in nearby Georgia. Lesesne was returning to Charleston and Porter. But this year, Mama’s move to Charleston was permanent. Heyward’s death was the last straw for her. With him gone and Lesesne and me grown, she declared that she’d done her duty and was returning to Charleston for good.

A troupe of men were hired to load up carts with our suitcases and boxes filled with personal belongings. Sweat poured down their faces as they carried cartons down the stairs to the outdoors.

I walked through the house seeking refuge from the whirlwind of activity. My departure furthered my depression. I’d lost so much, I didn’t want to leave Mayfield, where all I had left to love remained. I sequestered myself in the peace of the enclosed garden and idly snipped off dead rose heads. The camellias were long gone, and the stone urns, void of flowers, stood barren and gloomy.

It wasn’t long before the August sun proved oppressive, so I retreated indoors. As I entered the foyer, a weary mover staggered under the weight of an enormous box, sweat beading on his brow. With a strained grunt, his grip slipped, and the box tumbled to the floor with a resounding thud. Shards of glass exploded from the dented box. There was a collective gasp as the poor man, horrified, gazed dumbly around him. Then mother screamed.

I ducked into the library and closed the door against the mayhem. The drapes were drawn from the glare of the sun and the air was marginally cooler. I meandered about, letting my fingertips glide across the spines of books on the shelves. The desk Mr. Coxwold once used had been taken over by my father. Daddy was usually careful about keeping his ledgers and papers organized. I was surprised to find his desk a shambles, covered with piles of unopened envelopes. On inspection, I saw they were dated as long as months earlier.

I heard the library door open and turning, saw Wilton enter. There had been an uneasy peace between us since Covey’s departure. Our usual banter had ceased. I smiled nervously in greeting. “Come to hide out too?”

Our eyes met. He had a long face with expressive eyes and deep lines and creases that hinted at a lifetime of stories and emotions. He appeared to have aged in the past weeks. Not just the gray hair or the slump of his shoulders. It seemed that when Covey left, she took with her the essence of his vitality and optimism that had radiated around him.

“You miss her,”

I said softly.

He tilted his head and his gaze sharpened. “I do.”

“I do too.”

I dropped my arms and said pleadingly, “Wilton, do you know where she is?”

“I do.”

“Please tell me. I want to write to her. To apologize.”

Wilton shook his head, slow but determined. “I can’t do that. Covey asked me to not tell her whereabouts to anyone, especially you.”

My cheeks burned but I understood and respected his loyalty. I knew hell would freeze over before Wilton betrayed his daughter. “I’m sorry, Wilton. I know this was hard for you too.”

“It was. Is. Rawlins and I had words. Your father . . .”

He paused. “He did his best to make reparations.”

Wilton’s face hardened some and he crossed his arms. “I started working at this plantation when I was a boy, for your grandfather. Like you and Covey, Rawlins and I grew up together. I became his foreman after he took over Mayfield. When this happened with Covey, I was put between a rock and a hard place.”

He reached up to rub his jaw in thought. “I’ve known Heyward all his life. He was a good man. And I know my daughter. I believe her when she tells me he loved her.”

He dropped his hand. “I read his letter, and in it I heard Heyward’s intention for Covey was honorable. Still, he’s gone, and my daughter is left with a child to raise alone.”

Wilton looked me in the eye with his answer. “Yes, it is hard that Covey’s gone. But I trust my daughter to make the decision she must make for her own future.”

I saw pain flicker across his face. “Mayfield is my job. My home. I’m loyal to the Rivers family. Have been all my life. But my first loyalty will always be to my daughter. Truth is, what’s hardest is I can’t do more for her.”

The pain of these truths cut through me with a new freshness. “Thank you for explaining, Wilton,”

I said. I paused, collecting my emotions. “I owe you an apology as well. In betraying Covey’s confidence, I also betrayed you. I will . . . I must . . . abide by Covey’s decision. But it means your loss as much as mine. More. And for that, I hope you can find it in your heart to someday forgive me.”

Wilton remained quiet for a long moment, then nodded his head.

Finished with what he’d had to say, he lifted the papers in his hand. “More mail for your father.”

He walked over to set it with the others on the desk.

“Wilton, what is all this mail?”

I asked, extending my arm toward the piled papers on the desk.

“Your father . . .”

he began. I could see that he was choosing his words. “He’s not kept up with the bills. Not since his boy died.”

I stared at the disarray, shocked at my blindness. “I knew he was not himself. None of us have been. But I didn’t know it had deteriorated to this point. How are the accounts?”

Wilton shook his head. “Abandoned. I’ve done my best ordering supplies and keeping things going, but I don’t have the authority to pay bills or make the decisions he must. I’ve tried to reason with him . . .”

He paused, straightened his shoulders and confessed, “But Miss Eliza, he’s beyond reason. He took to the bottle before. And Lord knows, he had a good reason for it this time. But there has always been an end to it. I’ve never seen him this bad. He’s like . . .”

He stopped.

“Like what?”

“Like his daddy was. Old Mr. Rivers done lost his mind with grief after his sons and wife died. He drank round the clock, ranted at God, and took to wandering the woods until one day we found him lying by the river, at peace at last. I reckon Rawlins is lost too. He just don’t seem to care no more.”

“What’s to be done?”

I asked, my hand on my forehead. The heat was stifling, and I felt a bit dizzy.

“Mrs. Rivers made it clear she don’t want to take care of business here. She’s headed to Charleston and not looking back. Lesesne is, well . . .”

He lifted his hands in a futile gesture. “He’s young.”

Wilton left it at that. “Miss Eliza, there’s no one left but you who can take the reins. You know this plantation as well as Heyward did. Love it as much too. Truth be told, I don’t know how this place can continue if you don’t.”

I covered my face with my hands as panic struck because I knew he was right. “Wilton, I’m an empty shell. I don’t feel strong enough. I don’t know that I’m up to the task.”

“Your daddy often remarked on how capable you were. Said he believed you could run this place on your own. I know you, Miss Eliza. I’ve always believed you were up to the task.”

I was heartened at his words. “Daddy only told me he wished I was a boy.”

Wilton chuckled and nodded. “That too.”

“Would my father even agree to it?”

“I don’t think he’d notice.”

His face looked unbearably weary. “That’s the sad truth.”

I leaned against the heavy wood desk, crossed my arms and studied him. “You’ve known me all my life. Do you trust that I will be able to manage this farm?”

“I do.”

I took a sweeping glance of the library, the room where I’d spent hours in school being reminded daily in so many ways of the incompetence of the fairer sex. Now this weaker vessel was being asked to manage the plantation. It was up to me to prove them wrong.

“My ancestor, Eliza Pinckney, was asked at sixteen to run three plantations,”

I said. “I suppose I can manage to run one.”