Charles Martin - Where the River Ends

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W H E R E

T H E

R I V E R

E N D S

Also by Charles Martin

Chasing Fireflies

Maggie

When Crickets Cry

Wrapped in Rain

The Dead Dont Dance

W H E R E

T H E

R I V E R

E N D S

S

Charles Martin

B r o a dway B o o k s

New York

published by broadway books

Copyright 2008 by Charles Martin

Published in association with Yates & Yates, LLP, Attorneys and Counselors, Orange, CA

All Rights Reserved

Published in the United States by Broadway Books, an imprint of The Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

www.broadwaybooks.com

broadway books and its logo, a letter B bisected on the diagonal, are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Book design by Lee Fukui and Mauna Eichner Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Martin, Charles 1969

Where the river ends / Charles Martin. 1st ed.

p. cm.

1. Married peopleFiction. 2. Terminally illFiction. I. Title.

PS3613.A7778W48 2008

813'.6dc22

2007042819

eISBN: 978-0-7679-3083-3

For my grandparents, Ellen and Tillman Cavert

... who have loved well for sixty-seven years W H E R E

T H E

R I V E R

E N D S

P R O L O G U E

S

I dont have good memories of growing up. Seems like I knew a lot of ugly stuff when I shouldnt. The only two things I remember as beautiful were my mom and this riverbank. And until I knew better I thought theyd named the river after my mom.

The man who lived in our trailer was always angry. Always smoking. Dont know why. He lit one cigarette with the glow-plug end of the other. Touched them like sparklers. They matched his eyes. He never hit me, least not very hard, but his mouth hurt my ears. Mom said it was the devil in the bottle, but I dont think you drink meanness. You can try and drown it, but, in my experience, its a pretty good swimmer. Thats why its in the bottle. To escape it, she and I, we came here. She told me itd help my asthma. I knew better. Dying was about the only thing thatd help my asthma.

With a brick sitting on my chest, I pulled every breath through the length of a garden hose. That made it sort of difficult to get what I thought or felt out my mouth. Mom was always wanting me to talk about my feelings, trying to pull me out of me. I told her, Forget feelings. I can feel later. Throw me some air. Between bottle-man, the albuterol and the spastic cough I couldnt shake, there was a disconnect between my mouth and my heart. Something in me had been severed.

1

C H A R L E S M A R T I N

I lived in pieces.

Maybe islands is a better word. Whenever I crept inside myself and took a look around, I didnt see one whole. Or one main. I saw a continent cut and quartered with each section floating aimlessly on some far corner of the globe. Ive seen pictures of ice sheets near the pole that do the same thing.

From the ages of five to eight, I wore a helmet even when I wasnt on my bike and grew up with the nickname Smurf

adopted from my occasional lip color. To occupy me during my forced sedentary and mostly sucky childhood, my mother bought me some paints, and in them I found escapepainting the world I wished I lived in.

We had this bench down by the river where we used to sit nights. Mostly when the cigarette haze and verbal dribble drove us out of the trailer. Our butts had worn it smooth. One night, when I was about ten, Id picked up on the trailer park chatter and I said, Momma, whats an easy woman?

Shed heard it, too. Who you been listening to?

I pointed. That big fat woman over there.

She nodded. Honey, we all lose our way.

You lost yours?

She touched the tip of my nose with her finger. Not when Im with you. She put her arm around me. But thats not what really matters. What matters is what you do when you find yourself lost.

She walked me through the woods, sat me on the bench and panned her hand across the view in front of me. Doss, God is in this river.

It was one of those copper-colored evenings when thunderclouds blocked out the sun. The edges were red and the underside dark blue and bleeding into black. In the distance, we could see the wave of rain coming. I scanned the riverbank, the 2

W H E R E T H E R I V E R E N D S

ripples on the water, remembering all the times Id felt my tongue thicken and turn numb, right before I blacked out due to oxygen deprivation.

I frowned. That explains a lot.

She pushed the hair out of my eyes while I stole two quick puffs on the inhaler. What do you mean?

I held my breath and thumbed over my shoulder. Well, He aint in that trailer.

She nodded once. He was when I made you.

I had just learned to cuss, so I was testing my boundaries.

Maybe. I hacked and spat. But he sure as hell aint now.

She squeezed my cheeks between her fingers and jerked my heard toward the water. Doss Michaels.

Yes, maam.

Look at the surface of that river.

I nodded.

What do you see?

My voice sounded thick and garbled. Black water.

She squeezed tighter. Dont get smart with me. Look again.

A few minnows.

Closerat the surface.

I waited while my eyes focused. My teeth were cutting into my cheeks. The treeline, some clouds... the sky.

Whats that called?

A reflection.

She let go of my mouth. I dont care what trash the world throws at you, dont let it muddy your reflection. You hear me?

I pointed at the trailer. Well, he does and you dont say nothing.

True. But I cant fix him. And youre not broken.

Why do you let him stay?

3

C H A R L E S M A R T I N

She nodded, then said quietly, Cause I can only work so many hours in a day, andshe held up my inhalerhes got benefits. She lifted my chin again. Band-Aid, are you hearing me?

Why you call me that?

She pressed her forehead to mine. Cause you stick to me and you heal my hurts.

I didnt know squat about life, but I knew one thing for certain: my momma was a good woman. I nodded back up the street. Can I go tell that big fat woman that she can just suck on a lemon?

She shook her head. It wouldnt do any good.

Why?

Lightning spiderwebbed the sky. Cause all that fat just represents pain. She brushed the hair out of my eyes. Last time... you hearing me?

Yes, maam.

A few minutes passed. The air grew damp, charged with electricity and smelling of pungent rain. What you gotwhat you can do with a pencil or a brushthats something special.

She pulled me close. Any dummy with half a brain can see that. I didnt teach you to do what you do. Couldnt have,

cause I dont know the first thing about itcant draw myself out of a wet paper bag. What you got comes from some place none of the rest of us know nothing about. That makes you special.

I dont feel special. Most the time, I feel like Im dying.

She hiked her skirt up over her knees to dry the sweat off her legs. A rusty razor had cut the rough skin above her heel.

She waved her hand across the world. Life aint easy. Most the time, its hard. It seldom makes sense and it aint never wrapped up in a neat little bow. Seems like the older you get the more it