Blood of Cain

102

Courtney stayed with Max and me at the river cabin for a week. We grilled fish on the dock, watched baby alligators crawl from their nests, eyes the shade of a lemon peel, and plop into the river for the first time. I took her out in the thirteen-foot Boston Whaler and in the canoe. We explored the St Johns and all its mystery and majesty. We tagged along with a whiskered elderly fisherman in a johnboat as he worked his trotline, catching and releasing freshwater stingrays, keeping the yellow-bellied catfish.

He told her about how the tides from the Atlantic have an effect on the river and its wildlife, how crabs were found thriving two-hundred miles inland from the mouth of the river. He told her about the unique history of the river — about the Indians who used to live along its banks until the Spanish arrived. Courtney asked questions and hung on to every word the old man uttered.

I took her to an oxbow in the river where a pair of eagles had built a nest the size of a small car in a large cypress tree next to the water. We sat in the canoe, Courtney in the bow, Max in the middle, and me in the stern, watching the eagles catch and bring fish to their young. We drifted up the tea-colored water of the quiet creeks that feed the river, creeks that smelled of honeysuckles and were tunneled with arching tree branches, white and yellow butterflies erupting from the leaves and wildflowers with the flurry of a snow-globe.

She stood in the boat, next to Max, letting the butterflies hover between her outstretched arms, touching the pewter beards of Spanish moss hanging as far as the eye could see. I watched her laugh as Max barked at a fat raccoon sitting back on its hind legs and using its front paws to pry open a mollusk. It was good to hear her laugh, to watch her spirit rebuild, to nurture her the best I could. I knew that somewhere out there I had a daughter, a young woman who was about Courtney’s age. I hoped my daughter was well and content with her life. But right now I had my niece. I had Courtney.

And she had me.

She turned back to me, a wide smile on her face, and said, “This is a cool place. It’s like nowhere I’ve ever been, maybe this is God’s little river. I can imagine a dinosaur around the bend.”

“We can’t go too far around the bend. It gets shallow.”

She smiled. “Well, Uncle Sean, I have a feeling you could get us out if we got stuck.”

“You do?”

She grinned. “Yeah, I do.”

“And I have a feeling you would do okay on your own, too.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Maybe it’s part of who we are … family … we’re survivors, you and me.”

We sat on the screened-in back porch and finished a dinner of buttered corn on the cob, garden salad, and grilled bass — cooked with olive oil, fresh tomatoes, garlic and basil. Courtney had a ravenous appetite. It made me smile to watch her eat and hear about her plans and dreams. We fed Max and the three of us walked down to the dock, Max leading the way, bowls of ice cream in hand, and we sat on the wooden bench seat facing west and the setting sun.

Courtney was in awe watching white pelicans and herons fly into a purple and gold sunset, the colors rolling off the surface of the water like molten rainbows, the smell of trumpet flowers and jasmine in the cool evening air. She savored a spoonful of chocolate ice cream and said, “This so beautiful here. And you’ve been so kind to me. I want you to know, Uncle Sean, how much I appreciate what you’ve done. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. Courtney, I want you to know I’ve spoken with your grandmother’s attorney. Paperwork has been drawn up giving you her home and property in South Carolina.”

“Me? She was your mother. It’s yours, not mine.”

“No … no it’s not. I wasn’t there.”

“It wasn’t because you didn’t choose to be. You didn’t know.”

“Listen to me. I’m your older and wiser uncle.” I smiled. “Take the property. It’s free and clear. The title will be transferred to your name.”

“I can’t live there. I just can’t.”

“I understand. You can sell it and go anywhere you want.”

“Where would I go?”

“How about Ireland?”

“Ireland?”

“Yes. Your grandmother has some land there, on the west coast.”

“Really? I wonder why she didn’t talk about it.”

“Maybe because she was afraid she’d lose it. I learned she had to sell off bits and pieces through the years to pay the taxes. But there are about fifty acres still there. It has a small cottage on it.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I was there.”

“There? You went there … wow.”

“Yes. If you want, you could live in the cottage. Maybe study art in school. You told me that was one of your passions. It was your grandmother’s, too. She fought to keep the land, to keep it from being developed by people who’d like to have built a time-share resort on it. Maybe you could carry on the fight if they ever come back. It would make a great park or natural preserve one day.”

“I would like to spend some time there, but I don’t have the money to go.”

“I’ll help you get a realtor for your grandmother’s South Carolina property. We’ll get it listed and sold. The money from that will give you a good start, and should pay for college too. In the meantime, I’ll buy your airfare, help you get settled. I believe, especially after everything you’ve been through, that place on the coast of Ireland will help you find what might still be missing. It’ll give you the time, the space, and the place you need. I have the number of an older couple, a farm family, that’s looking forward to meeting you. They’ll be there if you need them.”

She looked at me, her eyes tearing, and said “I love you, Uncle Sean.”

“I love you, too.”