The Return(57)

*



While I recalled the general area in which Green Springs was located, finding it took longer than I’d anticipated. Google wasn’t able to help—there was no listing—so I ended up driving along several roads in James City near the Neuse River, until I finally found the place. I pulled into the graveled parking area, immediately spotting Natalie’s car. I wondered if the owner would emerge to check who was pulling in so late, but aside from a small lamp burning in an upstairs window, I saw no evidence that anyone was even awake.

There was enough moonlight to illuminate my path as I eased my way down the gently sloping back lawn toward the water. From the neighbor’s house, I heard a dog barking and was again serenaded by crickets as I breathed in the scent of pine and recently cut grass, which always reminded me of summer.

I reached the low pier, noting how, unlike Brices Creek, the Neuse River never stopped flowing. Starlight dappled its wakes and swells, making it seem as though the water was lit from below. My grandfather had told me once that the Neuse was the widest river in the United States when it finally emptied into the Pamlico Sound—wider even than the Mississippi—but here in James City, it was only a mile across. Suppressing a twinge of foreboding, I wondered why Natalie had come here at night.

Halfway down the pier, the structure began to come into focus, bringing a smile to my face. Green Springs was the same as I remembered, the kind of place where kids actually played at their own risk. There were no safety rails or even steps from one level to the next; instead, a person had to scale a series of planks while avoiding popped nails. The owner replaced rotting planks and performed other repairs during the winter months, an ongoing construction project that made Green Springs seem perpetually unfinished.

I finally reached the main structure and searched for Natalie without luck. Finally, I called her name softly in the darkness.

“I’m up here,” she answered, her voice drifting down from above.

It sounded like she was on the second level. When I climbed up to the upper reaches, I saw her sitting at the edge of the platform, her feet dangling. Like me, she was in jeans and wearing a windbreaker; I also clocked the wine bottle beside her.

She turned, offering a smile. “You came,” she said, her eyes shining in the moonlight. “I was beginning to wonder whether you’d changed your mind.”

“I had trouble finding it. It’s been a while since I’ve been here.”

As I took a seat on the edge beside her, Natalie reached for her cup and took a sip; I could smell the wine on her breath and noticed the bottle was nearly empty.

“How was your trip?” she asked in a singsong voice.

“It was fine,” I answered. “What are you doing out here?”

She ignored my question. “Did you find your grandfather’s truck?”

“Working on it,” I said. “I know who towed it but I haven’t spoken with him yet. How long have you been out here?”

“I don’t know. Two hours, maybe? I don’t really know. What time is it?”

“It’s almost ten.”

“It’s getting late,” she declared. I watched as she gulped from her cup again. While she didn’t appear to be drunk, it was clear the bottle of wine had been full when she’d arrived and I felt the first flutter of nervousness. Something was going on, something I wasn’t sure I was going to like.

“Shouldn’t you be heading home? To get some rest for tomorrow?”

“I’m not working tomorrow,” she answered. “My shifts got moved because another deputy had to testify in court. So I have to work this weekend. Tonight is like my Saturday night.”

“Ah,” I said.

She offered me the cup. “Do you want some wine?”

“Thank you, but I’m fine.”

She nodded. “Okay then,” she said. “I guess I should have brought a Yuengling for you.”

I didn’t respond. Instead, I examined her profile, hoping and failing to uncover clues as to why we were here.

She finished her drink, then emptied the rest of the bottle into her cup.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “Did something happen today?”

“No,” she said. “Nothing happened today. And no, I’m not okay.”

“Is there something I can do?”

She gave a bitter-sounding laugh but didn’t answer. Instead, she focused on her cup. “Did you know that until last weekend with you, I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in over six months? Now, this is the second time in a week. You must think I have a problem.”

“You don’t have a problem, but I do think something’s bothering you.”

“You could say that,” she said. “I used to think that I had things under control, but now I know I was just fooling myself.” Again, she laughed, but the sound was heartbreaking. “I’m probably not making any sense.”

No, I thought, you’re not. But I understood emotional turmoil and from experience I knew that talking about it would help only if she was the one who did most of the talking. My role was simply to listen and to empathize, even if I didn’t fully understand what was going on.

“Do you believe in God?” she finally asked me.

“Most of the time,” I answered. “But not always.”