The Doctor's Wife (F)

Three weeks before the big hurricane back in ’89, I had the opportunity to travel up the river to look at a piece of property with Dr. Walker and his two sons. The boys as he called them were in their early 30s, and Dr. Walker’s wife—his second wife—came along as well. She was 27. The boat Esmeralda, known locally in racing circles as Essie, was a 35-foot sloop with a long and narrow cockpit featuring a small wooden wheel just a foot inside the transom. The boat was handsome under sail, but that day we followed the tide in with the diesel churning up a moderate wake.

We left the pier shortly after noon and when we made the turn to the north around the southern tip of the city, Karen Walker went down below and came back with cold beers for the four of us—the doctor did not drink.  Karen—Rennie he called her—took off her white dress shirt and tossed it down below. She settled herself in between the two brothers. Her one-piece suit was dark red and cut high on her hips and deep in the back.

The brothers sat passively, but the doctor was happily telling Karen the history of the various wharves along the city as we headed toward the bay bridge. With each sip of beer, Karen tipped back her head so that her yellow hair fell away from her shoulders. When we reached the bridge that marked the beginning of the river, she stood up and went below. Both brothers watched her step down into the cabin and disappear for a moment. This time when she came back up from below, she brought just one beer for herself. Again, she squeezed herself in between the brothers.

From the time a boat passes under the great bridge, it follows a river that bends back and forth in sweeping turns for nearly eight miles up towards the highest bluffs in the region. With each mile the houses and their piers that reach out over the marsh and to the river begin to distance themselves from one another. Doctor Walker seemed to know the owners of every home along the banks and more often than not could offer up the names of their boats if they owned one.

When the river narrowed to perhaps fifty yards across, Doctor Walker throttled us down to about three knots.  Karen handed her empty bottle to me with a slight smile—she had gone down for a third beer—and put her hands on the thighs of the brothers and giving herself a push, stood up and then stretched her arms overhead so that she rose up on the balls of her feet.   

The property we were taking a look at had a generous pier head, and the Doctor eased the boat around so she would be against the tide and ghosted her in. The brothers made the boat fast, and I stepped over the lifelines and waited for the doctor to do the same. He joined me after checking the height of the three bumpers. Looking at his sons, he said, “Take good care of her, boys.”

Dr. Walker and I walked up a narrow trail that led up a bluff covered with high grass. As we got to the top of the rise, Dr. Walker continued on toward a weathered tobacco barn without so much as a glance back at the river. I looked back. Karen and the two brothers were no longer to be seen. Ladson 2013