Saving Tuna Street

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

  How Blanche missed Gran! At least she had Cappy. Somewhere. Where?

  No telling where he’d gotten himself off to, but she had a sudden longing to see him, and Jack. She needed her family. So much had happened in a day, she’d hardly thought of the love and support she had in her life.

  Blanche shook off the daydreams and wandered through the organized chaos of the kitchen. Tangled herbs cluttered a shelf, the pungent bay and thyme mixed with sweet gardenia at the window. Copper cooking pots of every size hung from the rack over the counter. Jars of tomatoes, peaches, and pickles he’d put up himself, towers of limes, lemons, and oranges, all were within easy reach. She pushed the rattan stools back in order.

  He’d left a grapefruit with eyes and a mouth made of whole cloves. The smiling Buddha sat on a nest of waxy leaves. The note said, “Hi, Blanche.”

  She burst out laughing. He still surprised her, and it never got old.

  She wrote him a note and tore the page out of her notebook: See you tonight, and thanks for the cheery greeting. She couldn’t bring herself to mention the terrible morning.

  She stuck the message under a refrigerator magnet. It occurred to her that the islanders rarely locked their doors. Now maybe they should. Cappy’s door had been unlocked. Reminder: Get extra keys. Tell Cappy to lock his doors. She had a queasy feeling that the world of Santa Maria was changing, and not for the better.

  If she didn’t eat something soon, she was sure to faint dead away. She reached for the fridge. Cap was always a step ahead of her. He’d left a plate with Blanche’s name on it—grouper, sautéed, and topped with grapes, mango, and raspberries. She felt better just looking at it.

  She sat down at the counter and ate the whole thing, cold, probably not out of the Gulf a day. She added to the note: PS, Delicioso! We have to talk. XXX B.

  Revived over lunch, Blanche rinsed the dish and headed out the back door, the screen door flapping after her. She hurried down the drive to the cabin.

  The beach was calling. But first, she had to call Jack.

  She couldn’t wait to get hold of him. If she could. Getting his attention was a bit like stepping on a rolling wave. After all, how much help could he be in making the week stop spinning out of control?

  She picked up the pace. The sun descended behind the tops of the pine trees. Her sandals crunched the shell path, and the gulls cawed. It was the only sound at the quiet north end as she took the steps two at a time and dashed for the phone.

  Jack. He had to know the awful news. He had to get back soon.

  Nine —

  Just Ask Jack

  He was only a flight away, but a flight away from where? Chicago? Texas? He’d always had a sense of adventure, and that had led him to travel, and, finally, into business in transport. He’d started as a truck driver in college, and now he owned a division of a trucking company with a conglomerate in Chicago. But he always found his way back home on Tuna Street. He was long overdue for one such visit.

  He surprised her when he answered on the first ring. She sat down on the porch bench and stared off at the Gulf.

  “Jack! Where are you?”

  “Don’t I get a ‘Hi, I love you and miss you’ first?”

  “Hi. I do love you and miss you.” She chuckled at the sound of his voice. “Now, tell me where you are.”

  “I’m in Shit-cago. In traffic.”

  “Well, glad I got you.”

  “You got me, Bang. For about one minute.” He’d nicknamed her “Bang” when he was a toddler because he couldn’t pronounce Blanche. The name stuck, and it suited her off-the-hip nature.

  She heard the blaring in the background. He was driving around, dodging buses and taxis. Cursing. Punching the buttons on the radio. Eating.

  “We have a mess here,” she said. “It’s bad news. You better pull over.”

  “Was just about to call you. I know.”

  “You know? What?”

  “Bob Blankenship’s been murdered. Jeez. I heard. Blanche, it’s terrible.”

  “That’s what they’re saying. Murder. It’s not official yet, just happened this morning. But it’s not looking good. At all. How did you hear about it?”

  “I have ways.”

  “Well, OK, You have ways….What ways?”

  Honking. Chewing. “I follow the news.”

  “Really?” This was too confounding to pick apart in a minute or two. “When do you think you can come down here? How soon?”

  “Don’t know. But, soon. Promise.” A bus revved up, the traffic exploded in her ear. “Wish I could get out of here right now…dammit… How’s Liza?”

  “Not good. Please, Jack. We need to talk.”

  “The thing is…”

  “I have a feeling, I know it’s not much, but I have a feeling that the murder is connected to that other business. You know, those Chicago developers who were nosing around here on the island.”

  “What? Come on, B.”

  “No, seriously. It’s been growing on me. First this developer—Sergi Langstrom—shows up with all his posters and ideas. Then we have this meeting and Bob is murdered. Back to back. Bob didn’t want Langstrom and that bunch on the island, Jack. They’re gonna bring in the bulldozers.”

  “Bang!”

  “You’re in Chicago. Will you please look into this? You know people up there. See what you can find out about Sergi Langstrom. Ask around.” Jack was oddly silent. She waited, for about two seconds. “Are you there? Jack? Listen to me.”

  “Uhhhh. Ask around about what? ‘Hey, did you murder Bob Blankenship?’ That kind of thing?” It was a response full of crumbs and slurps. “Sure. Right on.”

  “Some help you are. Of course not. Just ask around, find out if there is any connection between Bob and Langstrom. Anything. He’s slick. A damn hairball.”

  “Really? That’s pretty harsh. And crazy. But I’ll see what I can do, just to prove how crazy you are. In the meantime, may I emphasize, let Duncan do his work. Stay out of it.”

  She ignored the staying-out part. She didn’t want to hear it. “Promise, Jack. Nothing’s right about all this business, I’m telling you. It’s all wrong.”

  “No, it’s not right, but forget the theories. The authorities, Blanche. Remember, that’s their job, not yours.”

  It was a clipped response, but she dug in. “I’ve got a job here, too, Jack. I have to do something. You know what this has done to Liza? To everybody? Bob was….more than just Bob.”

  “Don’t you think I know that, B?” His voice softened, then blended into the screaming traffic. “He was an uncle, a dad when we didn’t have one. He helped me get my first set of wheels, and he did a lot of other stuff for us, and for everybody. But this business with the murder. It’s just real bad.” Tires squealed. Jack yelled over the noise. “I really have to go. We’ll talk later this week. Really miss you. I’ll get down there…Soon.”

  Blanche held the phone away from her head. “Jack? When exactly can you come down here?”

  He was gone. She flung the phone on the table. Connections were notorious on the island, but really? He wanted her out of it? Just like that?

  He could help. He would. She had to believe it. He was in Chicago, but at heart he was an island boy. He loved Santa Maria Island, and Blanche. They had grown up together on Tuna Street, their quirky little stretch of shell and sand on the beachfront between Spring and Palm. Their cabin sat among a few old frame and log houses, this year, about 150 feet from the Gulf. And then there were the times the waves lapped at their door.

  Gran left the cabin to the two of them. She’d taken on both of them after his mother ran off, and his father, another Jack in a long line of elusive Jacks, went missing for years. Presumed dead. Blanche’s Jack was the brother she never had. But sometimes he could be so…removed. Elusive, and unpredictable as his father and grandfather. He wasn’t inclined to check out Langstrom and that bunch. So she would make him do it.

  Blanche sat there, stewing. She looked around
the cabin. Which part was Jack’s? The porch? The empty wicker chair across from her? The matching table—where she and Liza had shared more than one tequila? The extra bedroom in the back with a mango tree that dropped fruit bombs onto the roof? His “alarm clock,” he would say.

  Next to that tree, protected from the salt, orange hibiscus and flaming mandevilla edged the patio where hummingbirds darted about. In the front, sabal palms and sea grape, pines and bushes full of red berries grew out of the shell and sand dunes. Yellow and purple beach flowers twined through the snake grass and sea oats under the Australian pines, and farther out, the white frill of waves rushed the beach.

  She stood up, stretched, and then took off over the pine needles toward the shoreline, determined to clear her head. She was bound to dump her frustration with Jack, her disappointment over the land development, and her terrible feeling of loss. If anything could fix her, it was the beach.

  Sandpipers skittered in the foam. Balls of it broke away and flew across the sand like little round ghosts. The clouds towered, closing off the sun, then opened their huge white doors.

  I wish he were here. I could make him see… See what? I can’t even see any of it clearly myself.

  Blanche muttered as she walked along, off into the world inside her head. Talking to herself was like having a tiny counselor between her ears.

  Many times, he’d said, “Bang, I’m going to call the mental hospital on you.”

  He didn’t turn her in. They were a team. They hid out in the dune grass—from the ghosts of pirates and Indians—and climbed palm trees for coconuts and the mango tree to the top where the fruit was sweetest. Gran told them stories about the Miccosukee who lived on Gull Egg Key, and Jack became obsessed with exploring the tiny key off the north end of Santa Maria. He swam out into the Gulf until he was a dot on the waves, and he went alone. She was not thrilled at the prospect of meeting sharks and jellyfish in the dark water. She was always relieved when he made it back—with more ghost stories.

  They were afraid sometimes, but youth was in their favor. They were always able to run, climb, or swim out of their fear. They abandoned all fear and sense when they snuck away from Dunc, Cap, and Gran and built their clandestine camps along the beach. Their hideouts of sea oats and palms promptly blew away. They always rebuilt.

  Blanche realized Jack had changed. Lately, they had grown apart, and given their terse conversation on the phone, she had a feeling he would be the uncooperative Jack. If he didn’t show soon, she’d bug him until he did. This, he expected.

  He knew something about the troubles on the island. She sensed it. He’d always been curious, and that would never change. She hoped, with just the right amount of nagging, she could get him to come up with something. She wasn’t going to back off.

  Ten —

  The Burning Bridge

  It was four o’clock. The water was warm and the sand cool and plush as wet suede under her feet as the sun shot a path across the Gulf toward the shore. The gulls circled in a frenzy—their happy hour—squawking in a terrific cacophony of bird talk before flying off to their nests. It was a signal to the last of the sunbathers to unfold themselves from their beach chairs and disappear with their novels and coolers. They’d be back for the sunset, but for now, it was the best time of the day. The cooling off. Quiet, and deserted.

  She splashed along the same daily route, but every day was different. The only predictable thing was how it made her feel, and that was good. She welcomed this separation from reality. She was small, and everything else that was ever disappointing or troubling was small here, too, in comparison to what she saw on the vast and beautiful beach.

  Blanche looked back at the cabin, and at the other cottages, with bright red-orange windows that reflected the flaming sun. On fire. Blanche shuddered. Destruction in Technicolor. She couldn’t get away from it. They were drowning in a sea of change. The animals were disappearing, the asphalt prevented water filtration to the aquifer, beach refurbishment was turning the shore to concrete, traffic clogged the roads and the air. Real Florida had been paved, clipped, pruned, and sodded over. It was losing all its character.

  Again she thought of Langstrom. Whatever happened, that team of bandits couldn’t take the beach away from them. Or could they? Footage right on the edge of the water—and twenty feet inland—was already public domain, but what good would it be if they couldn’t get to it? If there were no place to park their cars and bikes? The developers would restrict the right of way. Their gates would limit access to those who couldn’t afford beach-front property. Blanche thought of all those condos on Lone Shark Key just south of Santa Maria. The island was so narrow, Cap had thrown a baseball across it from the bay to Gulf. Developers had sucked it up, like a noodle, and then greed was pushing them north to Santa Maria.

  Bob had fought to preserve Santa Maria Island. Now he was dead.

  Blanche picked up the pace, and she could sense she was not alone. Stingrays and sharks were close to shore, and, this year, trouble in the person of Sergi Langstrom—a shark if she ever saw one. What would Gran have said? Blanche didn’t need to close her eyes to picture her grandmother, her cloud of white hair and fierce green eyes. Her anger rare and spectacular. … Open yer mouth and tell all ya know. She was gone, but she was always there.

  Gull Egg Key rose up out of the Gulf beyond the tip of the island. On the beach just ahead, the pedestrian bridge and sandy park came into view—the park that Bob had worked to preserve as a refuge, and Langstrom was planning to whack away.

  Her feet pounded the sand through the tide pools. It normally thrilled her, approaching the north end of the island, where the bay met the Gulf and the Sunlight Skyway far off in the distance formed a metal-concrete rainbow to Tampa. Approaching the tip was like walking off the edge of the world. Now she looked up again and wondered what she was walking into.

  Men in long pants, vests and hats, milled back and forth on the small wooden bridge. It was an odd sight, so late in the day at this time of year. They wielded equipment, lines and tripods, and poles, such as those used for tents at weddings, but this was no party.

  She wanted to avoid this business, but she aimed for the bridge anyway. It was part of her routine to cross it from the beach, and she didn’t want to cut short the second leg of her walk back from the north end of the island. The display of flowers, rattling palms, bright birds that sputtered out of hedges. Jacaranda and trumpet vine, oleander and rose bushes blazed, and the orange and lemon trees bloomed with tiny green marbles that would turn to fruit by Christmas.

  She ignored the buzzing in her brain.

  She kept an eye ahead. Most of the men drifted off. All except for one person. It made her anxious, an emotion that was appearing with maddening frequency. She tried to control it, use it to push her. She walked faster still, eager to work off the fluttering in her stomach. The long-needled pines swayed in the breeze—the ones that Langstrom wanted to rip out. Her anger spiked. She was so distracted she didn’t see the broken conch hidden in an ebbing wave. She tripped and nicked her toe on the sharp edge of the shell. Blood trickled from her foot, but she kept walking through the salty water. A thin red stream ribboned away.

  She couldn’t mistake the blue shirt. That lanky stroll. It was Langstrom at the head of that group. She could hear him shouting directions, his voice a loud baritone. That, and the shrieking of gulls. He pointed to a couple of trucks parked at the end of the street leading to the beach. She watched him pace along the arc of the bridge. Blanche’s heart sank. Her toe throbbed, but she shook off the pain.

  He had his back to her, partly hidden behind a clump of sea oats. She could still get away, but she couldn’t deny the urge to confront him. The last of the workmen shouted and lugged away the equipment. Doors slammed. He was not going with them. Curiosity now propelled her over the sand. She had to get it over with.

  Her legs were stiff, but she set her shoulders and trudged on, the anxiety expanding inside her. She wanted to talk to h
im again, and at once she dreaded it. The town hall meeting had ended in a battle of nerves, and not a single point of contention had been settled. Langstrom had clearly been under the impression that he was going ahead with the development plans. The nerve. She damn well wanted to learn more about what they had in mind, and cut them off. And yet, she couldn’t stand to face him. She wanted to walk past him and get home—to the home that he wanted to destroy. He was worse than a hurricane; he had intention, while nature did not.

  Then, he was steps away.

  “Hi,” he said, thrusting his hand toward her. She hesitated. He waited until Blanche reached for him. So sure that she would. She felt positively ill. Her stomach was churning, and she hoped it would be quiet. She bit her tongue.

  His mouth curled into a slow smile.

  She still held his hand. His grip was strong, and it anchored her to the spot. His eyes were even more startling blue up close, and friendly. “Hello,” she said. So loud she surprised herself. The word dropped like a stone.

  She stepped back, away from his aura of self-confidence and control, but it was no good. His looks added to her confusion. The sky seemed sharper, the pines greener, her mood not so bleak. The shadow on his chin, the wave in his hair gave him a careless, rugged look.

  I need to get off this bridge.

  “Remember me?” His face was close to hers, his expression almost yearning.

  She caught herself. “Yes, I remember you.”