Squirm

by Carl Hiaasen

  The women had been chugging toward the same rack of ripe melons when their shopping carts collided. They argued, cussed, squawked, and then started to scuffle. Mr. Voss went on the PA system and told me to hurry to Produce right away. By the time I got there, the old ladies were clobbering each other with cantaloupes.

  I separated the women and steered the loudest one to a neutral aisle. The melon she clutched was cracked and leaking like an egg. A policeman who showed up could hardly keep from laughing.

  Because this happened on Christmas Eve, okay? Supposedly the holiest, most peaceful time of the year.

  I realize a melon fight between two old crones is just one small stupid incident, but it’s still a lousy advertisement for the human race. Can you imagine God looking down and beaming with pride? No way.

  Meanwhile, check out the daily stream of bad news, if you can deal with it—terrorist bombings, massacres, loony dictators, crooked politicians, hackers, scammers, bigots spewing hate all over the internet….

  Sometimes it’s hard to feel much hope for the planet.

  My personal remedy—Belinda calls it my “disappearing act”—is to go places where I hear bugs buzzing instead of cars speeding down a highway. Places where birds outnumber tourists.

  Solitary escape isn’t easy in Florida, because it’s so insanely overcrowded. Depressing true fact: twenty million people live here.

  That’s nineteen million more people than live in the entire state of Montana, which is actually twice as big.

  No wonder I can’t wait to go back.

  SEVENTEEN

  The landing in Bozeman was bumpy, though Mom didn’t seem to notice. She couldn’t stop talking about all the huge mountains out the window. Even my sister was impressed.

  Now, two days later, everyone’s doing fine. I wouldn’t call it a miracle, but I’d been expecting some tension.

  At first Belinda was crazed because of the lame Wi-Fi reception, but she’s adjusting. Instead of checking her social media every three or four minutes, she now waits like half an hour—sometimes even longer. This is major progress.

  The first night, my father took us to the Rib & Chop House in Livingston. Lil sat on one side of him and Mom was on the other. Dad edged his chair back so that the two of them could speak past him, directly to each other, which they did. All during dinner he kept smiling—proud of himself, I guess. It’s a busy joint, so I couldn’t pick up everything Mom and Lil were saying, but I got the impression they were trading battle stories about raising teenagers in the modern world.

  Meanwhile, Belinda and Summer got into a deep conversation about boys—how impossible they are and so not worth the trouble. That left no one at the table to talk with me, which was fine. I was glad to be back in Montana, and there wasn’t much else to say.

  The second day was a long, lazy Yellowstone float. Dad borrowed a friend’s raft and we followed Lil’s drift boat downriver from the put-in at Carters Bridge. Summer rode with us, while Belinda and Mom went with Lil. Dad showed he was pretty good with the oars, though not as strong as Lil, which he’s the first to admit.

  It was a clear bright morning, breezy enough to keep us cool. An hour into the trip, we heard Mom’s voice rise excitedly ahead of us.

  “Jackpot,” my father said with a wink.

  We could see Mom standing in the bow of Lil’s drift boat, aiming her iPhone up toward a rock wall where a golden eagle posed motionless on a pale ledge.

  Mom was too far to get a good photo, but she eagerly clicked away, her shouts skipping across the open water. She was truly overjoyed to see that bird. It never spooked, or even flared its wings. Dad said they get accustomed to the sight of humans, especially in the summer.

  That night, Lil fixed a huge dinner—salad, corn, and spaghetti served with meatballs made from real ranch bison. I demolished two monster helpings. Mom was still hyped from the river trip and even Belinda was in a decent mood, probably because some dude dressed like a rodeo cowboy had stopped to flirt with her in the parking lot of the Albertsons.

  I rolled with the chill family vibe, thinking that maybe my father was right after all, that it actually was a great idea bringing Mom and Belinda out here to connect with his universe.

  But now, right this moment…not so sure.

  I’m standing outside the hardware store on Main Street. My father is inside buying water bottles and extra bear spray for a hike to the Pine Creek Falls with Mom and my sister. The reason I’m on the sidewalk is that I’ve been trying to get a phone signal so I can reach Lil, who’s floating the Yellowstone this morning with a couple of trout fishermen. Dad wants me to ask her how much fencing she needs for their backyard garden, which is getting raided by hungry deer.

  Finally my phone screen shows three bars. I should be dialing Lil yet instead I’m staring at a dirty black Range Rover parked down the street. There’s a sticker on the rear bumper, but I’m too far away to read what it says.

  The vehicle stands out among the local pickup trucks and tourist rental cars not only because it’s too fancy for a small western town but also because of its unusual condition. The Range Rover is cratered with dents from one end to the other. Plastic garbage bags have been duct-taped across the window openings where glass used to be. The SUV looks like it was attacked by a person swinging a crowbar or a baseball bat.

  A person who wanted to make a point, and whose name might be Rusty.

  That would explain why the ranch hand assured me that Lincoln Baxter would never call him about another panther hunt. He must’ve caught up with the poacher during that road chase through Immokalee.

  I hurry inside the hardware store to tell my father, who’s waiting in line to pay. By the time we walk out, the Range Rover is gone.

  “What if it’s Baxter? What if he’s looking for you?” I ask.

  “Billy, the guy has no clue who I am or where I live. If he’s here, it’s because he came to shoot a grizzly. He might be heading back to Tom Miner, or maybe down to Jackson Hole—if that was even his car you saw, which I doubt.”

  Still, Dad agrees to snoop around, just in case. Riding in the pickup, we cover all of downtown Livingston in about six minutes, and that’s moving slowly. There’s no sign of the damaged Rover, so we head back to the house and pack for Pine Creek.

  I’d assumed Summer was coming along, but she’s staying home to finish chapter whatever in an online American history class. When I pop my head into her room, I see Sparky, a.k.a. Satan, curled up at the foot of the bed. The mangy old cat is snoozing on the windowsill. “Have fun on the hike,” Summer says. “It’ll be good for those scrawny Florida legs.”

  Pine Creek is a dream trip for my mother, though Belinda keeps complaining that her feet hurt. After reaching the waterfall, we sit on the smooth slanted crown of a boulder to eat lunch—ham-and-cheese sandwiches and apples. Mom loves watching the mist rise from the cascade. She says somebody should bottle it as skin moisturizer. The forest shade smells rich and piney, and the tourists are behaving. Some of the locals brought along their dogs, so Mom made lots of new friends on the trail.

  On the trek down the mountainside we step around a fresh pile of berry-filled poop that Dad says came from a black bear, not a grizzly. I trust him to know the difference. Belinda says a bear’s a bear, and suddenly her feet don’t hurt anymore; she’s moving faster than all of us. On purpose I hang back, because Mom and Dad are walking and talking side by side and I don’t want to be an eavesdropper. From the soft tone of their voices, I know the conversation isn’t an argument, but I can also tell it’s personal.

  The ride back to town seems quieter than the ride out. My mother and sister are still getting used to thin air, and the hike tired them out. I ask Dad to drop me on Park Street so I can check out Dan Bailey’s, a famous fly-fishing shop.

  Dad says, “Could you grab some feathers? Lil’s tying some new flies.
” He tells me what to buy—something called a rooster cape—and gives me a twenty-dollar bill.

  I spend almost no time in Bailey’s shop, because it’s not really why I wanted to get out of the truck. The true reason is that I’d spotted the bashed-up Range Rover parked on a side street.

  Approaching the car, I try to act casual, but as soon as I see the TROPHY HUSBAND bumper sticker, I’m ready to jump out of my skin. A pair of dirty feet extends from the only window not covered by a garbage bag. The feet are medium-sized and attached to a person sprawled in the back seat.

  I keep on strolling to the end of the block, turn around, and go back. To the dirty feet I say: “Excuse me?”

  The feet don’t move. From where I stand I can’t see the features of the person they belong to.

  “Yo!” I call out.

  “What? Go away,” croaks a groggy male voice.

  “Are you okay?”

  “So now it’s a federal crime to take a nap?”

  “I was worried you might be sick.” Somehow I make these words sound totally sincere.

  The dirty feet withdraw from the window, and a long-unshaven face appears. The man’s mussed hair is gray at the temples, one of his top teeth is missing, and his nose is as straight as a pencil.

  “You’re not even him,” I say.

  “Not who?”

  “A friend of my father’s drives one of these SUVs—same color, same model.”

  The man squints at me doubtfully. “So happens I just bought this thing yesterday, junior. Nine hundred bucks, ‘as is.’ Every dollar I had to my name but, hey, it’s a flippin’ Rover! We’re talking like eighty thousand bucks, brand-new. All it needs is a little bodywork.”

  I’m thinking: A little? More like a whole new body.

  “Once it’s all fixed up, I can resell ’er for like fifty, sixty grand,” he declares. “Then I’m set for life!”

  “Uh. Okay.” I’m not an expert on the resale market for rebuilt luxury vehicles, but the barefoot man sounds way too optimistic. “The person who sold you the car—he was real tan and had a crooked nose, right?”

  The stranger scowls. “I don’t pay attention to noses. But, yeah, the dude was tan. A rich-guy tan, though, not a workin’ man’s tan. Also he had some serious Hollywood hair.”

  “The tips all dyed blond?”

  “Yeah. What’s up with that?”

  “Lincoln Baxter’s his name.”

  “Yeah, that’s what it said on the paperwork,” the stranger says. “When I see him park this thing, all dented to crap, I go over and ask did he drive off a cliff, or what? He says, ‘You wanna buy it?’ I say, ‘Seriously?’ And he says, ‘How much cash you got, bro?’ So I run ’n’ get all the money from outta my sleepin’ bag, and he signs over the title right there on Callender Street.” The man yawns and swigs from a liter bottle of Mountain Dew. “What time izzit, anyway? Whoa, I forgot—there’s a sweet clock with a second hand, right on the dash. Check it out.”

  I didn’t feel the need to tell him I’d already sat in his SUV, or the circumstances.

  “Did Mr. Baxter say what happened to this thing?”

  “He said he drove through a hailstorm. Never saw it comin’.”

  “Epic fail,” I say.

  “Bad luck for him, good luck for me.” The barefoot man’s expression clouds as a new thought occurs to him. “Listen, junior, you tell your daddy’s pal it’s too late to change his mind on this deal. We ain’t in Cally-fornia. This is Park County, Montana, where a handshake’s a handshake.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “He doesn’t want this car back.”

  * * *

  —

  Walking to Geyser Street, I pass a two-story brick house with a wooden toolshed off to one side. Small sleek birds with curved wings are swooping in and out beneath the overhang of the shed’s pitched roof. On my first float down the Yellowstone, I saw the same kind of birds—Summer identified them as cliff swallows. She said they use their beaks to collect wet dirt and mold it into nests that stick to the walls of rock canyons, bridges, and buildings. The grown-up swallows zoom all over, snatching flies and mosquitos in midair, then carry them back to the baby birds inside the mud nests.

  But that’s only part of what’s happening at the wooden shed beside the brick house. Black ravens are gathering along the edge of the roof. I count five of them, standing in a row.

  They are surprisingly tall, larger than some Florida hawks, and their loud calls of kraa-kraa-kraa are nagging and obnoxious. They hop one-footed from side to side, cocking their blue-black heads as they study the swallows coming and going. The little birds know the deal. Occasionally they peel off and dive-bomb the tall noisy birds, trying to drive them away.

  Of course the ravens aren’t going anywhere. They’re hungry, but they’re patient. They can hear the baby swallows cheeping in their mud cribs.

  This is nature, right? Harsh things happen.

  Some people believe it’s wrong to interfere in the wild cycle of life and death. I get that. Every living creature has a place in the food chain.

  But it’s impossible to just stand here with my hands in my pockets watching those five sneaky ravens, knowing what they’ve got in mind.

  Just like it’s impossible for my dad to look the other way and do nothing while an outlaw aims a gun at a bear or a panther. Except there’s an important difference between a common raven and a poacher like Lincoln Baxter: one is part of the natural world, and one is a criminal intruder. The bird kills for food, while Baxter kills for entertainment.

  Either way, it’s nothing I really want to see.

  So I snatch up a handful of rocks and make a long, high throw. They clatter on the roof of the shed, flushing the ravens. In a mad flurry of wings, the flock takes off, kraa-kraa-kraa-ing above the cottonwoods until it’s out of sight.

  The swallows go back to gobbling insects and tending the young in their mud nests. Ravens have wickedly sharp memories, so I’m sure they’ll return to try again another day. By then maybe the baby birds will have sprouted enough feathers to fly away on their own. I hope so, because I can’t hang around here to stand guard.

  Nature always gets the last word.

  That’s not my line. I read it in a magazine article written by a rock climber. His point was that nature is as coldhearted as it is beautiful, and that forces beyond our understanding can deliver a random life-or-death surprise at any moment. It might be a landslide, a flash flood, or a bolt of lightning on a cloudless morning.

  Or if you’re a baby swallow, a hungry raven.

  I don’t want my father to get surprised by Lincoln Baxter, so I plan to inform him that the poacher no longer owns that fancy Range Rover. The information isn’t very useful, unfortunately, because I’ve got no clue what kind of vehicle Baxter is driving now. He might be in a Prius, a minivan, a Winnebago, a Ferrari, anything with wheels. Since Dad won’t know what to look out for, Baxter should have an easy time following him—if that’s actually his plan.

  And assuming otherwise could be disastrous.

  Dad keeps saying the poacher doesn’t know who he is or where he lives, but there’s a chance he’s wrong. Just because Baxter isn’t a cop doesn’t mean he has no way to identify the owner of the Chevy king cab that trailed him to Tom Miner Basin. While he was slashing Dad’s tires, he could’ve photographed the license numbers and texted them to somebody he knows in law enforcement—maybe one of his hunting buddies—who could sneak on the state computer…and boom!

  And even though the pickup is registered in Lil’s name, the poacher would then have a county, a city, and a home address. He could show up on Lil’s doorstep one day when Dad isn’t home.

  I’m not saying that’s what will happen, but we really have no idea how much Baxter knows or what he’s doing here. My father can’t afford to underestimate him.<
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  Back at the house on Geyser, Dad is on his knees in the living room, adjusting the blades on his new quadcopter. I wave and step past on my way to Summer’s bedroom, where I shut the door and say: “Lincoln Baxter’s in town.”

  “Please don’t tell me that, Billy.”

  “Well, it’s true.” I describe my encounter with the barefooted dude who purchased the poacher’s SUV, and offer my license-plate theory about how Baxter ended up in Livingston.

  Summer’s response: “We need to tell my mom.”

  “Everything? She’ll freak.”

  Then the door opens. It’s Dad.

  Summer and I freeze.

  “Have you seen Belinda?” he asks.

  “Uh, she’s at the grocery store,” Summer says, “with her mom.”

  She and I are as stiff as scarecrows. Dad gives us a narrow look. “What’s wrong, guys?”

  “We need to talk,” I say. “All of us together.”

  “Okay, so let’s talk. You go first.”

  “Not without Lil.”

  “No, Billy, now wait a minute—”

  “Follow me,” Summer snaps. “Both of you.”

  I’m only one step behind her. Dad’s two steps behind me. Summer leads us downstairs to the basement, where classical music is playing.

  Lil sits at a small table tying chicken feathers to a tiny fish hook clamped to a slim steel vise. She wears round rimless magnifying glasses. When she sees us, she puts down the tweezer-like tool she’s using to wrap the wispy strands on the shank of the hook.

  “What’s the occasion?” she asks.

  Summer glances anxiously at me.

  Lil eyes us over the top of her glasses. “Did you all come down here because you’re fans of Mozart, or because you’ve got something to tell me?”

  I hand her the package I got at Dan Bailey’s. She spreads the rooster cape on the table, saying, “That’s a beauty, Billy. Thank you.”

  Summer nudges me from behind. My father gives a slight, stern shake of his head—not a warning so much as a plea.