by Tom Lowe
Callie watched two roseate spoonbills prowling in the shallow water, the birds feeding near cypress knees, the spoonbill’s pink feathers reflecting off the water like hundreds of rose petals floating on the surface. She said, “I feel so sorry for the canaries. I know the lives of the miners are vital, but to use canaries as sacrificial lambs seems cruel.”
Chester nodded. “The practice is history today, but its use in the past created quite a parallel to what we search for here in the middle of this natural paradise.”
“You mean the ghost orchids, right?”
“Indeed.” He used the tip of his cane to point toward a large cypress tree. “That tree, for example. Last year a ghost orchid lived its life about ten feet up from the surface, just beneath the lowest hanging limb. Now, the orchid is gone.”
Callie focused her camera lens to where her grandfather pointed, took a picture. “I only see what looks like a piece of dried vine. Why’d the orchid die?”
“It wasn’t eaten by a predator. It wasn’t beyond its life cycle. Its demise, I believe, was accelerated by the changes in hydration within the swamp. Sometimes, it’ll be too dry in here, causing the ground-level atmospheric conditions, the humidity in particular, to fluctuate to extremes. It’s analogous to the ocean waters warming a few degrees causing the death of coral reefs.”
“A canary in the mines for our oceans.” She watched the spoonbills thrust their heads in and out of water, looking for food. “This place is so beautiful and fragile. Most people don’t have any idea because they haven’t done what we’re doing. When you take the time to walk through this water, to feel the pulse of the swamp, the birds and wildlife, how it all moves in a rhythm … you can develop a much deeper appreciation for its beauty.”
Chester smiled. “I’m delighted you feel that way. Come on, Callie. The visuals are stunning, but I want you to experience something else … the sounds of nature when it thinks no one is listening. I know the perfect spot.” The old man led her deeper into the swamp, water bugs moving in elliptical patterns across the surface, like skaters on ice. Chester pointed to a snake up in a tree. “Always remember to look at what’s in front of you and what’s above you.”
Callie stopped walking, lifting the camera to her eye, focusing on a snaked wrapped around the limb of a cypress tree. The snake’s body was covered in a variegated pattern of pumpkin orange and black, its belly creamy. She zoomed in, snapping a picture. “Is it poisonous, Grandpa?”
“No. It’s a beautiful snake with a name that does not do it justice. That’s a rat snake. I haven’t seen one that size in quite a while. It’s a good sign.” He started walking, leading Callie another hundred yards deeper into the preserve, spindly air plants and red and white bromeliads perched on trees and limbs swathed with hanging moss. Leafy ferns, some the size of small cars, grew from the mounds of exposed dark earth, the humid air heavy with the musky scent of life spawning.
When they got to a darker section of the swamps, canopies of cypress trees dimming much to the sunlight, Chester held one finger to his lips. He leaned closer to his granddaughter and whispered, “I want us to stand still for a least five minutes. No talking. Just listening. In a moment, the orchestra will begin.”
Callie smiled and said nothing. She looked around at the lush foliage, giant trees with limbs that steepled together in arches above the swamp. Other trees with coal black trunks had rotted or fallen during storms, the branches splayed into the water as if the limbs tried to prevent the fall. She watched a brown spider, the width of her hand, crawl down one of the limbs, the spider stopping at the water’s edge. Gnats orbiting. Deerflies buzzing. Minnows swimming around her legs. There was the primordial, haunting cry of a limpkin. Its long shrieks almost human in pitch.
And then the other birds started to join the ensemble. One by one. Chester pointed to three white egrets on a high branch, the birds throwing back their feathery heads and crooning, each trying to squawk louder than the other. Soon, the swamps teemed with birdsong—chirps, hoots, chants, cooing, long melodies of warbling, as if the birds were singing in a frenetic harmony, belting out ballads echoing through the trees and bayou.
Callie closed her eyes for a few seconds and listened to the solos, the choruses, the orchestra of nature in a cornucopia of sounds. She felt like she was being serenaded as she stood in knee-deep water, a bullfrog sitting on a submerged tree limb and joining the choir with its baritone voice.
After another minute, Chester stroked his beard and whispered, “Now you can understand what you can hear if you take the time to listen.”
She took a picture of the three egrets. “This is literally, in all sense of the word … wild. I love it. It seems like these birds and animals were all around us but playing hide-and-go-seek until we stopped seeking. Then, they came to us. She spotted a four-foot alligator slowly swimming through the water about fifty feet away from them. “Maybe some feel they can come a little too close.”
“That gator means no harm. They were here long before us. Okay, Callie … right now I’m going to show you where to look. But I want you to tell me what you see, okay?”
“Okay.”
He used his cane to point to a cypress tree with a base as wide as a round picnic table. “Up there, in the cypress, about ten feet from the water, what do you see?”
Callie looked in the direction he pointed. Two ghost orchids, petals the color of fresh snow, seemed to spring from the trunk of the tree. “I see a ghost, Grandpa. Not one, but two ghosts. That’s so awesome. It looks like they’re defying gravity, suspended in midair above the swamp.”
“They are, in some respects. They’re attached to narrow stems, and from this distance it’s not that easy to see the stems, giving the ghost orchid the illusion that they’re drifting in air … like a ghost.
“I’m getting a picture.” She looked through the lens, zooming in until the orchids filled the frame, taking two pictures. “Did you know they were there, Grandpa, or did you happen to spot them?”
“I knew one was there. The second one wasn’t up there the last time I visited the area. Seeing it today is a pleasant surprise.”
The sound of a rifle shot echoed through the swamps.
All the birdsong abruptly ended, as if a giant muzzle was thrown over Big Cypress Preserve. Callie, taken out of her moment with nature, looked through the pockets of dappled sunlight deep into the sloughs. “What was that?”
“Gunshot. Sounds like a rifle.”
“It seemed really close to us. You think there are hunters in here?”
“Maybe. Poachers more likely.”
“Should we be scared, Grandpa?”
“No, don’t be scared. Be cautious.”
“I think I’m going to be both, afraid and cautious.”
“Hunting season has begun, but this part of the preserve is supposed to be off limits. That’s what bothers me. Let’s walk back to the truck and whistle as we go. We don’t want to be mistaken for game and get shot. By the time someone found us, there wouldn’t be much left. That’s another thing the swamp does well … hides its dead.”
TWENTY-THREE
A week later, one of the most anticipated televised political debates of the season was about to take place. Incumbent state senator, William Brasfield, now facing challenger Joe Thaxton, who was making big waves to unseat Brasfield. Thaxton and Brasfield stood behind podiums, fifteen feet apart in the studios of Channel Seven in Miami. An audience of less than one hundred people sat in portable, hard plastic chairs, watching as the moderator Jennifer Hernandez appeared. She wore a dark blue suit, black hair up, a legal pad in her hands, walking with an air of confidence.
“Hello, everyone,” she said to the audience. “Thank you for joining us tonight. I’m Jennifer Hernandez, one of the political reporters here at Channel Seven. If time permits, we’ll take questions from the audience. And thanks for submitting some questions in writing.” She held up a few dozen index cards.
“Stand by, Jennifer,�
� said a husky floor director who stood near one of the four studio cameras, earphones on his head.
Jennifer stepped to a small table in front of the candidates, smiled and sat down.
“On three … two …one …” The floor director motioned with his hand, and the red light came on above the lens of a camera.
“Good evening,” Jennifer said, looking directly into the camera. “Welcome to tonight’s political debate for the state senate from District twenty-five. It’s part of a series that Channel Seven is producing live from our studios through the coming weeks. Tonight, we are pleased to welcome State Senator William Brasfield. Mr. Brasfield has served in the state legislature for six years and tonight he seeks another term.”
The camera cut to a close-up of Brasfield, he had the lopsided grin of someone who’d just dropped an ice cream cone. Double chin. Narrow, anxious eyes. His small hands gripped the sides of the podium like a man climbing a high ladder. Jennifer said, “Welcome Senator Brasfield.” He grinned and nodded at the studio audience. “His challenger, on the left of your screen, is Joe Thaxton. Welcome Mr. Thaxton.”
The camera cut to a close-up shot of Thaxton. He smiled, looking directly at the moderator and said, “Thank you. And thanks for having me.”
She nodded. “Mr. Thaxton is a fishing guide. He earned a degree in marine biology from the University of Miami. Off camera, the candidates agreed to a coin toss to determine who’ll get the first question, and Mr. Thaxton won. In this debate, as all of the debates we host here, there will be no opening statement. We feel the voters hear a lot of statements and soundbites, not only from these gentlemen, but from others running for office. I will ask the questions, some of which were submitted by our studio audience. We’re looking for responses of no more than two minutes. You can see the digital clock from your places at the podiums.”
The camera pulled to a wide shot, and she said, “Okay, let’s begin tonight’s debate. Mr. Thaxton, you’ve never served in public office. You’ve made a living as a fishing guide. Your slogan is you’re an average Joe with an extraordinary message for all of Florida, not just your district. You’ve taken on the Everglades Restoration Plan as the centerpiece of your campaign. If elected, what do you propose to do?”
“As much as possible as soon as possible. But I know I’ll be one of many moving parts in state government. This election is not about me … not about William Brasfield … it’s about the health of every man, woman, and child in Florida … and the millions who visit our state each year. Our rivers are sick and getting worse. Some lakes are so polluted even the gators can’t live in them. The Everglades is one of a kind in all the world. But the River of Grass is dying, like so many areas in Florida that need fresh, clean water for life. Back in 2014, more than four-million voters in our state, that’s seventy-five percent of us, voted to pass a referendum to buy property south of Lake Okeechobee to restore the water flow to the Everglades. Well-paid lobbyists and their politicians on puppet strings have stalled that program indefinitely. The people have spoken, and to be frank with you, career politicians like my opponent, Senator Brasfield, have turned a deaf ear. And the reason is because money from lobbyists speaks louder than four million voters. Is the legislature above the will of the people? No, they are not and never will be.”
There was a loud murmur in the audience. Light applause followed. Jennifer said, “Please refrain from applause until the end of tonight’s debate. She turned to Brasfield. “Mr. Thaxton is pulling no punches. You each have two minutes for a rebuttal. Your turn Senator.”
“Thank you, Jennifer.” He looked into a camera. “I really don’t need two minutes because simple accusations like that of my opponent can be boiled down in modest but profound statements of clarity.” He shook his head, the crooked grin returning. “First, it’s painfully obvious that Mr. Thaxton, the neophyte that he is, has done an average Joe’s job at best in terms of research. Since the amendment passed in 2014, there have been some purchases of property, and we are on track to restore the waterflow back to the Everglades, to protect our beautiful springs, lakes and rivers. These things take time. One of the first lessons you learn in government is no one is an island. There are no superheroes in Tallahassee as Mr. Thaxton appears to want to portray himself to be. It takes teamwork to get things done. Water restoration is a top priority of mine. Just like my opponent, I enjoy fishing. But I don’t fish for public sympathy by exaggeration and misleading inaccuracies. I might as well have ‘Henny Penny’ and the ‘sky is falling’ philosophy running against me. The things he talks about, red tide and algae blooms. These have been part of Florida long before agriculture. Just like hurricanes, we can go for years without seeing one and then, out of the blue, we get a hurricane. That doesn’t mean the climate is altered.”
The moderator said, “Your response, Mr. Thaxton before we move on to other questions.”
“Thank you,” Joe said, looking at her. He cut his eyes to Brasfield, and then addressed the audience in the studio and at home. “Mr. Brasfield calls it out of the blue. When you see blue-green algae emerge in our rivers and thousands of dead fish wash ashore, you know it’s not coming out of the blue … from some blue spot in the universe. I don’t mind being called ‘Henny Penny’ when the scientific data is accurate. Because it is, and the results are frightening. Man-made pollution is the prime catalyst behind these massive slime-green algae blooms that are far too frequent in our rivers and lakes. Yes, we’ve had red tide outbreaks on beaches for a long time. But now it’s happening more frequently. When toxic slime pours from our rivers to our beaches, the result can exacerbate algae blooms along our coastlines. Tons of fish, crabs, oysters and mammals are victims. The stench is almost unbearable. Let me reiterate … in 2014 the people of Florida overwhelmingly mandated that a portion of taxes from real estate doc stamps go directly into the Land Acquisition Trust Fund for water restoration and conservation purposes, including restoring the Everglades. That’s not happening. The question I’d like to ask Senator Brasfield is why?”
• • •
Simon Santiago parked his red Ferrari in one of his four private parking spaces in the garage of an opulent high-rise condo overlooking Biscayne Bay. Santiago, late forties, balding, neatly trimmed short beard, wore an Armani jacket over a dark T-shirt and black, designer jeans. He got out in the parking garage and walked to the elevator, the heals of his Stefano Ricci crocodile loafers, tapping the concrete. Even from the open-air garage one hundred feet above the posh landscaping, he could smell gardenias in full bloom.
Santiago got in the private elevator and rode to the penthouse. Inside his four-thousand-square-foot condo, he tossed his jacket on the back of a Tommy Bahama chair, stepped across the hardwood floor to a lavish bar and poured a long shot of Diplomatic Reserve rum over ice in a crystal glass. He moved across the living room filled with expensive designer furniture made with South Beach in mind. Santiago opened the glass doors, stepping out on his terrace overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, the lights of a cruise ship in the distance, the scent of the sea in the breeze. He sipped the rum and thought about calling an escort service. He’d order one of his favorite girls like he ordered food to go from Whole Foods. As Santiago reached for his phone in his pocket, it buzzed.
He set his drink down on an outdoor table, looked at the caller ID and answered. “Good evening,” he said. “Are you in New York tonight?”
The man sat in silhouette in a darkened room, a burning cigar in one hand, a gold and diamond pinky ring on his finger. “No, I’m not in New York. I want to sell that condo anyway,” said the man his voice soft and tingeing with a hint of sarcasm. “I’m on the island.”
“Good, then you’re not that far away.”
“I take it you did not watch the political debate between Brasfield and the newcomer, Thaxton.”
“No, I was in transit.”
“You’re a high paid lobbyist. It’s your job to watch and monitor these things during an election year. Thaxton is making t
hings difficult. He’s aligning himself with Hal Duncan. If elected governor, Duncan has suggested he’ll replace everyone we had appointed on the water board. He needs a guy like Thaxton to be his cheerleader.”
“Thaxton won’t win.”
“Oh really. Tonight, on television, he cleaned Brasfield’s clock. Thaxton said, if he’s elected, he’ll work with U.S. reps in the house and senate to amend the farm bill’s sugar subsidies. That simply cannot and will not happen.”
“I wouldn’t worry. That’s been suggested off and on for years. We’ve always beaten it at every level, regional state and national. With enough money, we can lead any hack politician to water and teach him or her to drink the Kool-Aid.”
“You told me Thaxton turned down offers of PAC campaign contributions. So, how’s that theory working?”
“We’re just getting started. We’ll bury him in attack ads. Voters will think he’s a wife beater and pedophile by the time we’re done.”
“If you fail, and if he’s elected along with Duncan, this contract with you and your firm is finished. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir.”
The man on the other end of the line hung up.
TWENTY-FOUR
Johnny Nelson looked at the ceiling tiles in his hospital room and whispered a prayer. The tiny holes in the ceiling tile were swimming, going in and out of focus. Weird, he thought. At night the stars are white surrounded by black. In here, the stars are black, surrounded by white. He laid flat on his back in the bed, his thoughts racing, his right leg on fire from his swollen foot all the way up to his right hip. It was a pain that hurt deep inside his leg, like termites were chewing the bones in search of soft marrow.
Two IV’s strapped to his arms pumped powerful antibiotics into his bloodstream. Yet, he could feel something crawling in his diseased tissue that was now growing purple. Oxycodone barely dulled pain. “Where’s Amber?” he mumbled. “Where’s my wife?” Johnny tried to sit up, tried to focus on the button to call a nurse. He was weak and getting weaker. The call button seemed as if it was across the room.
