Salt River

by Randy Wayne White

  “What kind of trouble?” I asked. “As in drugs? Or—I hope not—suicide?”

  The minister made a Hush! gesture with his prosthetic hand. “Just watch for a second. That girl’s been depressed—didn’t come right out and admit it, but I can tell. Highs and lows. A lot of my new sisters and brothers got the same problem, turns out. Not so strange when you think it through.”

  He produced a can of Skoal and thumped it with his thumb. “We never saw each other until yesterday. Now I feel like I’ve been worried about them kids since the day we were born, just didn’t know it.” He offered me the can. “Care for a dip? I use pouches. Don’t have to spit with pouches.”

  Since the day we were born—the remark stuck with me as we observed the woman in silence. When Imogen lit a second cigarette and angled through the park toward the hotel, Chester decided it was okay to return via the sidewalk. Loose cover, he termed it, as if I would understand. Which I did.

  “What, exactly, did Tomlinson say about me?” I asked. There was enough room on the sidewalk for us to travel hip to shoulder.

  “You’d have to ask Tomlinson” was the reply.

  Hannah had often used this same stubborn, Southern device to warn me about prying. But he loosened up when I responded, “Imogen’s got a point. We’re both judgmental jerks.”

  “Lord knows, ain’t it the truth?” he laughed.

  Suddenly, we had things in common. We talked about the military and guns for a while—he preferred Berettas but Glocks were cheaper. I mentioned Alonso Arkham and got the reaction I’d hoped for. Arkham was a disturbing subject that he and the others had discussed last night—a private conversation. That was made clear to me. He asked about Delia in a leading way. Then, without any prodding, told me more about Imogen. Not only had her DNA test revealed the truth about her biological father, the girl had received another shock—after being born to one set of parents, Imogen had been put up for adoption.

  “Happens to a lot of us test tube kids,” Chester said. “Folks don’t get the sporty model they think they ordered, so they send the kid back. Son, you’d be amazed at some of the stuff I’ve learned since I found out. Me, it didn’t matter so much. I was never close with my folks. Enlisted when I was seventeen, been on my own ever since. Why would I care who my real daddy is?”

  This was something else we had in common. To encourage him to keep talking, I shared a blurred account of my own past.

  “Yeah”—the man smiled—“Tomlinson hinted around, but, buddy ruff, you’ve got the eyes. Adapt, overcome, and improvise, huh? Three years after I said good-bye to the Rock Pile”—he was talking about Afghanistan—“I emptied my last bottle. Fish House Punch . . . Thunderbird. Got up, looked in the mirror, and told the worthless S-O-B staring back at me there’s only one honorable way for a gimp to cure a headache.” He tapped his hip. It had nothing to do with the catheter bag strapped there.

  We were at the corner of Bay Shore and Fifth, waiting for the light to change at an hour when there was no traffic. Chester gave me a frank, searching look to confirm that I understood.

  I said, “You made the right decision, Rev. Pickett. I’d like to meet your wife and son one day.”

  He appreciated that. “Oh, brother, I am blessed more than you could possibly know—unless you’d like to know. I’m not the sort to push—same, I’ve heard, with that fine woman you’re trying to court. A fishing guide, is she? Now, that there would be quite a catch.” He had a bubbly kind of laugh.

  We crossed the street. It was nearly 6 a.m. Valet parking had come to life. A uniformed doorman waved from the distance. I feared the topic would switch to religion thanks to Tomlinson’s big mouth. He had obviously shared my problems regarding Hannah, another born-again Christian.

  Instead, the minister offered me his hand, and said, “Give Sister Delia a kiss for me, you hear?” Then gripped my hand harder so I couldn’t pull away. “Doc . . . About her, you know, loose cover?”

  I said, “Uhh . . . I don’t how that applies.”

  “Think about it, buddy ruff. None of us are children—no matter what our Zen Buddhist daddy says.” Chester’s familiar gray eyes tightened a millimeter when he added, “I’m not a gimp and they’re not cripples—we can take care of ourselves.”

  This was said so genially that only later did I wonder, Was that a threat?

  I waited until a respectable 9 a.m. to place another call to my intel pal, Donald Piao Cheng.

  Still waiting to hear something about the Alonso Arkham matter, I reminded him via voicemail. Even if you don’t have anything, give me a call.

  * * *

  —

  That afternoon, a Friday, I played the role of maritime tender for Delia and Imogen. They were aboard the 60-foot houseboat they’d rented, and I followed them to the gathering of hungover millennials awaiting us at Fort De Soto Park.

  I was alone in my Pathfinder. Delia steered from a nifty little console atop the houseboat’s upper deck. She was wearing shorts and a white tank top over a crimson two-piece swimsuit.

  By then, the group of bio siblings had rallied. As we approached, there was a lot of waving, even a few shouts. Tomlinson, who had convoyed over by rental van, had staked out an isolated stretch of beach at the north point of Mullet Key. He motioned us toward a fishhook-shaped basin of sand. I scouted ahead to confirm the water was deep enough for a floating house that drew only three feet.

  On the four-mile passage from the marina, Delia and I had stayed in touch by VHF. Our vessels were close enough now, I could look over and see sweat glistening on her long tanned legs. I pressed the squawk key and used the radio anyway. “Looks good—six feet plus in the middle,” I informed her, “and the tide’s still coming in.”

  “The chart’s a little off,” she replied into her handheld radio. “But, water’s so clear . . . Yeah, I can see we’ve got good bottom. What an incredibly cool spot. I’m gonna swing around bow to the beach.” She spun the wheel. Aft, twin Evinrudes clunked into reverse.

  “Want me to set the anchor for you?”

  Without looking over, the girl replied into the transceiver, “No, we’ve got it, Doc. Really. You’ve been such a help. Hey—if you stick around, maybe talk later?”

  Delia was embarrassed, I decided, not dismissive. After the clumsy silence we had shared over lunch, our communication by radio almost resembled sparkling repartee.

  “You bet,” I replied, and signed off.

  Gulfside, spaced along the beach, were picnic shelters with white-domed roofs that resembled Frisbees. The only shelter in use had been claimed by the bio siblings and their partners. A few hours ago, they’d fired up the grills. Coolers waited in the shade near a volleyball net. Missing was the boom box music I associate with such events. But then realized many attendees wore earbuds—reclusive, even here, among brothers and sisters they were just getting to know.

  One by one, as I idled away, I matched their faces with the memory of people I’d seen last night. Not a stranger among them. Rev. Chester Pickett, in his wheelchair, had become their rallying point. He waved to me from the group clustered around him. I replied with a thumbs-up and kept going.

  Tomlinson was waiting bayside where I tied up. “These kids today, huh?” he chuckled. “They’re grilling tofu and bean sprouts instead of hot dogs. About half of them are into the health deal—holistic, none of that GMO crap. That’s one of the interesting things I’ve noticed. We’re a polar species in a polar universe, and genetics be damned. See where this is going?”

  I was tired and preoccupied with what had happened last night, in no mood for a tutorial on human behavior. “I’m going to hang around and check the houseboat one more time before they head out,” I replied. “Then I’m starting back to Sanibel. I don’t see any threat here.”

  Fort De Soto Park is comprised of five islands linked by narrow asphalt roads. There’d been very little tr
affic on this Friday before Labor Day weekend. Only a handful of tents and RVs at the campground.

  Tomlinson hesitated as if struck by something I’d said, then continued with his insights on polarity. Imogen and Chester became examples. They were siblings coded as spiritual and linear opposites, yet good people both. He mentioned three or four more of his DNA offspring by name and said they, too, were a study in contrasts.

  I said, “I don’t have your mystical gifts. What’s your read on Chester? He carries a gun, did you know that? I like him and all, but he’s wound pretty tight.”

  “So are you. What’s the problem?”

  “Uhh, I’m not sure. He’ll be on the houseboat tonight. It’s got wheelchair access to the lower deck.” That didn’t explain my concerns, so I tried to re-create the conversation we’d had that morning. Even as I went through it, the things Chester had said didn’t sound the least bit sinister.

  “In other words, you’re worried about Delia,” Tomlinson summarized. He stared at me, did a thing with his eyes, allowed them to glaze. His voice softened. “I appreciate the way you took care of her last night. Even when I’m drunk, I recognize patience when I see it. The respect you showed, too. There aren’t many guys who would’ve tucked a woman that pretty into bed, then slept on the couch after mopping up the bathroom. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

  I replied, “And don’t think I didn’t hear you snoring when you fell asleep.” He knew what I was implying—I could’ve climbed into bed with her unseen. Delia had invited me to do exactly that, but only the lowest of the lowlife types would’ve accepted.

  “That’s cool,” he said, and seemed to mean it. “As of now, it’s officially none of my business.”

  I almost started to say It never was but held back. “Look, Delia’s an unusual person, and I like her. She’s had some problems, but we have a few things in common. That’s all. End of story.”

  My pal has an irritating way of effecting an air of deep understanding. “If you say so. There are no rules when it comes to love.”

  I said, “Actually, there are, you’ve just never followed them. Okay, she’s got a crush on me, I agree. If I let myself, maybe I could fall into that trap, too—rationalize all kinds of excuses that we’d both regret later. But she’s your daughter, for god sakes. That means something to me. Besides, it’s not worth screwing up my chances with Hannah.”

  “DNA,” he replied, “doesn’t constitute parenthood. That much I’ve learned. What I think is, you should stay on the houseboat tonight. I’m not going. Those kids like me in small doses, and who can blame them? But Delia wants you there.” The smile on his face was irritating. “Come on, poncho. Why don’t you just admit you’re halfway in love with the girl already?”

  I said, “Because I’m not, which is why I’m heading back to Sanibel. Do you really think I’d go off and leave her if I was?”

  I could feel my friend’s shrewd old eyes on my back as I walked away. What he might have said, but had the kindness not to, was Don’t you always?

  * * *

  —

  Imogen was in the galley, with a phone to her ear, when I stepped aboard the houseboat. Her voice contained a gaiety that cut through fiberglass walls. “Of course I’ll meet you at the gate,” I heard her say. “Oh hell, don’t worry about the money. The old dude . . . Yeah, he’s paying for everything.”

  I didn’t like the woman to begin with, and that really pissed me off. I stood there, hoping to hear more of this one-sided conversation. Unfortunately, she turned and caught a glimpse of me through the bulkhead window.

  “Gotta run,” she said, aware that I could hear every word. “Tommy’s buddy, Capt. America, just showed up. Yeah, probably wants to play cop again. No . . . it’s a mystery to me . . . I’ll tell you about it when we have more time.”

  The woman hung up as I did the polite thing, which was to knock before entering. She had changed into modish black harem pants, tied at the ankles, and a black T-shirt that read Heavily Meditated. “Delia’s taking a nap,” she informed me. “I made her some valerian tea from Starbucks, so don’t wake her up. We have a long night ahead of us.”

  I said, “Mind if I ask who you were talking to?”

  Of course Imogen minded, which I was prepared for. “See, the thing is, the way the houseboat contract reads, we need to turn in a list of names of people who will be aboard tonight. If someone plans on showing up late, might as well tell me now, huh?”

  “That’s idiotic,” she replied.

  Cheerful concession can be the best way to deal with contentious people. “Oh, I agree,” I said. “But if it wasn’t for stupid rules, there’d be no need for attorneys or insurance forms, and all that crap. I feel like a dope for even asking.”

  That got the pretense of an understanding nod, at least. “It’ll just be four or five of us,” she said, “no one you haven’t met.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was lying. “Very helpful,” I said. “Now all I have to do is write down the names. Or . . . I don’t suppose you could make a list? Just names and phone numbers. I need to take one more quick look around, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Up close, Imogen had a wide, handsome face, a hint of Tomlinson’s jawline. She also had his theatrical gift for employing paranormal bullshit when needed. She took a moment to inspect my aura. “Who are you? I mean, who are you really in the deepest seed that people like you always try so hard to hide? Not that it matters. Last night, the moment I saw you, I knew you were a narc, a cop—one of those—the same thing. You’ve already snooped through every part of this boat. What are you really after—bust us for so-called drugs? Or is this about getting into Delia’s pants?” She watched the insult hit home, before adding, “If it makes you feel better, that asshole minister of a half brother will be around to make sure we don’t have too much fun.”

  What Tomlinson doesn’t have is a mean streak.

  An angry, troubled young woman—Chester had been right about her. I remained unruffled. Explained that the beach area closed at sunset. Outside, the group was packing up. Some would move to the camping area that had all-night access. Those who didn’t leave would have to come aboard the houseboat soon. I smiled and extended my hand. “Why don’t we start over? I’m just trying to make sure you have a safe trip.”

  I might as well have been offering her a snake. Fortunately, Delia came down the spiral staircase that led topside. She had just showered. Wet hair stained the gray beach wrap tied at her neck, and she was barefoot.

  “Hey—what’s the matter with you two?” The girl eyed us both, then came toward Imogen with her arms outstretched. “Come on, sis, he’s not the enemy. Doc’s like a big old harmless dog, just trying to help. Don’t be cross with him.”

  They embraced. Imogen held on tight with real affection before pulling away. “They’re all dogs,” she muttered, teary-eyed, for some reason, but then laughing. “Okay, if you say so. Apparently, it’s time to pack up.”

  Delia waited until the woman had stepped off the gangway to say, “Don’t be hard on her. Imo has some issues she’s trying to work through. We all do.”

  I said, “She’s meeting someone at the gate later—the campground, I assume. Any idea who it is?”

  This question was mildly irritating, I sensed. “Carlton, probably. The Red Sox fan? He didn’t get up until four this afternoon . . . Doc”—she gave me a friendly hug—“could you just lighten up a bit? I was hoping we could talk in private, just the two of us, for a while.”

  “No problem,” I said. “In fact, why don’t you anchor the houseboat here for the night? You’re not actually on the beach, so they can’t kick you out of the park.”

  “Mind your own business,” she seemed to joke, but she wasn’t joking. “I’ve got the trip all charted. In a way, I’m glad you and Tomlinson aren’t going. The sibs and I have some serious stuff to hash out. I’m afraid ther
e’s going to be a lot of tears, all sorts of dramatic crap I normally hate, but we’ve got to get through it.”

  “If you’re worried,” I said, “I can follow you in my boat, curl up on the deck for the night. Really, I wouldn’t mind. I always carry mosquito netting, all the emergency gear, in case I get stranded.”

  Delia found that humorous. Her eyes sparkled in a coquettish way. “Of course you do, dear. Give me your hand. And no more questions. I want to show you something.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll see.”

  She led me up the stairs, topside, on a boat I’d already gone through, every nook and cranny, at the boat basin three hours earlier. Forward was the tiny captain’s suite. She opened the door and didn’t close it until we were inside. The settee table had been collapsed to form a queen bed. The bed was recently made, the cabin still steamy with the scent of shampoo from the closet-sized shower.

  I did a slow one-eighty. “Show me what?”

  Even before Delia did what she did, I knew what would happen. “I was going to pretend not to remember details about last night,” she started softly, “but I do. If you hadn’t gotten all noble and cold, what I wanted to show you is this—”

  I caught her wrists just as her fingers found the bow that held the beach wrap taut on her shoulders. “Delia, let’s not—” I started to say.

  Too late. She pulled the string. Sheer gray cotton snagged momentarily on her breasts, then dropped to her ankles.

  The woman maintained eye contact as a challenge to me. “I felt like an adolescent fool last night when you walked away. Treated me like a helpless little I-don’t-know-what. Then you promised me something, remember?”

  “You were drunk,” I said.

  “I asked you to kiss me good night. You wouldn’t do it. Said, ‘In the morning, if you don’t change your mind.’” She stepped back, wanting me to see her body, the swollen secrecy of tan lines, the salted contours. “I haven’t changed my mind,” she said. “And I’m sober now.”