Captiva df-4

by Randy Wayne White

  I said, "You stayed married to a man you didn't like or trust just to get your inheritance."

  The fingernails of her right hand found the back of my neck, flexed briefly into the skin, then began to make a soft, affectionate circular motion in my hair. "That's right, Ford. I'm greedy. I'm going to buy this house. The net ban's not gonna run me off. My Great-Aunt Hannah, Big Six herself, lived right here on Sulphur Wells. I need that money. I'm starting some kind of business, Arlis Futch and me. Maybe Raymond Tullock, too."

  When I asked, "What business?" her fingers found my ear; touched it delicately, explored around inside, then began to stroke the lobe. Normally, such an intimate gesture would have made me uncomfortable. But now it seemed weirdly natural; homely and friendly and simple-hearted. I leaned closer to her, so that our shoulders touched.

  Heard her say, "I'm not sure, but it's gonna take money. These little fishing shacks like mine used to sell for next to nothing. A pine house and a chunk of shell on the bay islands. Who'd want it? Like old Mr. what's-his-name at Eljobean, he gave away most of the beachfront over on Gasparilla just for back taxes. But it's getting to be worth something now. Arlis has developers snooping round his place all the time, askin' how much he wants. They're chomping at the bit, can't wait till us netters are gone. That's why everybody on the island's so pissed off at Jimmy for getting himself blowed up. I told you we're still fighting the net ban? What we're doing, we found a lawyer in Gainesville who's going to file a lawsuit. Ask a state judge to grant an injunction against the ban, and also seek economic relief."

  "Make the state buy back your boats and nets," I said.

  "Yeah, or let us keep fishing. Which is why the stupidest thing a netter could do is cause trouble. Give the state a reason to refuse. But there goes Jimmy and some of those other idiots, stealing motors, starting fires. Mostly, they're white trash outsiders, but there're a few local boys, like Kemper Waits and his crew. Like they're getting even, but really just hurting us all."

  She had become increasingly animated, this gangly twenty-five-year old Woman waving her arms around. Now she leaned back in her chair. "Well... I say good riddance. I'll see that he's shipped home. I'll see that his family knows what happened. But I won't miss him, and I won't shed a tear. Does that sound mean?"

  Tomlinson said very softly, "He hit you. That was it."

  Hannah was nodding slowly—amused that Tomlinson already knew. "Yeah, that was it. Part of it. After we got married, he'd only lived here about two weeks when he got drunk and started slapping me around. I tried to fight back, but ended up with two black eyes. The cops took him off to jail, but that didn't last. So I went to a lawyer, got a judge to sign some papers, and we tossed his stuff in the yard the next day.

  "About a week later, after midnight, I heard him outside. Kicking down the door. I'd been expecting it; knew just exactly what I was going to do. Had it all planned out because I swore to myself that no man would hit me again. Ever. One of us would die first. But instead of fighting him, I talked real sweet, real nice, getting him calmed down. Then I brought out the rum bottle. For about two hours, I just kept talkin' and feeding him rum. It took the whole bottle. Then, when he passed out, I dragged him down to my boat and ran him into Boca Grande Pass. By then, it was daylight." She paused for a moment, remembering it.

  "This was a year ago last June. You've been in Boca Grande Pass in June? I found a spot off the beach, away from the fleet that's always there. Tarpon were rolling all over the place, these big hundred-pound fish kicking water into the boat. First thing Jimmy sees when he wakes up is these tarpon flashing all around. He kind of shook his head—he didn't know what to make of that. Then he realizes that his hands and feet are tied, and he's not wearing any pants. He didn't know how that happened, and he's getting worried. Then he notices that there's a loop of fishing line knotted tight around his pecker, and he looks up to see that I've got the other end of the line in my hands—I'm just sitting there smilin' at him— and there's a hook on the line baited with a live mullet.

  "He looks at his pecker, looks at that baited hook, thinks about all those hungry tarpon. Then he begins to sort of sob. His face screws up like a baby's face, and he starts beggin' me not to throw that bait in the water. I just sat there real calm . . . and tossed that live mullet into a pod of tarpon. Then I said to him, 'Jimmy? That little bit extra you got just ain't worth the bullshit. So you want to come to an agreement? Or do you want to fish?' "

  Tomlinson said, "Far out," his voice a constricted whisper.

  "I know, I know—but for a long time after that, I didn't have any more trouble with Jimmy." Hannah laughed, sighed; a weary sound . . . and I watched her lean her head on Tomlinson's shoulder; turned to notice for the first time that the long, lean fingers of her left hand were resting on Tomlinson's thigh. Heard her say, "So that's why I'm glad Jimmy's gone."

  My boat was nearly high and dry. The new moon had sucked so much water out of the bay that I spent a soggy half hour slogging around in the muck, pushing, pulling, and rocking to get the thing out into the foot of water it took to float it. I had to brace my back against the transom and lift until my muscles creaked and my shoulders popped, just to budge the damn thing.

  That was bad enough, but I had begun to feel mildly sick ... a little woozy and dazed, probably from lack of sleep. I'd been up since, what? before three? Not that I was sleepy. After four or five glasses of Hannah's strong tea, sleep was out of the question. All that caffeine had my heart pounding; created an unpleasant roaring in my ears.

  Every time I stopped to rest, I could hear the murmur of voices. Tomlinson and Hannah were still up on the porch, chattering away.

  For some reason, that infuriated me.

  Both of them way too involved to lift a finger to help me get my boat ready to run back to Dinkin's Bay. Probably talking about mystic revelations. Karmic spirits. Voices from the grave. Space creatures who inhabited the walking dead and blew up boats. Who the hell knew? Or cared?

  Well. . . the two of them were a perfect match. A drug-addled, draft-dodging hippie peacenik and a superstitious, manipulative, domineering twenty-five-year-old sex commando who netted mullet for a living when she wasn't busy marrying any sadistic Hottentot who happened to show up on her porch step, just to qualify for her inheritance.

  That's what I was thinking. Mean thoughts to go with the roaring in my ears.

  When I had the stern of the boat out deep enough, I plunked the anchor into the water, took two steps toward shore . . . and nearly knocked my toe off on something beneath the surface. I reached down and yanked out what proved to be about a five-pound horse conch shell. Looked at it, shook it at the sky, then threw it savagely out into the bay. Son of a bitch!

  Which is when I caught myself. Made myself take a deep breath and review just exactly how I was behaving. Reminded myself that, woozy or not, irrational anger—like jealousy—was the province of the forever adolescent. Stood there in knee-deep water, actually feeling a little drunk because of all that tea.

  Thought: That's just the way I'm acting. Like a drunk.

  I checked to make sure the anchor was holding, then splish-splashed my way back to the mangroves, toward the road. Saw a silhouette ahead. Realized it was Tomlinson, so I waited for him to come down the path. When he was close enough, I said, "Did you bring my shoes?"

  "Got 'em, man."

  I took the shoes and began to put them on. "I nearly severed my toe, getting that boat out. Spend an hour listening to Hannah, you feel obligated to walk around barefooted. I should have known better."

  "Isn't she something?"

  "She's something. I'm just not sure what."

  Tomlinson can communicate through the tone of his laughter. The sound he made now was one of understanding . . . but also condescension, which I found irritating as hell. He said, "You don't like her."

  "It's not that I dislike her. It's just that I think I see her a bit more objectively than you."

  That laugh again. "Yo
u know what it is? Hannah and I talked about it. What it is, you and she have the same linear qualities, the same drive to be independent. You and Hannah are both . . . extreme people. See what I mean? In that way, she's like you in a woman's body. Just as smart, too. Which may get into a whole male ego thing . . . but the point is, you are also emotional opposites, man. She's a Gemini, but she's got Leo rising—"

  "No more astrology lessons," I said. "Astrology lessons I can do without.

  "You're sounding a tad grumpy. Come on . . . let's see a smile. Who's your buddy—?"

  "Damn it, Tomlinson, I'm not grumpy Judging from the blood and the swelling, my toe may be broken, but I'm not grumpy."

  He remained silent while I finished tying my shoes. Then: "You felt it, didn't you? That's what's troubling you. The lady has some very serious juice, and you felt it. When she'd touch me, it was like . . . zap."

  "Nope. No zaps."

  "Like electric. I could feel it in her hands, man, her fingertips. A higher level of consciousness. And her lips—my God."

  I stood abruptly. "Her lips? What the hell were you two doing up on that porch—?" I stopped myself I didn't want to hear it. Used my hands to wave him along, and said, "Get in the boat. The tide's so low we'll have to run the channel all the way back to Dinkin's Bay. Which will take two hours, unless I stop at Cabbage Key for a beer. Which I plan to do."

  "On a Thursday night? You're the one keeps reminding me you don't drink—"

  "They're my rules. I can break them when I want." I turned toward the bay, took a few steps before I realized that he wasn't following along. "You forget something?"

  "Well . . . see, Doc, it's like this—"

  "Nope, I'm not waiting. You want to talk to her, call her on the phone. Or drive over. You've fulfilled your karmic obligation ... or the directive from Mars—whatever it was. I'm leaving."

  "Yeah, well, I think I'm going to stay."

  "You mean . . . stay here. Gumbo Limbo."

  "She asked me. I said yes." He was stroking his goatee, pleased with himself.

  "Sleep in her house."

  "We've got so much to discuss, man. All these avenues to explore. Meeting Hannah has been . . .just the impact of it. Jesus. She wants to learn sitting meditation. Do a sort of zazenkai, just her and me . . . only as an ordained monk, her Roshi, I have to give serious thought to the moral limitations that would put on our relationship. Then there's this book she wants to write. It could be an important historical document."

  I started walking toward my boat.

  "Doc—before you go."

  I turned.

  "Can I ask you something?" Tomlinson stepped close to me, very close. For an uncomfortable moment, I thought he was going to give me a brotherly hug. Instead, he said, "Can I borrow maybe ten bucks? Or a fin? If we go out for breakfast, I'd like to at least offer to pay—"

  I took out my wallet, handed him a twenty. As I did, I heard familiar bell notes of amusement; then a woman's voice called, "I'll stick him in my boat and bring him home. Don't you worry, Ford." Looked up to see Hannah standing in an orb of streetlight, the long, lean shape of her, hands on her hips, pelvis canted to the left like a bus stop floozie, loose blouse and black hair catching the sea breeze.

  I got in my boat and headed out the channel.

  Chapter 6

  Normally, I enjoy running a boat at night. I like being out there alone in the darkness, suspended above the water, going fast. Like gauging my progress by the shapes of islands, by the positions of distant lights. Like the way the wind washes past, a force so steady that, at times, it seems as if my boat is being held motionless by a jet stream of black air.

  It's nice and private: dark water, bright stars. But I didn't enjoy the long run back to Sanibel. I was preoccupied. My mind kept wandering. It had plenty of opportunity to wander. Running the Intercoastal Waterway is like running a well-marked ditch. You leapfrog from flashing light to flashing light, from a red to a white, from a flashing white to a red or green. The lights become hypnotic and soon reduce the brain to little more than a dependable autopilot.

  So it wasn't as if navigation required a lot of thought.

  What I was thinking about, and what I couldn't seem to stop thinking about, was Hannah Smith. I'd lied to Tomlinson—of course I'd been affected by her. Not on some fanciful telepathic level, but on a marrow-deep physical level. Powerful people are attractive people. The whole process of natural selection is based on the allure of strength. For a species to remain successful, the best genes must be passed on. The gauge is always emblematic: the largest horns, the loudest mating cry, the brightest display of plumage, the lushest body, the biggest bank account. But there are other indicators of power: self-confidence, intellect, humor, independence. Combine these characteristics with long legs, lean hips, and heavy country-girl breasts, and you are dealing with a powerful woman indeed.

  Standing at the wheel, peering beyond the feeble glow of my own running lights, I pictured Hannah. Felt an electric rush of longing in abdomen and thighs, and winced, as if in pain. Tried to will the image away . . . but the picture wouldn't disappear. Could still see her standing in the disc of yellow light, taunting me . . . enjoying it.

  The problem was, I was jealous. That's what it came down to. Before I could even admit it to myself, I was well past the shoals off Patricio Island, almost to Cabbage Key. I didn't want to be alone, at night, on my boat. I wanted to be in Gumbo Limbo, alone, with her, in that creaky little tin-roof house. Wanted to sit there feeling her eyes burrowing into mine, giving me her total attention. Wanted to hear more about her outlaw behavior. Wanted to pull her face to mine, then peel her out of those tight jeans. . .

  But she had chosen Tomlinson. She preferred him over me—that was pretty obvious. Skinny, frazzled Tomlinson, with his Jesus eyes and Joe Cocker face. Over me.

  Why? Well. . . that was pretty obvious too: he could help her with the book she wanted to write; help her find a publisher. That was his power. Pure opportunism on her part.

  Which is what I told myself. . . then wondered if it was true.

  I was thinking irrationally, and knew it. The realization was so strong that I throttled the boat back to idle, then switched off the engine. Drifted along in the darkness, the silent flare-burst of channel-marker lights flashing all around.

  Nothing I had felt in the last several hours meshed with my own image of self. It was a red flag. When your emotions or your behavior are contrary to your own self-image, it's time to stand back and reassess. Yes, I had met two, maybe three women in my life for whom I had felt an instant, marrow-deep sexual attraction so strong that it had almost knocked the wind out of me.

  Hannah undoubtedly could now be counted among them.

  But I had never reacted so emotionally before. Yeah, I had been irritated at Tomlinson all day—the man wore at the nerves. But to be jealous? And obsessive? It wasn't me; it was nothing at all like the man I perceived myself to be. Realizing it seemed to help.

  I started the boat and got under way again.

  It is impossible to force a topic of thought from your own head. But it is possible to substitute one topic of thought for another. So what I did was spend the next few miles making a cold unemotional assessment of Hannah Smith.

  It produced a less attractive picture. By her own admission, she was greedy. She was also self-obsessed. "I do what I damn well please!" How many times had she said that? She used people, she bullied people. The hangdog deference of Arlis Futch—a powerful man himself—was proof. Perhaps most troubling, though, was that Hannah was capable of extreme behavior, the extreme gesture. I believed every detail of her story about taking Jimmy Darroux into Boca Grande Pass. Not that I blamed her. The term "spousal abuse" is much too meek to represent the kind of humiliation and fear that those two words actually define. Any man who hits a woman is mentally unstable and should be forced to get help. Immediately. Just as any man who rapes a woman should be treated as if he has forfeited all considerations of he
lp.

  But this is the modern world. People don't take the law into their own hands. The fable of justice has become just one more Walter Mitty dream. Oh, they like to talk about revenge. They like to watch movies about it. But to actually do it ... to actually cross the border into the netherland, to actually make the extreme gesture, is far too frightening for most.

  Not for Hannah Smith. She didn't hesitate. Knew just exactly what she was going to do and how to do it—she'd told me that herself in her rowdy, piney woods voice. I admired her for it. Also, she scared me a little because of it.

  For a while, I felt better. Reason and logic were familiar territory. They were the tools out of which I have created my own refuge. Emotion, any emotion, was a symptom of perceived reality, not reality itself. Become the slave of it, and you paid a heavy price: wives, lovers, divorces, children, mortgages, corporate infighting, charge cards, early retirement, two cars in the driveway and a dog in the garage.

  I preferred my solitary island world. A house and lab under one roof. My boats, my specimens. The clarity of a microscope, the precision of a trip-balance scale. Just me, living my work, doing what I wanted to do.

  Which is when, for no good reason, Tomlinson's words tumbled me back into the cycle of obsession: You are both extreme people.

  A thought that was all the more unsettling because it had the ring of truth.

  It was nearly eleven p.m. when I approached the channel markers off Cabbage Key. Cabbage Key is a hundred-and-some-acre island, mostly mangrove, but with enough Indian shell mounds to keep its dozen or so houses high and dry. There are no bridges or landing strips. Boat access only. The biggest house on the highest mound is a sprawling one-story: white board-and-batten with green shutters; a long open porch that, this time of year, was buttoned tight with canvas, the only way to keep out the chill. The house was built in 1938—which made it ancient by the standards of transitory Florida. In the fifties, it was converted into a public inn. A bar was built in what was once the library, and a restaurant was added. Over the years, Florida changed; the old house on the hill did not.