Invasion of the Blatnicks

by Neil S. Plakcy

  The officer shook his head. The bail hearing would be taking place shortly, however, so the Bermans, the Fenstersheibs, and the Blatnicks decided to wait. Sheldon was led away again, and Morty offered to take everyone down to the courtroom.

  The Bermans decided to wait outside. Unfortunately it was hot and sticky, particularly after the cool air conditioning of the police station. It seemed to Steve the kind of night on which bad things happened, when there were fights in bars in Liberty City, when angry motorists shot at other cars on I-95, when husbands and wives were arguing and possibly killing each other all over Miami-Dade County.

  Steve was irritated at the Blatnicks. They had a way of taking what could have been a normal evening with relatives and turning it into an escapade from one of those true-crime shows on syndicated television. “I can’t understand why you never have a negative word to say about the Blatnicks,” he said to Rita.

  “You never know,” Rita said. “I could be in their shoes one day. After all, no one knows how you’ll turn out.”

  Steve was indignant. “You mean you think I’ll rob a 7-11 some day?”

  “Who knows?” Rita said. “God works in mysterious ways. I remember once, when Dusty was going with his first wife, I said something to Mrs. Blatnick. Something very normal, like it’s a shame he’s marrying a shikse. Mrs. Blatnick said, ‘Watch, your son will marry a shvartze.’ Ever since then, I remember I can’t say anything to anyone as long as there’s something they can say back to me.”

  “So what you’re saying is I’m a gossip liability.”

  “No,” Harold said, “You’re just a liability.”

  “You’re not exactly up there in the asset column yourself, Dad.”

  “Harold, Steven, please,” Rita said, putting two fingers to her forehead. “I’m getting a headache.”

  Sheldon came out a little while later, surrounded by Blatnicks. On the steps of the station his mother hit him with her purse again. “Sick,” Mrs. Blatnick said. “I’m sick. I can barely swing my arms, that’s how upset I am.”

  “Maybe I should go back inside,” Sheldon said. “At least they don’t beat you up in there.”

  “That can be arranged,” Dusty said.

  “Please, please, everyone,” Morty said. “Before we leave, Sheryl and I have something to say.” He and Sheryl stood at the door of the police station, framed in glass block. The rest of the Blatnicks and the Bermans were arrayed on the steps and on the curb below. “We think it’s nice to say this here, since this is where we met.”

  Morty smiled, and took Sheryl’s hand. A quarter moon lay on its back above their heads, and the sky was full of stars. “Of course we have Steve to thank for that,” Morty said. “And a tree on Collins Avenue.” He paused, for dramatic effect. “Sheryl and I are getting married.”

  “Oh!” Mimi clutched her hands together and began to cry. She and Jerry hugged each other. “I’m so happy!”

  Jerry beamed at everyone. There was a flurry of smiling and congratulating. “Of course, under the circumstances, we’re going to get married as soon as possible,” Morty said. “We’re thinking maybe next week or the week after.”

  “Next week!” Mimi said. “We have so much to do!” She kissed Sheryl and gave her a big hug. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so happy.”

  Rita smiled and said nothing. Steve was sure that the thoughts were burning up inside her head, though, especially when she turned and looked at him. A pregnant niece, a fortune-hunting ambulance chaser, and now a petty thief in the family. But she couldn’t say a word against any of them, because who knew how her Steven would turn out.

  22 – The Pink-Bellied Lizard

  The family went out to an all-night deli to celebrate the engagement and Sheldon’s freedom on bail. Rita called Steve a half dozen times on Sunday, to discuss invitations, receptions, gifts, and dozens of other details. He knew Rita wished she was discussing his wedding, not Sheryl’s. He might, after all, do worse than a nice, presentable Jewish attorney himself. Much worse.

  By Monday morning Steve was glad for the chance to get to work and forget about the wedding. He was absorbed in reviewing tenant drawings when Junior stopped by, just before noon. “You have that tour tomorrow, don’t you?” Junior asked. “Florida Club or something?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Why don’t you take them to sector D,” Junior said, referring to the wild area at the back of the site where the Blakes lived. “They can’t get in much trouble back there.”

  “I was just going to give them the regular site tour.”

  “Good idea. I just don’t want them going into that swampy area at the front, where the drainage ponds are going. Never can tell what they’d find down there.”

  That afternoon Celeste buzzed Steve’s office at three-thirty and said, “There are some children here to see you.”

  “Tell ‘em there’s no Santa Claus and send ‘em packing.”

  “They’re from the Florida Club,” she said. “They have this crazy idea that you’re going to give them a tour.”

  The members of the local chapter of the Florida Club were in the reception area when Steve came out. Smiling proudly, Harold introduced Rose Whitman, the club secretary, a gentle grandmother with white gloves and hip-high waders. “We’re so pleased to be here,” she said.

  She introduced the other members-- six boy scouts, in uniform, two middle-aged women, and a tall, burly man wearing a plaid shirt and overalls who looked like Paul Bunyan’s illegitimate son. He was even taller than Junior, and he made the little kids look like appetizers. He taught biology at the local high school.

  Everyone wore big rubber boots, as if they were prepared to walk the “river of grass” all the way to Lake Okeechobee. He led the group through the Welcome Center and explained the nature exhibits that would be on display, and then took them out toward Building A, the main mall. The scouts fell into line behind Steve, with Paul Bunyan bringing up the rear.

  Maxine pulled up in her Jeep Cherokee and looked out her window. “I didn’t realize you were a boy scout, Steve,” she said. She clamped her lips together in an imitation of thinking. “But it fits.”

  Steve waved and smiled grimly at Maxine. “The Everglades Galleria project covers sixty acres of previously unproductive marsh and swamp land,” he said. They toured the site as Steve pointed out the buildings, the parking lots, the flag court and other features.

  “This is all very nice, Steve,” Rose Whitman said, as they stood next to the fishing pier, “but we really wanted to get out into your undeveloped areas.” She pointed toward the back of the site.

  “Our insurance doesn’t cover us to take people out into the undeveloped areas. There could be snakes, sinkholes, maybe even alligators back there.”

  “Alligators! Cool!” said one of the kids.

  Paul Bunyan said, “We can handle anything back there. We’ve gone on several swamp visits before and we’ve never had any trouble.”

  Harold didn’t say anything, but Steve could feel vibes from him. His face was both pleading and stern.

  “Well, we could go into one area.” Steve didn’t want the group to discover the Blakes, so he led them to the front of the site, where the drainage ponds were to go, even though Junior had expressly forbidden it. They walked slowly and stopped a lot so that the two housewives could take pictures, and Paul Bunyan could lecture the Boy Scouts on the genus and phylum of common weeds. Harold beamed any time anyone said anything, he was so happy that everything was going well.

  Steve was nervous and edgy, and he neglected to watch where he was going. He stepped on a pile of slippery debris, and lost his balance. He slid feet first into one of the many murky pools that surrounded the rough path through the swamp.

  It all happened so quickly. One minute he was vertical and dry, and the next he was lying on his back in green, slimy water a few inches deep.

  “Hold still,” Paul Bunyan said to him.

  Though Steve was confused, he did what he was tol
d. Paul Bunyan dropped to one knee and then held very still. The others stood around and watched him. A lizard was resting on the top of Steve’s head.

  In a quick jab, Paul Bunyan grabbed the lizard in his hand and stood up. He had surprisingly delicate hands for such a big man. He held the lizard cupped in his palm and showed him to the Boy Scouts. Harold helped Steve stand up. Steve shook himself all over. He felt wet and gross.

  “This little fellow belongs to a family called Gekkonidae,” Paul Bunyan said. “He lives in warm places like Florida and he has little pads on the bottom of his feet that let him climb on walls and ceilings. See?” He turned the lizard over and showed the group his feet. The lizard’s stomach puffed up a bright shade of pink.

  “Wait a second,” Paul Bunyan said. “His stomach should be much redder than that.” He turned to Rose. “Do you have the field guide?”

  Harold volunteered to hold the lizard while Paul and Rose looked him up in the guide. “This isn’t the lizard I was expecting,” Paul said. “According to this guide, this little guy should have been extinct twenty years ago.”

  “That can be arranged,” Steve said. He wanted only to get the group back to the Welcome Center, where he could get rid of the Florida Club and get cleaned up.

  Paul and Rose were excited and not paying attention to Steve. The Boy Scouts were delegated to lizard patrol, looking for more like Mr. Pink Stomach. The housewives took pictures of everything, documenting the find. Steve stood to the side and shivered miserably, while Harold beamed, as if Steve had finally supplied him with a grandchild.

  The next day inspectors from the EPA visited the site and the discovery of the lizard was written up in the Miami and Fort Lauderdale papers. Junior shook his head. “I told you not to let those Florida Club weirdos near anything more alive than the night watchman,” he said. “And I’m not so sure about him.”

  “I couldn’t help it,” Steve said. “It was my father’s group, and I wanted him to be proud of me.”

  Junior shrugged. “My old man was proud of me the day I moved out of the house,” he said. “Different strokes for different folks. Oh, by the way, you’d better tell your tenants, we’re switching over from temporary to permanent power tomorrow. We’ll have to shut ‘em all down for a couple days.”

  “A couple days!” Steve said. “No way! Can’t they keep working? They can get generators.”

  “I suppose they can. You’d better write a memo.” Steve had fifteen tenants working out on the site, and he got fifteen arguments when he notified the contractors that they had to supply their own power until the transfer was complete. By the end of the day he was worn out.

  The next morning Junior strode angrily into Steve’s office. “This is all your fault,” he said, waving a piece of paper in front of Steve’s face.

  “What is it this time?” Steve asked. “It’s been my fault what, three times so far this week.”

  “I’m not kidding now.” Junior put the paper on Steve’s desk.

  It was a telegram from the national headquarters of the Florida Club, notifying Thornton Development that a suit was being filed in the Miami-Dade County courts to halt construction until a plan to save the pink-bellied swamp lizard had been approved. “Jesus,” Steve said.

  “I told you to keep them out of that swampy area,” Junior said. “You went in there against my direct order. Uncle Max is going to hear about this.”

  Junior stormed out. Well, Steve thought, it was a good job while it lasted. It was ironic that he’d be let go now, just when he’d begun to understand the site, and because of something so peripheral.

  His phone buzzed. “Steve?” It was Uncle Max. “Could you come in here for a minute?”

  Steve took a last look around his office. It wasn’t fancy, but it was a place to go every day. They’d probably ask him to leave right away. Maybe even this afternoon. At his old job in New York, people were escorted out of the building by security guards within minutes after they were fired. Slowly he stood up and walked down the hall to Uncle Max’s office.

  Junior was sitting across from Uncle Max. The telegram was laying on the desk between them. “Junior tells me you’re the one who was instrumental in the Florida Club finding this lizard,” Uncle Max said.

  “That’s true,” Steve said.

  “Congratulations!” Uncle Max smiled broadly. “I’m sure you realize what a terrific find this is. Imagine! An extinct lizard on our property! We’ll have to set up a special exhibit at the nature center!”

  Steve was reeling. “So I’m not getting fired?”

  “Fired? Don’t be ridiculous. There’s probably a bonus in this for you, if the budget can stand it.” He picked up his microcassette recorder. “Check budget for bonus for Steve,” he dictated into it.

  Uncle Max put the recorder down. “It’ll involve a little delay,” he said. “But think of the publicity! The long-term potential! Steve, I want you to spearhead this. Bring in who you need. Get the best lizard man in town.”

  Uncle Max twirled around in his chair, until he was facing the site through the picture window. “Maybe we could get the National Geographic Society in here.” His voice deepened magisterially. “In search of the pink-bellied swamp lizard. Today we take you to the Everglades Galleria, home of over fifty fine stores and restaurants.”

  Junior caught Steve’s eye and nodded toward the door. They rose silently and tiptoed out as Uncle Max continued his monologue. “Built by pioneering developer and amateur naturalist Maxwell K. Thornton IV, the Everglades Galleria is also the home of the pink-bellied swamp lizard, once thought extinct...”

  “I thought I was going to get fired,” Steve said.

  “You never know with Uncle Max,” Junior said.

  Steve went back to his office and made a few phone calls. He spoke to low-level bureaucrats in a variety of environmentally-connected offices and made an appointment with a drainage expertThe EPA agreed to work with the Florida Club, who agreed to hold off on their stop-work plans. At lunch Steve ran out to a bookstore and bought Your Friend the Lizard, even though he felt that the only friendly lizard was one who had already been converted into shoes or a pocketbook.

  But by the middle of the afternoon the lizard problem had been shelved for more pressing ones. One of those had to do with his mother.

  Rita had been hired as a design consultant by three tenants. She came out to the site at least two or three times a week, to meet with her clients or review their construction and make suggestions. She was there that afternoon to discuss her drawings for a shoe store called Hot to Trot, whose logo was a foot on fire.

  Steve, Miranda and Rita sat in the conference room going over Steve’s comments on the drawings. He had crossed out the drywall ceiling in the sales area and noted that it had to be a two by two lay-in tile. “Tile ceilings are so tacky,” Rita said. “This is a classy store. I need a smooth ceiling up there.”

  “But there’s a sprinkler main right above you,” Steve said. “The main has to be available for maintenance.”

  “Maintenance? That’s not my problem.”

  “It is if the sprinklers go off and spray all over the shoes. I can’t compromise on this. But maybe we can do something with this area back here with the blower and the streamers.” Rita wanted to hang red, orange and yellow streamers at the rear of the store, with a little fan blowing on them to simulate flames. Terry had drawn a big X through it and written, “No fake fire!”

  “I love the fire,” Miranda said.

  “Terry says it looks too fake,” Steve said. “How about if you paint it on the back wall? You could get an artist to do some kind of faux thing, maybe a fireplace.”

  “We’ll see,” Rita said darkly. They went over several more items. Rita made many notes and when Steve and Miranda got up to leave, she was still sketching. “I’ll be through in a minute,” she said.

  Steve and Miranda walked down the hall to his office. “I don’t understand how you can argue with your mother,” Miranda said
. “I mean, she gave birth to you. She probably has naked baby pictures of you.”

  Miranda, as usual, was perfectly put together, wearing a cotton sundress with pearls and a big picture hat. She looked as if she’d just stepped out of a magazine ad picturing some society tea on the lawn of a southern mansion.

  Steve was sweaty and there were little pebbles in his pants cuffs. A few trickled out every time he crossed a leg. He had loosened his tie and rolled up the sleeves on his oxford-cloth button-down shirt. The hair over his forehead was pressed down where his hard hat usually rested.

  “It’s hard.” It seemed that everything he did in an effort to please his parents actually threw him into conflict with them. “I just try and think of my mother as any tenant architect or decorator. It’s the only way I can function. Otherwise I’d be afraid she’d send me to my room for arguing.”

  Rita appeared over Miranda’s shoulder. “Before I go, Steven, could I have a word with you?”

  “Sure, come on in.”

  “Well, I’ve got to run,” Miranda said. “I’m going up to Boca to look at this divine cafe. If we throw thousands of dollars at them we may be able to convince them to come into center court. See you.”

  “Center court!” Steve called as Miranda strode out. “Wait! There aren’t any restaurant services in center court! Miranda!” But she was already gone, and Rita walked in and sat down.

  “So what can I do for you, Mother?” Steve said. “I’m not changing my mind on that drywall ceiling. We need access to that sprinkler main.”

  Rita waved her hand dismissingly. “We’ll find a nice tile, I’m sure. I wanted to talk about the Blatnicks.”

  Rita had been on the phone nearly every day, discussing caterers and bands and where the ceremony should take place.

  Her brother Jerry was still around. He was between jobs at the moment, thinking of staying in Florida. Maybe retiring, maybe getting another sales job. He wasn’t sure. He had joined the Blatnick contingent at the Neuschwanstein Palace. “How many rooms do the Blatnicks have now, anyway?” Steve asked. “They must have taken over the entire floor.”