by James, Anne
She stretched to place a supplicating hand on his muscular forearm. Puffin stirred, not liking the movement.
“Oh, Bill, who wouldn’t?” Puffin jumped down and strolled to the quiet of the bedroom.
“You don’t have to thank me, Laurel. We’re a team. Some of the vermin out there need to be squashed before they enter the park.”
His arm trembled underneath her hand as he pressed his fists together making them white.
“I can’t get that scene out of my head. Never knew that I could torture somebody. Never knew that I would like to watch them suffer.” He lifted his young, handsome face and beseeched her with his blue eyes. “I want to kill him. You know that saying we have in the park system? The one about bleeding green?”
Laurel pressed her lips together to stop from crying.
Lawrence answered. “Way I understand it is that you are so loyal to the park service, you bleed green.” He tapped the table. His ten-carat gold Citadel ring caught the sunlight. “When they used to quietly haze us blacks, us African-Americans at school, it never happened, see? Never happened.” He touched his forehead where there was a faint two-inch scar. “See that? I was a knob. Word for a freshman ‘cause we had such short haircuts. One night these white guys cornered me and made me do 400 sit-ups after we had just run ten eight-minute miles. I couldn’t. I made it to 342. This one dude, a senior, hated blacks. He kept pushin’ on my stomach with his foot while I tried to sit up. When I got sick and threw up all over myself, he stuck a pocket knife to my head. Said he was gonna carve his initials in me ‘cause I was a weak nigger. I was his property. His family had owned slaves before God sent Jesus to earth.” He looked at Bill. “I wanted to drag him behind my old truck until there wasn’t anything left of his sorry, southern white ass. I had panic attacks and nightmares all through my four years there. Sometimes this honor, duty, respect thing is crap—a whole truckload of shit. I hated those ignorant Charleston families for what they had done to my kind—my family, so you know what I did?” He didn’t wait for an answer but continued, “I finished. I finished that damn military school with all its respect, duty shit and I learned some respect for myself. So this bleeding green thing? Hogwash. Respect yourself and bleed good red blood. That’s how I see it.”
Bill stared at Lawrence. His eyebrows rasied. “Did you do it? Did you beat that creep up?”
Throwing back his handsome black head, deep rumbling sounds erupted from Lawrence. When he could speak, he said, “One Saturday night, Ol’ Mistuh Beau Regard was comin’ back from a Saturday night date. He was drunk as a skunk. I jumped his fat ass and carved my initials in his forehead. Used his own pocket knife to do it. Mind you, they was mighty small initials, but Beau will always have a scar. Just like me.”
“I knew it,” said Bill. “That’s what I mean. I want to get Buckle and beat him to a pulp!” He smacked his fists together.
Laurel glanced at an antique walnut wall clock. “You two know what time it is?”
They both jumped up in an explosion of motion. Bill’s chair fell over backwards.
“Shit!” Lawrence yelled. “Reckon we go without lunch today, huh, Bill?”
Bill patted his belly and smiled. “I can do that.”
Jackson stood up. Cocking his head sideways, his ears perked up. Taking one step to the window he gave a low growl.
Watching him, Laurel went to the window.
“Here you go, guys! Boyd’s just pulling into the driveway.”
“Aw, shoot! Guess we’re caught red-handed.” Lawrence grabbed the park radio he had placed on the kitchen counter, hooked it on his shoulder lapel and headed for the back door.
“Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care if we’re visiting Laurel on work time.” Bill shrugged his shoulders. “I was in the office this A.M. and told him I was going to pay Laurel a visit.”
The two rangers scooted out the side door and jumped in the E Z-GO. Mashing on the gas-pedal, Bill spun the vehicle in a tight turn. The two men gave Boyd a wave, as he stepped out of his white state truck.
Laurel stood framed in the front porch door. “Good morning or afternoon! I’m not sure what it is at this point!”
Boyd grinned as he walked toward her. He pointed with his thumb at the departing rangers. “Did I spook them or something?”
“Park managers have that effect on rangers. You are a scary man!”
Boyd chuckled as he climbed the three steps and gave Laurel a light hug.
Closing the door behind him, she grabbed Jackson’s collar as he still emitted little growling sounds.
“Go have a seat at the kitchen table! The chairs ought to be warm.” Laurel decided to put Jackson in her bedroom and shut the door. What was up with him? He didn’t usually act this way around people.
Boyd sat down and sniffed the air. “Those look good!”
She handed him a napkin. “They’ve been well worth their weight in gold this morning! A friend dropped them off early, as Brodie had given her a heads up that I would have visitors today. Please, help yourself.”
Boyd bit into one of the rolls and finished chewing before he talked, wiping his beard to clean the frosting off. “Got some news from the park manager at Crystal Springs a few minutes ago.”
Laurel sat back in the chair with the pillow. She looked at him expectantly. “Yes?” she tilted her head sideways as a slight frown furrowed her brow. Something was off. She had an odd feeling.
He finished the roll before he continued. “Somehow Buckle escaped while being transported back to Florida. Seems L.E. stopped at a convenience store in Orange City and let him go to the bathroom. He climbed out a back window, stole a car and before they knew he was gone … he had vanished.”
Laurel blanched as her heart sank. Unknown to her, she had lifted her hand to her throat.
Boyd held out a hand as he smiled.
Weird, Laurel thought. He has a weird look.
“Not to worry. They have him in custody again. Now he’s safely behind bars on Fifty-Third Street.”
She knew this was the Orange County jail. Her hand fell into her lap as her racing heart slowed to a more normal beat.
“Here’s what I heard from Pete.” He looked at her.
“Yes, I know Pete Cook is the manager there.”
Stroking his beard as he struggled not to laugh, seemed quite bizarre to Laurel.
“Sorry, Laurel, it’s just Buckle and I go way back. We were both rangers together down in the Keys about twenty-five years ago. He was a great guy back then. Had a goofy sense of humor, but everybody liked him.” He sat back in his chair and looked at Laurel. “Somewhere along the way, he just seemed to go off his rocker.”
Laurel could feel the anger swelling inside her. What was wrong with Boyd? After all that Ernie had done to her, he was laughing?
He put his hand over his mouth for a moment and leaned forward. “He stole a dump truck that was full of armored catfish. He dumped them in the springs there and got the truck stuck up to its axle on the slope.” A high giggle escaped his mouth as he covered it again. “They caught him walking down Main Street in Orange City. He was carrying one of those butt-ugly catfish!”
Laurel stared at her boss. Was the park system just a good ol’ boys club that always took care of their own? She had heard many stories about the early years of FPS. The Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) had the greatest impact on the development of the FPS. This was in the years of 1933-1942. The first official Ranger Academy was in 1972 but the park service was born in 1935. The mission statement that every ranger knew by heart was: Provide resource-based recreation while preserving, interpreting and restoring natural and cultural resources. The preserving, protection part used to be enforced by every ranger as they carried handguns. Eventually the rangers and law enforcement separated into two different entities. Now, rangers followed the park procedures and policies but didn�
��t have the weapons to back them up. They had to call in the parks L.E. or the local law. Could this be where Boyd was coming from? The idea that men took care of men. Did she believe in the Florida Park Service and trust its leadership? The skepticism that filled her felt dirty.
Chapter 19
Back in the saddle again, Laurel’s stride quickened as her black shoes tapped a quiet beat on the sidewalk above Timucuan Springs. Early on a Thursday morning, the visitors were sparse. How she enjoyed the park when it was empty, a semitropical paradise where it was easy to sink back in time. A vapor hovered over the springs as the cooler air mixed with the almost constant seventy-two degree Fahrenheit temperature of the water.
Still as a statue, an anhinga was perched on a log sunning, a necessary undertaking to dry and thermal regulate its body temperature, the black plumage with a green gloss glistening in the sun. She watched as the wings closed and the bird dove into the spring run. Swimming with only the head and neck out of the water, it resembled a snake. She knew it was on a quest to dive using the sharply pointed bill to spear a fish for breakfast, just as one of the larger alligators warming its blood in the sun would find the bird a delicious repast after it had killed the anhinga and dragged it to a hidden den to ripen until the meat was rotten. Only then would the alligator dine on it.
She could easily visualize a Timucuan Indian drinking from the springs. The water would have been crystal clear and potable 400 years ago. Early inhabitants settled near the springs and river because of the water, transportation, and food these resources provided. Even before the Timucuans, going farther back to one of the earliest known native groups living in Florida, the Potanos, approximately 10,000 BC until the arrival of the Spaniards in the 1600s. In an effort to convert native peoples to Christianity and to colonize the area, Spanish missions were built along the river.
Laurel sighed as a shadow of defeat touched her. Smallpox, chicken pox, measles, influenza, scarlet fever, diseases of all kinds were introduced to the native peoples. Entire groups of people vanished before the tidal wave of disease. This was their land before the European white man marched in to destroy this tropical peninsula. Their land became Florida, named by the Spanish for Feast of Flowers. Was it necessary for the Christians to push their beliefs on native people anywhere on the globe in an effort to convert them to Christianity? She used to believe this to be true. Now, she reflected on the past as time before man, specifically the Europeans, decided to settle continents pushing their unyielding doctrine.
Before all the urban development spread over central and southern Florida. Before the springs were contaminated with elevated nitrate and nitrogen levels due to leaching from golf courses and home developments.
Deep in reverie, she contemplated how man perceived what he believed as the only truth. This was a boxed-in, closed belief—not open to any other truths. The exclusive conviction that salvation, the way to heaven, was to accept what Christian doctrine taught. How much ugliness through the last several centuries had been committed under the religious beliefs of one group convinced that another group needed to accept their doctrine. She remembered her father quoting, “A man convinced against his will is of the same opinion still.”
Hands in the pockets of her green trousers, she watched the water bubbling from the boil. It flowed down the Timucuan River until it emptied into the St. Johns River, which flowed 310 miles from its origin to its final destination the Atlantic Ocean. Not only the longest river in Florida, but it’s the only river to flow north in North America.
She smiled and nodded hello to an older couple as they briskly walked by speaking German. Always conscious of being in uniform, she knew that visitor services were an integral part of her position. As her job was a public servant the courteousness she extended to the visitor would leave a lasting impression as to how that person viewed the park.
With reluctance she turned from the beckoning beauty of the springs and continued to the Nature Center that was manned entirely by the devoted energy of volunteers.
A twinge of pain reminded her that she wasn’t out of the woods as far as soreness being a constant companion. Stiff as a board, she walked with a posture that Emily Post would have approved.
A squirrel jumped from the boardwalk railing to a sable palm scrambling up the trunk. Laurel jerked backwards. Her heart beat in double time. This apprehension and suspicion had to go! She was as jumpy as a scared chicken. Her thoughts turned to the park manager. Now she was suspecting Boyd of collaborating with Ernie. Since his visit a few days ago, she had allowed doubt to creep into her mind regarding Boyd. His remark about Ernie and him going way back and giggling about Buckles’ crazy antics had raised questions that she wished she didn’t have.
“Laurel?”
She turned to the voice. “Ellie!” The delight in Laurel’s voice was unmistakable. “How are you?”
“Horsefeathers, young lady! How am I? Fit as a fiddle. More to the point is, how you are? I heard about the horrible incident.” She pulled an old bathing cap off her head and ran a thin hand through her short, gray curls. “That man needs to be dealt with immediately—not put in prison. If we treated human predators the way animals deal with predators, we wouldn’t have any crime at all. A man like that is nothing but a menace to society.” She gripped Laurel’s arm in a tender but firm grasp as she leaned in closer. “I have an ol’ Hall rifle hanging over our mantle that needs to be fired. Been in my family since before Florida was part of the United States. About the time Florida was ceded to the U.S. from Spain.” She wrinkled her nose. “That would be about 1819, I reckon. Adams-Onis Treaty. Ever heard of it?”
“Somewhere at some time, Ellie Adams, I have a vague recollection of that date as being very important to the history of this state.” Laurel grinned at the female picture of health. She had to be at least eighty-seven years old. She stated the obvious. “Getting ready to swim?”
“You know it, Ranger Grey! Rarely miss a day. I’d a sight rather rust out than wear out. I’ve been coming to the springs since before it was a park. Swim for about thirty minutes then home to garden.” She yanked the bathing cap onto her head snapping the chin strap in place.
Laurel clarified. “You bicycle six miles home if I recall?”
“That’s right. This routine has kept me sane through the years. If more people exercised, they’d not stir up so much trouble. Take that vile varmint that hurt you.” Her eyes were soft and full of love. “I’m so sorry, Laurel, honey. That kind of thing stays with a person a long time.”
“Thank you, Ellie. Your words mean a lot. If I can reach your age and be half as healthy, it’ll be a miracle! You’re an incredible inspiration.”
Ellie gave her a gentle embrace then turned and started down the metal steps. Pausing with one hand on the railing, she turned to Laurel, cocking her head like a songbird. “Laurel, it’s the way of the world since the beginning of time. Men take care of men. Back in my youth, women were forbidden to enter where men congregated, such as a club—much the same as a black person getting on a bus in the 1950s had to sit in the back of the bus.” She pointed a finger at Laurel. “Times are different. Women can do the same as men. We can watch each other’s backs.” A sweet smile crinkled the wrinkles on her face. “What I’m trying to make as clear as mud, is you are to be admired. Hold your head high. Women need to see you strong. We need that.” She surged into the cold springs.
Amphitrite, Goddess queen of the sea in Greek mythology—only in this case, as Laurel watched the steady strokes of the forward crawl, Ellie, goddess of the springs. She knew the woman had been volunteering for the park for at least fifteen years, if not longer, selflessly giving of her time and skills. The park had benefited hugely from Ellie’s bountiful contributions. Laurel knew she had grown as a woman from her association with this wonderful human being. Just being in Ellie’s presence enriched her soul.
This returned her mind to the volunteers
donating time to the Nature Center, such as Phil Potter, another volunteer who donated hours and hours to the park. One of the latest statistics she’d read was that a volunteer’s time in Florida had the value of eighteen dollars and sixty-six cents an hour. In her mind, they were worth far more than that. Between the two of them, Laurel knew, she had gained two friends that defined the word, friend. They would stand beside her. Might not always agree with her, but they had both shown their wisdom and love to her as simply being Laurel. How she valued this after being discarded by her Christian friends in The Meeting who shunned her out of the righteousness of their personal convictions. Religion came before an expression of love to a friend who had transgressed from the biblical truths that guided their every move. While she admired the devotion, she cringed at the narrowness of their beliefs, the rigidity of unbending and unending shunning shown toward her. Andrew, her brother, was a prime example. Punishment, under the guise of biblical discipline meted out as the Brethren interpreted the King James Bible.
The radio broke through her musings.
“Laurel, this is Janice.”
“Go ahead, Janice.”
“Can you give me a call at the office, please?”
“Copy that, Janice. Calling right now.”
“Thank you.”
Whenever she received a radio call that asked to call the office or come to the office, she knew it was a matter that was best not to broadcast to all and a sundry that might be listening.
Picking up the Nextel she scrolled through the names until she saw Janice LaPlume.
“What’s up?”
“Oh, Laurel! Would you get this insane woman off my back? She’s called the ranger station twice and the office three times now.” Janice paused to take a deep drag on her cigarette. “Claims there’s a damn bird eating her goldfish and she won’t call FWC, she keeps calling us!”
