6 Martini Regrets

by Phyllis Smallman

  Surrounded and hidden, I still didn’t feel safe. My billowy white top caught the moonlight and stood out like a beacon. I slid down below the gunwales. The ribs along the bottom cut into my shoulders and hips, and water soaked into my clothes. I stayed perfectly still and tried not to imagine the spiders and snakes and other vicious things in the branches above me, more things to kill me than I could actually name. But there was more than imagination to fight against. I heard rustling in the overhang. I stared up into the tangle. Was it some small creature repositioning itself or something moving towards me? God, don’t let it be a snake. My heart pounded against my rib cage, a wild animal attempting to break free, and my breath came in short, sharp pants.

  A park warden had once told me there are over fifty species of snakes in Florida but only six of those are venomous. Making me able to name six ways I didn’t want to die was the wrong way to try to cure me of my fear of snakes. I whimpered involuntarily. I quickly cut off the sound by slapping a hand over my mouth. I lay there stiff with fear, positive that living creatures were crawling over me. The steamy night closed in around me. Mosquitoes gorged themselves on my blood. I waited. Eventually, my heart began to beat more evenly and my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Second guesses had time to mature. Was I making a mistake by hiding? Did I really have anything to fear from these unknown people? Maybe I’d misheard. These might be the good guys. Could even be cops. I thought I heard footsteps and rose halfway to a sitting position. The canoe rocked and ground against the brush.

  The crunch of feet on shells was quite clear now. And then a light passed by me on the water.

  A man’s voice said, “We know you’re here, Tito. Angie told us where to find you. We only want to talk.”

  Half raised from the bed of the craft, I tried to decide whether to speak, but then another voice, this one less reasonable and conciliatory than the first, yelled, “You son of a bitch, we’re going to get you, and then we’re going to kill you for this, you little dickhead.”

  I eased down. The canoe wobbled, rubbing against a branch and squealing in protest. I didn’t breathe again until the rocking stilled.

  The light swept by. Would the metal along the topside of the canoe catch the light?

  “He’s gone in the canoe.” One of them was talking on a cell. “Angie was right. I can see where he came in the canoe and then pushed it back out. He may be coming your way, going back to the nursery.” The man went silent, listening, and then said, “All right. We’ll stay put until you get here.”

  His footsteps crunched on the shelled area by the canal as he walked away.

  CHAPTER 6

  Fighting panic, I tried to remember word for word what I’d heard. They knew Tito hadn’t gone with Angie, but they didn’t know about my pickup. They were looking for Tito on the water. No, they were looking for me. He’s coming your way. Someone was on the water looking for him. If I left the safety of the underbrush I could run into him. Which way was this person coming from? I had to guess. Nursery. Did that mean children or plants? I hadn’t noticed a sign for either at the few turn-offs I’d passed.

  And then there was the biggest question of all. Was it better to hide here in this tangle until morning, or should I try to make for some safe place farther on? A thousand mosquitoes fed on me; I slapped my arm where the skin had been scraped away. Sitting still and being attacked by bugs was impossible. Besides, doing nothing has never been my way. I was going.

  I knelt, hips against the seat, and fought my way out, using branches to push myself backward through the tangle. In the swamp, it seemed every plant came with prickles. They grabbed me, tearing at bare skin and clothing. Finally, almost free, I shoved the paddle deep into the muck and pushed. As I yanked the paddle free it struck the side of the canoe with a sharp crack. No one could mistake the bang for a natural sound. The men would know exactly what it was.

  Terror gave me strength nature hadn’t. I pulled hard on the paddle, trying to distance myself from the sound. Clumsy and slow and out of practice, I gained feet and then yards with each stroke.

  Traveling through the blackness, worrying about snakes and gators and strange men, fighting down panic until I could hardly breathe, I prayed I had escaped. But I knew I hadn’t. Somewhere out on this canal, possibly coming towards me, was a boat heading to the station. I listened for the sound of an engine between strokes. There was only one thing I could do. I had to find a place to hide until it passed.

  A hundred yards from where I’d begun, the landscape changed. On my left, the narrow waterway opened up into a small, marshy pond. Large clumps of reeds grew where the two waters met. Was this my chance to get away from anyone traveling the canal? I could hide here and then go on after they passed. I listened for an engine but there was nothing.

  This marsh marked the start of the true Everglades, unaltered by man, and the farther I went into them, the thicker and taller the grasses would be. And now, in the grip of the dry season, the water would only be six inches to a foot deep in places, too shallow to paddle. I’d have to walk and drag the canoe. Without even the small protection of the canoe . . . I couldn’t finish that thought.

  And there was another problem. Even if I tried to walk through the needlegrass and prickleweed along the edge of the channel, hoping to bypass anyone heading for the gas station, I could easily get disoriented. In the river of grass, the reeds close behind you as quickly as you pass. With no markers, I’d be lost in the million and a half acres of the Everglades.

  I had to make a decision. Stay on the canal and risk meeting the men on their way to the station, or risk the Everglades and all they contained? A night bird called, beckoning me into the wilderness.

  The safety the grasses offered was too frightening. I took a deep breath and paddled twenty feet past the opening to the little bay and was once again contained in the narrow tunnel of the canal.

  Slowly my eyes adjusted and my night vision improved. The darkness that had surrounded me like a heavy blanket was no longer so dense. Overhead a new moon shone and there were more stars in the sky than I remembered there ever being. I began to pick out details of the landscape. Bushes growing out of the black water became separate entities and not just one huge mass. Lighter areas, shadows really, separated from the midtones of night and from the black unknown at water level. Fear sharpened my senses. I smelled the rank mud of the bank and felt tender air against my skin. Insects bedeviled me but I shut them out, intent on the larger threat. My eyes searched from side to side, covering the water and the vegetation along the edges, hunting for danger, but it was the egrets that warned me. A white cloud of them rose from the dark outline of a tree down the channel. They circled into the lighter sky ahead of me, squawking and complaining, before settling down again. I listened, holding the paddle above the water. Drops slipped off the end and fell to the water, loud in the night that was suddenly silent.

  A faint cough . . . a human sound. Quickly, without thought, I rammed the nose of the canoe deep in the canes. Thorns and barbs grabbed at me. I reached up to protect my face and knocked the paddle out of my hand. It clunked against the side and disappeared into the water. There was no time to search for it. First I needed to disappear in the overhang. I needed to hide.

  I tugged on the overhanging greenery and pulled myself in deeper. Making sure none of the canoe jutted out into the channel, I stretched out along the bottom as I had before. More water soaked my back and matted my hair. A small bug crawled across my face. I pursed my lips and tried to blow it away. Overhead a branch bent towards me; a leaf fell on my chest. It was hard not to bolt upright, to rush away from the unknown. I bit down hard on my lip to remain silent. Tears slipped down my cheeks and tickled onto my neck. “Stay still; don’t move,” I warned myself.

  I heard the chug of an electric motor. The canoe, rocking in the wake from the boat, rubbed up against a mangrove root and groaned. I prayed they wouldn’t recognize
the sound for what it was, that they’d think it was only one branch rubbing on another in their wake. I didn’t risk looking up to see them go by.

  Minutes passed and there was no sound of the motor. Aware of my body, of its discomfort, hard ridges digging into me and scratches and bites enough to drive me mad, I had to force myself to stay down. My hands were clenched at my side like I was laid out in a coffin, the blisters on my palms burning. Perspiration dried and cooled me. Goose bumps rose along my arms. I lay in the bottom of the canoe long after the sound died away, straining my hearing to super strength to hear if they returned. Were there any more men coming down the canal? I listened for the sound of the motor. Only the night sounds of the marsh.

  I couldn’t stay where I was. If they came back and searched the underbrush with flashlights . . . it was too frightening to contemplate.

  I sat up. Water dribbled down my back. The canoe rubbed against mangrove roots and protested loudly. I gripped the sides to steady it, although there was no danger of it capsizing: it was jammed in too tightly between roots and limbs.

  I had to find the paddle or I was going nowhere. Dread of the men trumped the fear of the unknown. I put my hand over the side, searching in the reeds and the mess of roots for my paddle. Something splashed inches away from my hand. I jerked away and waited. Nothing. Cautiously I started searching again, barely touching the water, trying not to make waves and ready to fly back to safety at the first touch of anything but water. I couldn’t find the paddle. I pushed the little craft farther out into the canal and began my search again. Just as my fingers touched the smooth wood and closed around it, something big broke the surface at the bow of the canoe.

  CHAPTER 7

  Fear shifts. Replace one kind of terror with something more horrific and it’s a whole new game. Now I only wanted to get away from that thing in the water. I scrambled loudly, crazily. I didn’t care about noise or dangerous men finding me. I pushed and shoved and pulled, all the while mewling in fear.

  I broke free and hauled on the paddle, spurting forward. Head down, and panting through my mouth, I tried to distance myself from both the other boat and that thing in the water. The burst of speed didn’t last. Couldn’t last. Worn out, I rested on the paddle, leaning forward and taking long gulps of air. I looked back towards the gas bar. No light shone down the waterway, and there were no shouts of discovery. Only silence. Maybe I was safe.

  For long moments I drifted, the light craft bobbing towards a reed bed on my left. My breathing steadied. I tried to judge how late it was. I was overcome with a longing for home and for Clay, so strong I nearly cried out to him. My promise, “I’ll be home before midnight,” laughed in my head. I shouldn’t be here, that’s what my brain kept saying. If I’d listened to Clay, I would have been home in time for dinner, and well before dark. It had all gone terribly wrong, but given another chance I would make it right and wipe away this night. Why had I gone to Miami? Now, sitting here all alone, I’d have given anything to be back at the Sunset, kibitzing with the regulars and complaining about how hard I worked.

  I wiped away my tears and picked up the paddle. There was only one way I could get home again.

  The rusty roar of a bull gator sounded over the chattering chorus of insects and frogs, but he was far away, no threat to me. Not so the mosquitoes; they tormented me, feasting on every inch of bare skin.

  My strokes were long and smooth now, but my left palm burned with each twist of the paddle. Already blisters had formed. I was focused on that pain in my hand when my paddle hit something hard. I jerked to the left, away from this new terror, sending the canoe rocking crazily. In the moonlight, an alligator surfaced. I clung to the rocking vessel, willing it to settle. To capsize now . . .

  The gator seemed to hang suspended on the surface of the water, waiting for some unknown thing to happen.

  The rocking of the canoe had brought me too close to the left bank. Branches poked me. I stretched out my arms, sank the paddle deep into the bottom and pushed the craft forward and away. Again it swayed dangerously. Tentatively I took another small stroke. The gator didn’t react. With a deep breath, I dug deep and surged forward. I was safe. It didn’t last long.

  CHAPTER 8

  In front of me, a black structure bisected the river of moonlight. Exhausted and barely able to take it in, I studied the object in the water and tried to figure out what it meant. And then it came to me. A dock was jutting out from the shore.

  A dock meant people. Sanctuary. “Be careful,” caution whispered. Telling myself not to let my eagerness for shelter jeopardize my security, I left the path of the moonlight and slipped through the shadows along the edge of the canal. Quietly and warily, I floated towards the dock, studying it and the open space it jutted out from.

  In the clearing sat a low, flat house. A soft yellow buglight glowed over the back door of the pale house. Along the right side of the property, tall pole lights stood over a long shade house for plants. I’d reached the nursery.

  On the left was a shack. The pole light threw just enough light to read the sign tacked to the shed’s side: CANOE RENTALS. A scattering of red canoes, just like the one I sat in, littered the bank. Was this where Tito had come from? Likely. Quite possibly the men in the boat with the electric motor had come from here as well. And that meant they’d return to this place—probably sooner rather than later.

  Go in or go on? There was a risk either way.

  I needed help and I needed a phone. A house offered both of those. I could break in and call for help. That wouldn’t take long. I’d be gone before they came back down the canal.

  I calculated the timing. If they’d spent fifteen minutes searching at the station and then started back, how much time did I have? They’d make better time than me, but they’d search more thoroughly on the way back. How long would it take to break in and make a call? Minutes only. Was the house deserted? Was everyone out searching for Tito, or had they left someone behind? No car was parked in the yard. One thing was clear: I had no time for sober second thoughts. I had to decide. Caution and fear were overcome by exhaustion.

  The bow of the canoe sliced into the soft sand of the bank. If I saw any sign of them returning while I was out of the canoe, I’d bolt into the brush edging the clearing in a flash. Unless they had dogs, it would be almost impossible for them to find me. I wished I hadn’t thought of dogs. All country properties seemed to have at least one. I waited for the racket of that warning bark. Nothing. And nothing moved under the lights. A dog might be inside, but there was no sign of one out here.

  The beach was too exposed. I backed off the sand, then lifted the soggy rope out of the bottom of the canoe and tied it to the dark underside of the dock. I slipped over the side to the shadows of the underbrush. Staying away from the open space, I came ashore quietly and slowly. The grass under my feet was cool and slippery. I realized I’d lost my other flip-flop. No matter. I hugged the deep shadows and stole towards the small outbuilding, tasting the very air for the presence of another human, listening for the hint of a breath.

  At the edge of the hut, I reached out to touch the roughness of the board siding with my fingers and then slipped along its side. I dipped below the window and paused there, listening, before I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled forward.

  The door to the shack hung open. There was a deadness to the place, a feeling of being deserted. That was fine with me. All I wanted was a phone. Surely if they were running a business out of it, the building would have a phone, a landline that would connect me to help. I studied the dark interior of the shed, trying to commit myself to going into it. In the blackness inside, there wasn’t a rustle or a breath. I stretched out my arm. My hand crept along the floor and touched something soft. I jerked back. What was it? A jacket? Cloth for sure. Was there someone inside that bundle of material? Nothing stirred.

  I didn’t have time to hesitate. I needed a
phone. I reached out again, inching towards the cloth and expecting to discover a hard lump of a body but finding nothing but a pliable bunch of fabric.

  Slowly, slowly, I felt my way forward. The room was a box about eight by eight. As my fingers explored the interior, my eyes adjusted to the lack of light and broke the shadows into pale walls of unpainted wood, dark packs hanging off the walls—life jackets, probably—and, in the corner, a barrel of paddles. I could see a sleeping bag and a pillow crumpled on the floor, pale in the moonlight shining through the window. I stood up.

  Examining the walls and a small shelf with my eyes and my fingers, I hunted for a phone. Nothing. I choked down my despair. I’d wasted time and gained nothing. I went to the door. From inside the shack, I studied the house. The light over the door called to me. Not much time left. I had to hurry now. Speed was more important than caution. I slid out of the shed and darted into the deep shadows of the scrub along the edge of the cleared land. I hesitated, unwilling to leave safety and cover the twenty feet or so of open space. “Go, go,” my brain said, but my feet took their time listening. Finally, bent low but moving quickly, I scuttled to the house. Flattening myself against the cool metal siding, I sidled up to the window and turned my face to see inside. It was an office. The drawers to a filing cabinet stood open. Brown files were scattered among white pages on the floor, but on the old-fashioned oak desk sat a black telephone. I tried to open the window. It wouldn’t give. I had to try a door.

  Which entrance was safer, front or back? And which was more likely to be unlocked? The back—they wouldn’t expect anyone to approach from the water. But first I had to be sure there was no one inside. As much as I wanted that telephone, I wanted to live more. I’d check every window, first to see if the room was empty, then to see if it would open. If all else failed, I would come back and smash this window. I waited for the bark of a dog, the creak of boards under the weight of a step, but there was nothing. I ducked down below the sill and headed along the back of the house, trying all the windows as I went.