I was laughing now. I couldn’t help myself. “Then why are you so depressed? You ought to be grinning like you just won the lottery. You know how many men in this country who’d give anything to trade places with you? Two Hooters girls, for Christ’s sake.”
He shook his head from side to side, disconsolate. “They don’t know about this pill. What if it doesn’t work? If I can’t make it with two Hooters girls, I might as well stick my dick in the dirt and use it as a tomato stake. The worst thing, though, man—and this is what’s really bothering me—if the pill doesn’t put serious lead in my pencil, I’ll never be able to face those girls again. After something like that, where can we go to eat wings?”
Dinkin’s Bay Marina is three hundred yards or so up the shoreline from my lab. If the mosquitoes aren’t swarming, it’s an easy walk along the shell road. If you want to get to the marina by boat, you head north under the Sanibel Causeway, then turn left just past the power lines and run in close along the deepwater of Woodring’s Point. To get there by car, follow Sanibel’s Tarpon Bay Road past Bailey’s General Store, down the shell road, into the mangroves, and through the gate to the bay.
Lots of people come by boat and car and bike because Dinkin’s Bay is an unusual place.
Beyond the shell parking lot, there’s a community of old wooden buildings that extends out onto the water via a latticework of wobbly docks. It is a welcome anachronism on an island known for tourism, busy beaches, thousands of real estate salesmen, reclusive artists, designer homes, and elegant restaurants. There are plank tables for cleaning fish, a big wooden bait tank whose pump hisses twenty-four hours a day, and picnic tables beneath a tin roof so visitors have a place to sit while they eat the marina’s fried fish and crab cakes and chowder. There is a gift shop, too. It’s called the Red Pelican, and it smells of incense and imported cotton and silk. It offers blouses and dresses, sarongs and knickknacks from all over the world, plus paintings by local artists.
Next to the Red Pelican is the marina office and store. It’s a two-story building. Stocky, pragmatic Mack, owner and manager of Dinkin’s Bay, runs the office below. Jeth lives in the one-bedroom apartment above.
As I walked toward the office, I heard a woman’s voice call, “Hey there, Doc! You coming to the party tonight?” I looked to see JoAnn Smallwood waving at me. JoAnn is part owner of the soggy old Chris Craft cruiser Tiger Lily, one of Dinkin’s Bay Marina’s gaudier floating homes. She’s a skinny-hipped, busty woman who, along with her roommate and partner, Rhonda Lister, runs a very profitable weekly newspaper, The Heat Islands Fishing Report.
I stopped to talk with JoAnn for a while while the other liveaboards worked or washed their boats, or carried grocery sacks or coolers along the docks, everyone seeming to move faster than usual. Nearly every person who passed me had to stop, say hello, and ask why my arm was in a sling.
To each and every one, I told them, “Fell off a dock.”
To the few who said they’d met my sister, that she was gorgeous and charming and funny, I replied, “Funny’s right. That’s her little joke. She’s actually my cousin.”
It was Friday night, the official end of the workweek on the connected barrier islands of Sanibel and Captiva. Saturday and Sunday were the busiest days of the week, but Friday night is still the traditional gathering time for the liveaboards and marina employees, a brief quiet time before the weekend rush, when all the locals come together as a community to drink and laugh, to complain about the traffic and the tourists with no one around to offend.
It was nearly five P.M. JoAnn and Rhonda had hung Japanese lanterns on the stern of their boat, a sure sign that it was a party night. Music was already booming from inside the trawlers and sailboats and cruisers that lined liveaboard row. I could hear showers running; could smell the shampoo odor of soap mixed with the more common marina smells of diesel and rope and varnish. Could see that Mack and Jeth had already set out the big Igloo coolers filled with ice and beer. Could see Eleanor and Joyce and Kelly loading the picnic tables with food. Knew that, within an hour or so, Mack would walk out, close the steel gate and lock it, a necessary ritual that is also symbolic: The outside world could no longer intrude on our small marina stronghold.
Now JoAnn waved me closer and said, “Did you hear what happened while you were away? Between Jeth and Janet, I mean.”
It’s impossible to avoid marina gossip so I usually listen politely, then pointedly try to forget what I’ve just heard. I said, “Someone told Tomlinson, because he mentioned it. But no particulars.”
JoAnn has short copper hair that now looked bright red, perhaps because of the satin sheer pink dress she wore or the yellow hibiscus blossom behind her ear. There was a pleasant bounce of hair and cleavage as she made the waving motion again. “Then come aboard. You’re gonna need a beer after you hear it. It’s that damn sad.”
I looked at my watch: 5:10. Almost sunset time. Almost party time. It was the first day in weeks that I hadn’t worked out, and I still felt sick and sore from my run-in with Clare.
“A couple of beers, maybe that’s just what I need,” I told her. “But then I need to go talk to Mack about something.” I used my good arm to pull me up the old Chris’s boarding letter, through the railing gate.
JoAnn said, “Jeth and Janet, we all know they’ve had their problems. But what do you expect if you date someone from your own marina?” She gave me a meaningful look, sitting there in her party dress, one chunky leg crossed over the other, a margarita in her hand.
A knowing look because we’d both felt a long-standing sexual attraction for the other. We had come close to acting on that attraction a few times, but had been smart enough to defuse it on each occasion. JoAnn wasn’t beautiful or even pretty by general standards—which is to say the predictable and often perverse standards of New York advertising gurus. She had nice hair, a Rubensesque body and the kind of wide, plain face that I associate with corn-fields and small Midwestern towns. But there was a commonsense sexuality about the woman that I felt on a bone-and-marrow, abdominal level. Apparently, she felt the same for me. So we took pains never to be alone.
We were in deck chairs, sitting on Tiger Lily’s stern, where we could look across the docks to the marina office and the shallow-water mooring where the fishing skiffs—the Bonefishers and Makos, the Aquasports, Egrets, and Lake and Bays—sat motionless on their lines, big outboard engines tilted upward like the wings of old fighter planes on a carrier. Through their silence, the engines implied velocity and a certain competence.
She’d brought me my standard drink: Bud Light in a big glass over ice with a squeeze of lime. I now took a sip and said, “Yep. It’s way too risky to date among the marina family.”
“Exactly. Everyone agrees. But if anyone could make it work, it’s those two kids. Janet loves the big lug so much, the first time they had trouble, you know as well as I do, that’s why she moved her boat up to Jensen’s. Thought the distance might help, and it did. Since then, they’ve been doing great. Jeth stays on her houseboat when he doesn’t have a charter, and you know how often Janet overnights here. Hell, I think it’s been good for all of us, because now everyone at Jensen’s has gotten to be like part of our extended family. And they’re such a fun, crazy bunch.”
Jensen’s Marina on Captiva is one of the last of the old Florida fish camps. Run by three brothers who also happen to be raving individualists, walking into Jensen’s is like traveling back four or five decades. I said, “The guides up there, Dave, Bob Sabatino, and Jimmy, when they clean a female black tip, they’ve been saving the unborn sharks for me. And Janet, of course, she’s one of the few people I trust to take care of my fish.”
JoAnn nodded. “While you and Tomlinson were on Guava key, she was here every night helping Jeth. Until it happened.”
What happened was, the previous weekend, Janet and Jeth had had some minor squabble. In all human pairings, sometimes varying with the situation, there is a dominant member. Janet was the more fo
rceful of the two, but never in an overpowering, offensive way. She was more goal-oriented than Jeth, much better with details, and so she tended to control the relationship. The argument had something to do with Jeth’s seeming lack of professional drive. How could he expect her to marry him, to produce a family for the two of them, if he continued working as a handyman around the marina and guiding only when he felt like it?
It was a serious subject as far as Janet was concerned. Marriage was important to her. It was her second try, and getting everything right was vital. There was a good reason. A couple of years back, Janet had come to Sanibel an emotional and physical wreck after quitting her teaching job in Ohio. She had had to quit her job because she was suffering anxiety attacks and depression so severe that she could no longer function. It took us awhile before she trusted us enough to tell us the story. It was not a happy story. Her first husband, the only man she’d ever loved, had been driving home late after work one snowy night. On the same road, coming from the opposite direction, was a woman who had no license because of her long history of alcohol abuse.
All that Janet could remember from that night, and the week that followed, was a highway patrolman coming to the door . . . and a nurse crying with her, at her bedside, because of the miscarriage she’d suffered.
It was a long, long time before she could bring herself to date anyone.
When she’d finally healed sufficiently, Jeth was a good choice. He has the looks and the build of a college line-backer, but he is one of the kindest, most mild-mannered men I’ve ever met. Even so, Janet’s prodding had finally pissed him off and he apparently told her to go find another man if she wasn’t satisfied with his professional aspirations or his income.
“That’s how it got started,” JoAnn told me. “It wasn’t a big fight. Nothing serious—at least, that’s what Janet told me, and she had no reason to lie, Doc. This was two days after it happened, and she was absolutely devastated. Broken-hearted. I don’t think the girl’s stopped crying all week.”
Coincidentally, that same weekend, Janet had been invited to an all-night bachelorette party in Sarasota. She and her girlfriends were to spend the evening going from bar to bar in a limo. Lots of drinking and dancing and harmless fun.
“But it wasn’t so harmless,” JoAnn told me. “The last thing Janet did before she got in the limo was try to call Jeth at his apartment. She tried a couple of more times before midnight. He still wasn’t home, which made her mad for some reason, so she stuck the cell phone in her purse and decided the best way for her to stop worrying about what Jeth was doing was to have a hell of a good time on her own. Which she did. There were five or six girls in the party. They went to a couple of bars, then to one of those male review strip clubs. That set the mood. Then, at Passe Grille, they happened to run into a bunch of local guys who were having their own bachelor’s party. Great-looking guys all of them, and one of them started hitting on Janet.
“You know how shy she is, Doc. I think she’s cute as can be but, let’s face it, she doesn’t have the kind of looks or the kind of body that guys tumble over. She wasn’t used to that kind of attention from a man so smooth. Plus, all the other girls had matched up with one of the bachelors, and there was a kind of screw-it, let’s-have-fun attitude. No one was gonna tell, especially the girl who was getting married ’cause it was her last night of freedom and she was behaving worse than any of them.”
JoAnn noticed that my glass was empty. She stood and got another beer from the little on-deck fridge. Stopped to exchange pleasantries with two of the guides, Javier Castillo and Neville Robeson, then took her seat again, sipped her drink, and turned her face toward me. Said, “We’ve had some great talks, you and me, Doc. Someone like you, I feel like I can say any damn thing that comes into my mind, and it’ll be okay. One thing we’ve never talked about, though, it’s something that most men don’t know or even suspect about us women. It’s not all the time, and the mood has to be just right. But it happens. What it is, when women get together in that kind of situation, sexuality can be... well, contagious. I’ve felt it myself plenty of times. It’s like being part of a pack. You all get horny as hell at the same time, and there’re suddenly no rules at all ’cause the whole group’s doing it.” She paused for a moment, considering what she’d just told me. “You’re a scientist. You think there could be some kind of biological reason for feeling that way? Herd instinct, maybe?”
I didn’t feel like smiling—intimate stories about friends told by a third party make me uncomfortable. But I smiled anyway. “I’d prefer not even to guess about something like that. So what happened at the party?”
Janet and her friends had drunk a lot and they’d kept drinking is what happened. Janet and the handsome guy she’d met ended up alone in the back of the guy’s Mercedes. She wasn’t too drunk to know what she was doing. It was consensual, it seemed safe and fun at the time, and it was very, very passionate. She’d never done anything like that in her life. Didn’t think she was capable of doing something like that. I had a hard time believing it myself . . . but, in a way, it made perfect sense, too. Janet’s one of the plain, doughy-looking ones. Round face, mousy brown hair, legs and thighs prone to heaviness. Very quiet and competent and dependable. Good with computers and bookkeeping. She’s in her mid-thirties now. Probably seldom in her life experienced the overwhelming flattery of a certain kind of man who’s very good in bars.”
JoAnn said, “Janet told me it was like being temporarily insane, and I know exactly what she means. She wouldn’t let the guy go all the way. But they got stripped down and real sweaty. Completely dropped all her inhibitions probably like she never had before—”
I interrupted. “Please don’t tell me she confessed all this to Jeth. I hope to hell she was smart enough and adult enough not to try and get rid of her own guilt by laying it all on—”
“She didn’t confess,” JoAnn said. “She didn’t have to confess. Remember that cell phone she put in her purse? In the back of the Mercedes, every time they’d move a certain way, she’d squeeze up against that purse and hit the redial button accidentally. Jeth’s recorder will tape messages up to three minutes long. He was out to almost two ’cause he had to tow in Duke Sells, who’d broken down about seven miles off the lighthouse. Got back to his apartment exhausted, got his first beer of the night, and played his messages. Stood there and listened to fifteen minutes of his girlfriend making love to another man.”
I felt sick myself just hearing it, and I didn’t doubt it for a moment when JoAnn added, “When Janet got back the next night and realized what’d happened, she went to him and actually got down on her knees outside the door of his apartment and begged him to forgive her. Jeth wouldn’t let her in. Never even opened the door. That was six days ago. He hasn’t spoken a word to her. Says he never will again. I saw Janet yesterday. Remember the way she looked when she first came here? After her husband was killed in the car wreck? Shaky, gaunt, all the horror in the world in those pretty eyes of hers. Clap your hands behind her and she’d jump out of her skin. That’s the way she looks now. She can’t eat, can’t sleep, and can’t stop crying. She thinks she’s cursed. I mean, really believes it. Or that she has some destructive badness in her that keeps screwing up her life intentionally. I had the worst feeling when I left her houseboat—a feeling that she’s not gonna make it this time. It’s too much after all the stuff she’s already been through.”
I stood, placed my mug on the teak table. Said, “Mind if I use your phone?”
“What’re you going to do, Doc?”
There was a wall phone on the control console bulkhead just to the left of the helm seat. “What’s Janet’s number? I haven’t called her in a while.”
Now JoAnn was standing, her expression dubious. “Hey . . . wait a minute, big fella. You’re way too smart to put yourself in the middle of something like this. Give them some time; they’ll work it out themselves.”
I held the phone away from my ear. “Do you really b
elieve that?”
She sighed, thought about it, then sighed again. “No. No, I don’t believe it. Not for a minute.”
“You know how stubborn Jeth is. If he’s been telling people he’ll never speak to her again, you can bet that’s exactly what he’ll do. As in never again. You think she’s strong enough to deal with that?”
JoAnn shook her head slowly. “Janet’s at the end of her rope. That’s what I believe. After something like this, she may end up one of those crazy hermit spinsters. A bag lady, who knows? I think she’s about to completely lose it. But what the hell can we do to help them?”
13
I thought I knew the answer to that. The call didn’t take long. A few minutes later, Mack said, “A cell phone? You went for how many years without even an answering machine, and now you’ve got a cell phone?”
I was inside the marina office now, and had just opened the FedEx package he’d handed me. There was no return address on the slip, but I knew who’d sent it.
I pressed the power button of my new cell phone, heard the phone’s irritating beep, turned it off again, and stuck the thing in my pocket.
Mack and Jeth were sitting behind the glass counter. Mack was wearing a safari shirt, the kind with pleats that he’s partial to. He told me he favors that kind of shirt because it’s the sort of thing his grandfather wore growing up in New Zealand. He had his Ben Franklin bifocals on to see because he was tallying up the day’s receipts, a South Trust money bag bulging with cash within safe reach. Jeth sat behind him on a stool in the corner. He was leafing through a Florida Sportsman magazine, wearing his guide khakis. His expression was glum. His face reminded me of the way JoAnn had described Janet: gaunt, like some of the life had been leached out.
Shark River Page 19
