“Maybe it’s just trouble of a different nature,” Buck finally said, but he was still not willing to meet the old man’s eyes.
“No, son,” Nate Brown replied, his voice holding a weak resignation that Buck had never heard before. “The nature’s the same. Sometimes that’s the part of people that don’t never change.”
Buck pushed his chair back, knowing the old man was finished. He stood and started to roll the chart, but Nate Brown’s finger was still pressed down on one last X.
“Let me give you some advice, Buck. If that’s what you come for,” he said, using the young man’s name for maybe the first time since his childhood. “Stay clear of this one here.”
He was indicating the X farthest south on the map.
“They’s stories on this one. One told is that an old-timer built here and must have died over the years because no one seen him for years. Word was someone in his family took it over but they somehow got spooked and left the place empty. Then new owners that put out the word of no trespassin’ and meant it. I been out there myself and heard awful strange music comin’ from the place when there wasn’t a shred of light on the property.
“Steer clear, son.” And with that the old man removed his finger and sat alone at the table while Buck gathered the map, and said his thanks.
“Yes, sir,” he said and then turned back to retrace his steps to his own place.
“We’re gonna hit those places now.”
The boys just looked at each other with a mirror expression that said surprise, but what the hell. They’d shown up midmorning after wandering around town in their boat boots, checking out the damage from the night. Buck was in one of those suspiciously dark moods of his. Wayne figured this was the way he must have been in prison and it was not a good idea to argue with him. Besides, when Buck wanted to roll, it usually turned out to be a hell of a lot more interesting than sitting around this place. They could easily tell their mothers that they’d been hired to do some kind of rescue or salvage work and with the promise of money on their lips they’d be off the hook for any cleanup at their own homes.
“I already been over at Owen Chadwick’s tour business shed and his airboat is intact and I have the key,” Buck said while he turned his back on them and stuffed something into his black, zippered duffle. They were both in that sort of uncomprehending dumb-assed mode he’d seen a dozen times in their teenage faces when he grabbed up the bag and turned back to them.
“What? You two suddenly lost your comprehension of English overnight?
Again the boys stood quiet. They had learned that if they looked at each other for some kind of shared intelligence they’d get another dose of Buck’s shit. So they stood mute.
“We got opportunity here, fellas. Those camps are either out there with their doors blown out for easy access to what’s inside. Or they’re in pristine shape while their owners are scurryin’ around at their big-assed mansions in the city worryin’ about how to get their air conditioning back on,” Buck said.
“Nobody’s thinking about them camps after a hurricane, boys. We got a window of opportunity here and, fellas, we’re gonna climb right on through.”
He ordered them to grab up some bottled water and some food and “whatever tools you think you might need” and meet him over at Chadwick’s boat shed. Then he slung the duffle over his shoulder and started down the outside staircase.
“And hurry your asses up,” he called out to them as they went in opposite directions. “We’re burnin’ daylight.”
Buck liked to quote from John Wayne movies and with these two he often dredged up lines from that one called The Cowboys about Wayne taking a bunch of young kids on a cattle drive because the Duke couldn’t find any men to help him with the job. In the Old West Buck would have been a leader, a man admired. He figured that might have been why he never objected to the nickname that got stuck on him in high school. Buck. Just like in the 1800s. Now there was a century he knew he would have fit into. Maybe driving cattle up in Hendry County wasn’t that different today. Maybe he hadn’t been born too late.
The boys must have heard the chug of the airboat engine turn over twice, three times while they were walking across the mud that used to be Marshall’s Circle because when it finally caught and burst into a roar, they started running.
“Son of a bitch will leave without us for sure,” said Marcus, toting his quick packed duffle and a Lil’ Oscar cooler filled with water bottles.
“Yeah? Where’s he gonna go without us to do his lifting and totin’,” said Wayne, who sounded cocky, but didn’t stop running either.
When they jogged up to Chadwick’s place, Buck had the big airboat out on a new mud slick near the old mechanic’s nearly submerged dock. It was there that he usually loaded in the tourists who had been lured by his AIRBOAT TOURS OF THE ANCIENT EVERGLADES sign posted out on the Tamiami Trail. Anybody who’d lived here for any of the last three or four decades could still pick up some business from folks passing by from Naples on the west or Miami to the east who wanted a peek at the gators or bird flocks or just the open sawgrass range of still-wild land. The boys could never see the attraction. Buck thought it was as bad as running carnival rides, catering to gawkers and thrill seekers who had little respect or appreciation for what they were seeing. But he’d still served as a substitute driver for Chadwick as long as he got paid in cash.
The boys stepped up onto the flat boat deck, built like a pontoon skiff in light aluminum but with an angled bow so it could slide up over a small bank or plow right over tall grasses and thin-stalked trees. Buck had loaded the big open deck with a line of red five-gallon gas cans, a cooler, and his duffle. The boys tossed their bags behind the raised seats and then climbed up behind Buck’s pilot chair. The huge, wire- caged propeller was right behind them and the airplane engine roared when Buck pushed the throttle forward to keep the rpms high. He reached back to them to offer a plastic bottle of little yellow chunks of spongy material you could stuff into your ears to cut down the thrum of noise. He didn’t say a word, even if they could have heard him. They both waved him off. This was nothing they hadn’t dealt with in Cory Marshall’s Honda Civic with the Bose CrossQuarter speakers that thumped out Da Trill and vibrated the whole car on a Saturday night roll over to Naples. When Buck’s head turned forward, Wayne pointed his finger forward and mouthed the words: “Let’s flow, dude.” Marcus read his lips and they both giggled like little kids.
FOURTEEN
I knew that without my partner it was going to be a much harder pull, but I missed her more than I could calculate.
We were two hours into the trip back, twice the amount of time it had taken to make this leg to the Snows’ camp from the thick hammock of pigeon plum and strangler fig trees where the hidden camp may have survived the blow better than ours. I was hoping that the place had been sheltered by the trees and might be a serviceable resting spot. Now, after plowing through miles of water that had become a cluttered soup of floating, rootless vegetation, hope had turned into a prayer. I was envisioning beyond logical expectation a dry room, potable water, canned food of some sort, maybe even a battery-powered radio-phone. In the last hour my fear had grown that the latter was going to be a necessity if Sherry was going to survive with her leg intact.
In the still, flat light, I was watching her eyes while I stroked with the makeshift paddle I’d fashioned from the wall plaque. At first she’d been hyperalert, her eyes dancing from left to right, checking, assessing, nervous like a kid riding in the jump seat and watching the landscape go by when she really wanted to be facing the destination instead of having her back to it. She would grimace with pain each time the canoe slid up with a jerk onto some flotsam that stopped us with its thickness. More than a dozen times already I’d had to climb out into waist-deep water and pull us through shallows, fearful of steering us around them too far and taking the chance of getting off the direct line of GPS coordinates. Each time I pulled from the front, my handhold next to Sherry�
��s shoulder, my eye checking the pulse in her neck. Once refloated, I would get her to drink more water from the bottles, even when she argued, correctly, that we needed to conserve.
“You’re the engine, Max,” she said. “I’m just the passenger. If you run dry we’re both sunk.” I caught her repeating the same line an hour later, and Sherry rarely repeated herself. I started watching her eyes for signs of delirium. When they closed, for rest or out of exhaustion, I watched her lips to see if she was mumbling to herself. I kept talking to her, nothing complicated or even specific, just ramblings to keep her the slightest bit focused. Maybe to keep me focused too.
Now I was talking about springtime in Philadelphia, telling her about the blossoms on trees along East River Drive in Fairmont Park and how you could smell the aroma, even out in the middle of the Schuylkill River when you were rowing. While I talked I kept my eye on a marker, a clump of unusually high sawgrass, that I’d set using the GPS. One leg at a time, I thought to myself. I talked about high school, the guys in the neighborhood and some of the girls, piling onto the Broad Street subway at the Snyder Avenue station and riding down to the Vet on a Saturday night to see the Phillies play. We’d get Mitchey Cleary, whose older brother was a beer vendor, to slip us soda cups half full of Schmidts and then sit up in the cheap, seven-dollar seats and yell all night for Von Hayes to rap one out of the park to us in center field. I saw Sherry smile at that one, just a slight rise at the corners of her dry, cracked lips, maybe thinking about the beer. When I started going on about stopping off at Pat’s at Wharton and Passyunk for cheesesteaks I realized I was punishing even myself by bringing up food and drink and I stopped.
“We’re gonna be there in a little bit, Sherry. How’s the leg feel? Can you still move your toes?”
I was hoping for circulation and secretly worrying about infection, maybe even gangrene. The Glades is notorious for the waterborne bacteria and microbes that break down the vegetation and could have easily made it into her bloodstream through the open slash in her thigh and even onto the exposed bone before she was able to pull it back in.
“I’m OK,” she said softly, her first words in over an hour though she still did not open her eyes when she said them.
“Tell me more about the spring, Max. Tell me about trees. The shade. Tell me you love me, Max.
I thought again of delirium. What was the treatment? Shit. Had she answered my question?
“I love you, Sherry,” I said. “We’re going to be there in just a little bit.”
It was raining again by the time I looked up from a more determined pace. I was stroking as deeply as I could, feathering out the rhythmic repetitions, trying to block out everything but the reach, pull-through, kick out with as little interruption of momentum. I’d been repeating this motion for years paddling out on my river, even in darkness with only the light of the moon to guide me, up to the dyke flow and back, working the edges off whatever new rock was in my head. I could do it now, through exhaustion.
The drops of rain on my head mixed with the sweat and ran into my eyes and the sting finally made me look up. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been cranking but in the distance I could finally see what might be the remains of the hammock. From half a mile out, the dark rise of trees made the little island look like it had been sheared in half. A couple of taller spikes formed odd-looking inverted Vs against the background of pale sky. I took a break, fed Sherry the last of the bottled water we had, and then drank myself from the bailing scoop I’d fashioned from the Snows’ coffee can. I’d convinced myself that the rainwater would be pure enough to keep me hydrated and whatever else got mixed in with it from the bottom of the canoe would just have to be ignored. The bands of rain from the back end of the hurricane had followed us along the path but now the bottom of the boat was filling too fast for that to be the only source. My jury-rigged job with the duct tape was failing. The canoe was leaking. Glades soup was seeping in and trying to swamp us, but there wouldn’t be a fix now. If the darkening mound out there in front of us wasn’t the one we were looking for, or if the camp inside its sheltering trees was blown away, we were in deep trouble. I bailed while I rested and then reached out to touch Sherry’s foot. No reaction. I got to my feet and with my hands on either side rail of the canoe I leaned forward. I could still see the pulse in her neck so I sat back in my seat, began paddling again, head down, the pace a step faster than before.
I checked the GPS twice, three times, as we approached the island. The electronics were the only thing that could convince me. This was the place, but it looked nothing like the thick green, idyllic hammock we’d passed four days ago. The lushness was stripped away. Simone’s winds had brought down the long graceful limbs of cypress and dumped them onto a mud-covered web of mangrove and what at one time might have been a fern bed. The taller trees now showed the splintered white wounds from where their branches had been ripped away and I was immediately reminded of Sherry’s once-exposed thigh bone, and then pushed our way into the hammock’s interior, looking for the structure of the camp, hoping.
It was easily midafternoon by now and the light was already failing. I finally had to get out and pull the canoe through a nest of tangled grass. I stumbled and jerked the boat to one side and Sherry gasped in such a high, keening tone I went to her side and couldn’t stop repeating, “Sorry, babe, sorry, sorry, sorry.”
She was grimacing, probably a good sign. And she reached down to put a hand on the injured thigh, another indication that she knew her pain and was still cognizant of where it was coming from. While I’d still been paddling I’d set the open cooler out in the space between us trying to catch whatever rainwater would accumulate inside. I now poured it carefully into one of the empty bottles and held it to her lips. She drank, almost greedily, until it was done.
“We’re here, babe. I’m going to go find the camp,” I said to her closed eyes. She tightened her lids and weakly whispered “OK.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I picked up the flashlight we’d brought and stepped easily but with a purpose, worried about the sharp branch points and possible sink holes that could end up leaving two injured on the island. I had to climb over a couple of downed tree trunks to get to higher ground and then started looking for a leaning tree trunk that I might climb to get a higher view. I was looking for the edge of a structure, an unnatural right angle, a glint of metal or a flat plane of painted wood. About a hundred yards from the canoe I found the thick secondary limb of a tree that was partially down but still attached to the higher main trunk. I climbed it on all fours until I gained some height. From here I could see edges of water to the southeast and then picked up the shape of bent metal directly to the west. The color was dusty copper but there was also a patina of green at its edges, an old-time sheet metal roof, popular out here and similar to the one on my own river shack. It wasn’t more than fifty yards away and probably would have been invisible under the cover of the tree canopy but stood out now through the stripped branches. I traced a path through the vegetation that would offer the least resistance and then jumped down to follow it.
The angles became clearer within minutes. After wading through a couple of low mud bogs and climbing over several downed trees I began to make out the body of the structure, wood paneling that had turned ash gray from the weather, but was standing straight, an optimistic sign. By the time I reached the raised platform of the camp, my hope was rising. The building, simple and square, was intact but for the metal roof at the northwest corner that had been peeled back by the wind, the angle I’d seen from my tree stand. There was some splintered damage below it in the wall, but the deck planks seemed untouched though the film of mud told me that water had risen over them at one point. The windows were all shuttered with the old-style, wood-slat covers, but when I bent to look up through the spacing of those slats, there appeared to be some other kind of barrier besides glass behind them. I walked around to the south side, found the only door, and tried the handle. Locked.
And locked tight. The lock set was made of stainless steel but had oddly been painted some kind of faux iron. I shook it hard and then gave the middle of the door a substantial butt with my shoulder, half of my weight behind it. Not a budge or even the slightest give. The builder had been very careful.
I circled back to the northwest corner to see what the storm damage might offer and found a possibility. The west side was more exposed than the southeast where we’d approached. There were the remnants of a canal that was now choked with branches but navigable. I could row Sherry around and get her very close. Under the bent roof corner the siding was peeled away by the fingers of the wind and there was a black, open space in the top three feet of the wall, an opening big enough for a man to climb through. I dragged a downed tree limb across the deck and propped one end against the wall and used it as a step up and then took a good jump, high enough to get a grip on the bottom slat of ruined paneling and pulled myself up. Hanging with one arm I got the flashlight and shone a beam inside. There was space and something gray- white below, possibly a bed, straight down the inside wall. Two wall studs were still in place but I could probably squeeze my chest between them and drop, headfirst, inside. I felt like some amateur cat burglar in a half-assed break-in, but figured if I could get inside I could unlock the door and search the place. I put the flashlight back in my pocket—I hate that thing where Tom Cruise puts the flashlight in his mouth while he’s being lowered into some dark fortress. He’s going to fall and gag himself with that thing someday. Then I got a good grip on an exposed ceiling joist and pulled myself halfway up and through the wall opening. After much shimmying and tearing of clothing and clunking of boot soles, I managed to drop to the inside, hands extended out, and found my first bit of luck by half-falling onto the edge of a bed before landing on the floor. It was noisy and graceless, but there wasn’t anyone within miles to hear or even care.
Acts of Nature Page 10
