Stephen finished writing, underlining several words. “A tale well told, Mr. Wood. My readers will appreciate such a rousing how-to.” He scratched his scalp with the pencil tip. “What do you say to those who describe you as a skilled but particularly lucky angler?”
Without hesitation, William responded, “I say hogwash. Luck is earned, Stephen. I studied my opponent before I ever engaged him. And when I did, his luck ran out.”
“Ah, a good lesson for us all,” Stephen said. He closed the notebook and reached over to William for a handshake. “Mr. Wood, I’ll be sure to get you a clipping of our interview.”
William stood. “I hope you can hand it to me when I’m here fishing with Al.”
“Our hope, too,” Stephen said.
Beyond the porch, Belle noticed Boone and Decker walking down the stairs of the caretaker’s cottage. They must have been watching out the window, waiting for the interview to end. Should she need to, she’d tell Decker and anyone else who noticed her swollen cheek that a mason jar in the storage room fell from a shelf and hit her in the face. As the men approached the Edison home, Boone glanced at her but continued up the porch with Decker.
“Get what you need, Stephen?” Decker motioned for Boone to gather up the fishing poles.
“That and more, Norville.” Stephen walked down the porch steps toward the driveway to leave.
“Mr. Wood, we’ll make sure all this tackle is in easy reach for Mr. Edison.” Decker put his hands on his narrow hips. “Can’t promise the same for the tarpon.”
William smiled. “Well, that’s fishin’, right, gentlemen?” He stretched his tall frame. “Sounds good about now.”
Chapter 15
Boone barely heard the whistle over the racket of his handsaw gnawing through a downed tree limb. When he turned around, he saw William Wood on his sailboat close to shore, clutching his fishing rod with both hands. The boat, its sails tied down, was leaning slightly to the port side. Gentle waves born of the Caloosahatchee’s incoming tide licked at its hull. Wood was not smiling, and when Boone reached him in a rowboat, he learned why.
“It’s a body,” William said, his face ashen. He nodded toward the water.
Boone winced and maneuvered closer to the sailboat. Before he could make anything out in the water, his mind began racing about what to reveal or conceal.
“It’s been . . . compromised,” William said, “so prepare yourself.” He pulled back on the pole, straining as the catch rose closer to the surface.
Boone squeezed the oar handles. Several inches under the water, he saw the striped suit of the ogre he’d dragged out of the cottage. As the body partially broke the surface, he could see that it was missing most of its face and both arms. “Oh my God,” he said. He swallowed and looked at William. He’d met Mr. Wood twice now and found him a polite, unpretentious man. His passion seemed reserved for fishing, not promoting himself or his friendship with Mr. Edison. In the next few split seconds, Boone hoped that he was making the right decision as he opened his mouth to speak.
“Mr. Wood, I know who this is and I know why he was at the bottom of the river. You know nothing about me, I realize that, but I’m asking you to believe me.” He paused to reposition the boat as it strayed in the current. “What’s on your hook is an animal, not a person. He’s where he belongs and needs to stay there until every inch of him ends up in the belly of a beast, like him.” He shook his head. “That’s simply the truth.”
William sat for a moment, squinting at Boone. “I don’t know you.” He paused and reworked his grip on the pole. “But I do know there are evil men who walk the earth.” He let the body drop down several inches. “This beast . . . would most believe he deserved to die for whatever it is he did?”
“Yes, and they’d all agree that he didn’t suffer enough in the end,” Boone said. “Twisted, evil, disgusting.” He shook his head. “Mr. Wood, I promise you, that body is in the river for a very good reason.”
The men stared at each other.
“All right, then,” William said. “What do we do now?”
Boone exhaled his immense relief. “If you’re willing, I’ll anchor my boat and join you to unfurl the sails. There should be enough of a breeze to work our way to the deepest channel in the river.”
William nodded. “Climb aboard.”
•••
In the late afternoon, Belle had taken a brief nap in the cottage. She’d then resumed moving compost from Baker’s to the Edison gardens. As she returned from Abigail’s yard with her final load, she saw William Wood standing near her work area. Earlier in the day, she’d noticed him pacing on the Edison’s porch, aggressively smoking a cigar. Eventually, he’d settled into a chair. Now, she rolled toward him.
“Hello, there,” he said. “I’m William Wood.”
“Hello, Mr. Wood,” she said, still gripping the handles of the pushcart.
“Call me William,” he said, and smiled. “May I get your name?”
“It’s Belle.” She dropped the cart to shake William’s outstretched hand, first wiping hers on the front of her dress. She nodded toward the turned soil. “I’m creating gardens for Mina.”
William pocketed both hands. “She does love her flowers, that one.”
Over William’s shoulder, Belle saw Boone approaching.
“I must say that’s a fine hat, Belle. I noticed it from the porch and hoped I might get a closer look at your collection.”
“So you two have met?” Boone said as he joined them.
William turned toward Boone. “We have. I just told Belle I’d like a look at her lures.”
Belle said, “Of course.” She slowly removed her straw hat, making sure her scarf stayed in place.
Holding the hat in both hands, William spun it slowly, examining each lure. “Well, this one’s a beauty,” he said, jiggling a spoon lure. “A Hibbard. Where did you find it?”
When he looked up at Belle for the answer, he tilted his head slightly and leaned in toward her. “Your cheek,” he said, wincing.
Belle looked at Boone, who moved to her side and slowly reached toward her scarf. She pulled away.
“Boone . . .”
“Don’t worry,” he said softly. Gently, he pulled back her scarf to reveal her swollen cheek. “That beast did this,” he said, looking at William. “And that’s the least of what he put her through . . . when she was a young girl.”
William grimaced. “All right, then. You needn’t worry about me.”
“Boone?” Belle couldn’t imagine why Boone had revealed their secret.
“Everything is all right,” he said. “I promise.”
William returned Belle’s hat. “Miss Belle, I want to give you something.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a translucent circle the size of a silver dollar. “I carry these with me as good reminders.” He held up the thin disc with two fingers. “A single tarpon scale. Simple, right? But when you wrap hundreds of these around a living thing, it becomes much more complicated.” He handed it to Belle.
She took it. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Life is simple. It’s human behavior that complicates everything. As I see it, we humans have to save ourselves from each other, as best we can.”
“Save each other how?” Belle said, pulling her scarf back into place.
“Well, I can only speak for myself,” William said, “but I’ve found that compassion and forgiveness are a good start.” He shook his head. “Life would be so simple if we all just behaved, wouldn’t it?” With a small nod, he said, “You take good care, Belle.”
William turned and walked away toward the caretaker’s cottage. Boone looked at Belle. She was staring down at the milky scale that filled her palm.
He touched her shoulder. “Belle, we need to get our story straight.”
Chapter 16
Parker�
��s grapefruit grove was vast and quiet, a place where Belle wouldn’t be disturbed. Her thoughts were doing enough of that, banging against her brain and bouncing off each other.
Along the river, in front of the mill.
Boone had talked her through a story that would infer that Julius drowned: He was last seen drunk and stumbling around near the water in front of Ritter’s Mill. The mill was located on the opposite end of the river from where Belle’s bedsheets, that once held Julius’s body, might remain. The plan was for Belle to speak privately with Augie about the “tip.” She’d assured Boone that Augie could be trusted to pass along the “witness accounts” to the Press editor without mentioning her name. When Boone told her that William had hooked the body, she’d dry-heaved, spitting acid and shaking uncontrollably. Boone had tried to comfort her, but his hands on her made it worse.
“I need to walk for a while,” she’d said, and headed for the grove.
Now, she sat on the ground in the shade, still shaking. Her stomach was in knots, the back of her neck sweaty. Maybe immense shock had been choking off her disgust and anger and fear, but an hour earlier, all of it began to break free. How had her life changed so suddenly and violently? Just when her fresh start seemed like it was taking hold, she was forced to defend it and herself with deadly blows. What if the knife hadn’t been in the drawer? She hugged her body, shivering as she recalled blindly searching for it.
Twice now she’d run from Julius, this time to Boone. Why hadn’t she gone to Abigail? Maybe she didn’t want to break her heart. Belle could explain to Boone why she killed Julius because he barely knew her. The story of her past would certainly disturb him but not devastate him like it would Abigail or Merle. None of that had occurred to her until now. She’d just instinctively run to Boone for help.
Leaning over, she picked up a grapefruit from the ground and chucked it, agitated. Every time she’d imagined Julius dying, she was the one who killed him—with her bare hands, with a shovel, tied to a chair as their house burned. But now that she’d actually taken his life, she was a nervous, jumbled wreck. Julius was finally dead, but the absolute relief she’d anticipated as a child was now muddled with other emotions.
Why me?
She pounded her fists on her knees. Why did she have to be the one to kill him? He deserved it, but why couldn’t someone else have rid this world of him before he came crashing back into hers? She’d never forget the sound of the knife blade puncturing his skin, the feel of her fist ramming against his neck with each stab.
“Oh my God,” she said aloud.
Would she end up in hell, with Julius, because she killed him? She looked around at the fallen fruit beside her. There she was, a sinner who’d taken another person’s life. Maybe her punishment would be that Julius would continue to haunt her from the grave. She could never escape him.
“Ugh . . . stop this, Belle!” she yelled, and knocked her palms against her head. “Just stop.”
She stood and wandered through the rows of trees. Try not to worry. He’s finally gone. This was her chance to look forward, not back. Julius lay deep in the river and only she, Boone, and William Wood knew it. Her shot at a meaningful future depended on the secret they shared remaining just that.
Belle left the grove and headed straight for the cemetery.
Chapter 17
Betsy Carson lightly ran her fingers across the top of a small sandstone grave marker. The Fort Myers cemetery was still but for the rustle of squirrels scampering through dried debris. She sat down in front of a cabbage palm with a lanky fern growing in its crisscrossed boots. The tree’s trunk offered a fine backrest as she stared at where she and Nelson had buried Benjamin. In that peaceful spot, she hoped one day that the mystery of his death would be solved. Right there, she’d fold her hands, drop her head, and say, “Thank you, God. I see now.”
Well before Nelson died, he’d stopped coming here with her. Daily obligations—like shadows on a waning moon—eventually obscured the past and its torments. Staying away for him became routine. She sometimes wondered, Will that day ever come for me? “Absolutely not,” her anguish would answer. It was stubborn and refused to be diminished by the decades that had passed since the incident, bullying her to that very spot most Sundays. She’d grown used to her solo trips, even embraced the solitude. Alone, she could attempt to pry grief from the hands of guilt. Or was it the other way around? Was Benjamin taken from her or did she hand him over? The cemetery seemed a place where answers might just float up from the mouths of those who lay below. So what if her boy hadn’t yet learned to talk? She would listen anyway, just in case.
“I’m here, Son.”
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, thinking. Yet again, she began to relive the moment when Benjamin crawled into the cool creek.
There was some drinking that afternoon. Not much. She’d poured whiskey into a glass, but only enough to douse the small fires that would inevitably flare up in the smoldering ruins of her mind. No one else was at home, as usual—just her and the baby. Julius was at school while Nelson worked. When she’d initially recounted the details of that day to Nelson, he’d gently corrected her.
“Julius was home,” he’d said, explaining that the seven-year-old had misbehaved at school.
But that’s not how she recalled the day. She remembered sitting in the yard, alone but for the baby and the truth. Her husband would soon leave her, and she couldn’t blame him. No man deserved a wife who woke up every morning irritated. The worst days always led her to the kitchen knives. She’d pull out the drawer and stare at their long blades.
Choose the longest handle. Hold it tight.
The madness told her to stab Nelson and kill the children, too. Imagining the violent scene both soothed and terrified her.
The wild brain began again after Benjamin’s birth and lingered for months. It paralyzed her ability to properly mother him or anybody. In what seemed a house full of too many people, she wished she were anywhere else. The baby cried too much; her family ate too much. She stayed famished to balance out the gluttony. Nelson seemed blind to their dismal existence, playing and laughing with Julius. She despised the way he ignored the misery they’d created together.
On the afternoon of the incident, Benjamin was scooting around the yard on his bottom, using a hand behind and a foot in front to propel himself. He’d discovered the move earlier than his brother and was faster at it. At least that’s what Nelson told her. She hadn’t noticed, absent of any urge to bond with the scooting, suckling, screaming baby.
Every now and then she’d look up from her darning to see where Benjamin was, but mostly she worked the needle and sipped whiskey. Her empty stomach welcomed the warm burn; she knew it would lead to a numbness that made the day tolerable. Her eyelids were heavy, but she could certainly see the sock and its hole disappearing with each stitch. When she pricked her finger, the jolt made her look up from the task. Benjamin was sitting in the sand—facing away from her—where the yard sloped down to the creek that ran along their property. Recent rain had boosted its volume, but still, its depth could be measured in inches. She noted that the skin on the back of the baby’s head was growing red from the steadfast sun.
Next came the part that made Betsy think of that afternoon as “the day in question.” She rubbed her closed eyes. Did I see him move toward the creek? Did I let him do it or did I simply not see him heading for the bank? Did I fall asleep? There was an image in her mind of Benjamin disappearing over the edge, but she was uncertain if it was an actual memory or her mind conjuring it up. Either way, Benjamin drowned in the creek that afternoon.
The sight of his body, face down in the water, had looked odd to Betsy. Why was there a baby lying in the creek? Strands of blond hair waved in the weak current like seaweed. She picked the body up and flipped it over to see the face, which was blue and belonged to Benjamin. She remembered nothing after that, which di
dn’t matter. Her son was dead.
Nelson didn’t blame her, at least not out loud. She’d dumped what remained of the whiskey into the sand and never made it part of the “what happened” sequence she relayed to him, the neighbors, and the sheriff. “It was simply a horrific accident,” they all said, and added how sorry they were that it happened. At the time, she wasn’t sure whether she was sorry it had happened. She cried but had already been crying when Benjamin was alive. In the end, she was deemed a victim, not a villain, and with no punishment came no redemption. Shame eventually slithered in to fill the gap between the two.
A year later, Nelson sat her down at the kitchen table. He explained that he’d spoken with Pastor Peck and that a baby was available for adoption.
“I’m convinced it’s what you need to get better, Betsy,” he said. She remembered thinking how absurd it was that he thought she could. Her brain had burned after she gave birth to Julius, too, and Nelson should have known. She’d told him as much, but he insisted “the smoke” would clear. It never did, some days even thickening to fog. Why would Nelson think another child would do anything but push her further into the haze?
The newborn arrived with the name Maybelle and an impossible mission: to cure her new mother. Go away, she’d thought when the tiny brown eyes locked with hers. Here was yet another innocent heart, an unwelcome reminder that her own was stone-cold. She felt nothing when Nelson placed the baby girl in her arms; it was as if he’d handed her a sack of cornmeal.
When year after year went by and their daughter didn’t make her “get better,” Nelson distanced himself from her and the children. He worked more and cared less about his makeshift family, the one with a mother who didn’t act like one. Then, perhaps the fire in her brain spread to Nelson’s. He gave Belle away and sent Julius to Tampa.
After the Rain Page 12
