The Man Who Ivented Florida df-3

by Randy Wayne White

  Sometimes at night, sitting in the living room with just a reading lamp on, her legs curled up and with Ansel, the white cat, vibrating on her lap, Geoff would slip into her mind, the heat and weight of him. Geoff, her ex-husband. The man sounds he made, the intensity of his presence, filling the house with him, him, him, so that there was hardly room for her.

  Geoff was a spoiled ass…

  Still, it left a hollowness in the cottage-a hollowness in her, too. Not that she was still in love with him-well, maybe just a little-but losing a mate created a void that grew stronger in the lonely night hours and sucked at the foundations of the new life she told herself she was building.

  You failed at marriage, and you'll probably fail at living alone, too…

  Which was the way she felt sometimes, like a failure, for her marriage was a task started but not completed. An indictment of her own judgment and maturity. Her intellect, too.

  How could I have been so stupid! I knew what he was before I married him, but I wouldn't let myself admit it and I went ahead and did it, anyway.

  All true. It was like being in a car that had lost its brakes, gaining speed, faster and faster, and she'd ridden it right into marriage and beyond, a crazy smile frozen on her face.

  On the worst nights, she would think, And I knew what I was, too-so it was a failure from the start. I loved the idea of having a hand in the design of great buildings; could picture him asking my advice about form and fountains and balconies, depending on my eye for composition. And I liked the idea of the money. What girl who grew up poor wouldn't…?

  Feeling the chilly wave of depression move through her, letting the silence of the little cottage punish her. Sometimes it was intense, but it never lasted; came sneaking in at night, particularly just before her period. That's when her whole body seemed a bloom of raw nerve endings-her nipples sore, her mood cranky. The recriminations linked to her own body's cycle, like moon tides, flooded full then drawn dry. She could look out the window at a low tide, sea grass lying flat, the bay empty and exposed, and she could feel the draining of it in her own abdomen and breasts.

  I've no more control of its effect on me than a damn oyster…

  That wasn't true, she knew. Just something she felt sometimes. So at night, when the mood was on her, she'd put down her book, put aside the cat, and lose herself in work. Go to the darkroom she'd built and soup film or experiment with printing. Or she'd work around the cottage, cleaning and neatening and arranging. She'd bought some old cherry-wood shadow boxes at a yard sale and refinished them, then hung them in the living room and kitchen to display the collection of cream pitchers her mother had given her. She liked brass, too. Around the house, over the fireplace mantel and on the window seals, there were brass unicorns, horses, cats, and brass candle holders. She collected more than two dozen candle holders over the years, all holding long green candles, a color she favored; felt the green candles implied warmth even without being lighted. On the porch, there were woven baskets with arrangements of dried wildflowers, and in the kitchen there were shelves holding Ball canning jars and country crockery.

  She'd completely redone the little cottage, gave it a whole new feel, a fresh identity, scrubbing and painting and rearranging to rid the place of its history of Geoff and failed marriage. Even so, he came stomping back some nights. Not him, really, but the feel of him, his presence. Which was depressing enough, but with that mood came the emotional need and body longing that refused her contentment and mocked her independence.

  It must be so easy to be a man. Everything is either superficial or disposable…

  That's the kind of bitterness that came over her sometimes, like the last few evenings, watching the new moon tilting westward above dusk's last light. Feeling it draw the water from her body, abrading the nerve endings. Damn it, she was tired of being alone in that cottage night after night. Not that she wanted a man-no way, not so soon. She just felt like doing something, going somewhere.

  Which was the only reason she'd said yes to Tucker Gatrell. Old Mr. Tuck-she'd called him that as a girl. One of the fishermen who'd flirted with her mother-they all had, her mother was so handsome and strong-willed. Back then, he'd been just one more grinning face in the moving throng of adult faces, but now he was one of the last remnants of old times in Mango. Because Tucker had been a part of her childhood, there was added importance to his role in her life as an adult, so she rarely denied him anything he asked. Usually, it was breakfast. Sometimes dinner. Lately, though, the favors he'd asked had something to do with trying to stop the government from condemning much of old Mango to make a state park. Going to the library for him, getting copies of documents made. Like earlier that afternoon. He'd come sauntering up to the door in his jeans, cowboy hat in hands, saying, "Miz Sally, I got a big favor to ask. Has to do with that damn Peeping Tom nephew of mine. I want you to take him a bottle of the vitamin water, have him test it. I'd do it myself, only I got to go out in the boat."

  Any other time, she would have said no. But now, with the dark mood threatening her, she agreed to go. It was something to do. Besides, the chance to see Marion Ford's uneasiness again appealed to a quirky, perverse streak in her. As a girl, Marion had made her uneasy often enough: the high school football star she'd tagged after. Once, when she was ten, she'd hidden in the shadows and watched him and a girl kissing in the old gray car he'd owned. It was one of the most exciting things she'd ever seen, but also one of the most hateful. Marion had always been so… mature, so neat-then to see him acting like such a fool.

  She'd run off in tears.

  It irritated her to think about that. Particularly now, driving her white Ford Bronco west on the Tamiami Trail, then north toward Sanibel Island, a Ball jar full of water beside her on the seat, headed for Ford's house.

  ***

  Sally Carmel had her routine and Ford had his. Every morning, he was up at 6:30; didn't need an alarm clock, just woke up automatically. On the rare day he would have slept through, the noise the fishing guides made would have awakened him, anyway. Starting their boats, yelling in to Mack how much fuel and how many baits he should mark them down for, loading ice and drinks while they talked business across the docks, enjoying the private time and the morning coolness before their clients arrived.

  Marinas were noisy in the morning-nice boat sounds to hear from a cool bed.

  First thing Ford did was fit his glasses on his face, pull on shorts, then go outside to check his main fish tank. Made sure everything had lived through the night-no small drama, because more than once he'd found a soupy mess of decomposing specimens, the filter fouled or the raw-water intake plugged. Because Ford awoke to the fear of that every morning, his first ten paces of each new day were shaded with mild dread.

  Usually, though, the tank was working just fine. The pumps were pumping raw water in, spilling overflow out. The hundred-gallon upper reservoir with its subsand filter cleared the water, then sprayed it in a mist into the main tank, where sea squirts and tunicates continued to filter until the water was too clear to support the weight of a human eye. Ford could look right through to the bottom. Even at morning dusk, the water seemed a brighter world: small snappers, sea anemones, swaying blades of turtle grass, sea horses, horseshoe crabs, whelk shells, the whole small world alive. Ford could see them all in a glance. Then his attention would focus, and he would pick out his favorite specimens, allowing his eyes to linger: three tiny tarpon stacked beneath the exhaust of the upper reservoir, as motionless as pale bars of chromium. Immature snook, too, heads turned into the artificial current. The half dozen reef squid were the hardest to find, because their chromatophores allowed them to blend with the sand bottom. Ford enjoyed looking for them. It was part of his morning ritual, and he always took his time, allowing the dread to fade with each small discovery.

  Once he was certain his specimens were okay, he lighted the Propane ship's stove and put coffee on to boil, then made his bed. If he was working on a project-and he almost always was-he
made notes while he drank his coffee. He had a simple breakfast, English muffin or fruit, unless there was a female guest. If he hoped the lady would stay another day, he cooked with a flair: mango and onion omelets, or fish poached in lime juice and coconut water. If he was ready to have his house and lab to himself, he'd ask her to follow him to breakfast at the Lighthouse Cafe on Periwinkle Way and hope she'd take the hint.

  But it had been a long time since he'd had company-a couple of months, maybe more. So these days, after coffee, he did a short morning workout. If the tide was up, he'd swim to the spoil islands east of the channel and back. If the tide was down and the water wasn't deep enough to swim comfortably, he'd do pull-ups on the crossbar that connected the rain cistern to the cottage, then go for a quick jog down Tarpon Bay Road to the beach. There, he'd stretch and swim in the Gulf.

  Then it was work, and the work was always varied. Sometimes it was collecting specimens to fill orders. Sometimes it was dissecting in the lab, injecting dye into the veins of whatever animals that high schools and colleges around the country had requested to buy for their classes. That kept him busy because Ford was a perfectionist, and he had built a steady clientele of repeat business.

  As the fishing guides often said, they lived on repeat business and partied on walk-ins. The biological supply business wasn't much different.

  Ford liked the marina's guides; enjoyed hearing them discussing fish and fish habits. Which is why he joined them during their lunch breaks, sitting on the picnic tables in the shade, talking above the noise of the bait tanks. Took pleasure in the community feel of the small marina, listening to gossip about the live-aboards, arguing politics and boats until it was time to go back to his lab and more work. By five or so, though, he was usually finished, then he disciplined himself with a longer run and a tougher workout before joining the guides again on the docks, where he opened his first beer of the day while they washed down their boats.

  That was Ford's daylight routine. The monotony of it pleased him; appealed to his sense of order, and he didn't like to vary it. Same with his after-dark routine. He'd fix his own supper-usually fish the guides had given him or that he'd caught himself- then he'd have another beer out on the porch, looking at the water. If it was a good clear night, particularly if Jupiter and its moons were high and bright, he'd look through his telescope. Or he'd listen to his shortwave radio, carefully logging any unfamiliar world-bands stations he happened to stumble across. Then about nine, he'd hear Tomlinson's little skiff start, and Ford would go to the refrigerator and set out another beer, anticipating Tomlinson's nightly visit.

  Ford looked forward to the visits, though he would have never said so-there was no reason to comment on such a thing. But Tomlinson was as brilliant as his interests were eclectic, and it was nice to sit in the cottage or on the porch and try to follow the man's assaults on conventional wisdom. It was a game they played. A subject would be selected, usually something commonplace, such as baseball, or sex, or the effects of television on society, and Tomlinson would accommodate the game by making an outlandish observation. "Celibacy is healthy! You shouldn't be complaining!" Then the two of them would argue the various byways and small branchings of thought on the subject until the subject itself sagged or burst into absurdity. "You mean absence. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Not abstinence! Geeze!"

  It was something to do, part of Ford's routine, part of the life he enjoyed living. Only lately, he hadn't been enjoying it that much. Things had changed around the place. Jeth was gone, off being feted in some Central American country-Ford still hadn't heard from him. And Tomlinson had changed. Gotten fatherly, which wasn't so surprising, since he had fathered a child. Tomlinson and a woman from his commune days, Dr. Musashi Rinmon. They had had a daughter, and Tomlinson was spending a lot of time in the air, flying back and forth to Boston to see his little girl. Now Tomlinson, who for years hadn't driven anything faster than a sailboat or more traffic-worthy then a beach bike, seemed to havfe embraced a faster world. He borrowed Ford's truck-a lot. He was always running errands, going places. He had even bought a pair of slacks. Slacks. And he had joined Ford in the habit of going to the marina to read the local newspaper each day. "Been out of touch for the last couple of decades," Tomlinson had explained to Ford. "After Nixon, I thought it was safe to kick back for a while."

  And Tomlinson wasn't the only one who had changed around the marina. Mack, who owned and operated the place, suddenly seemed obsessed with modernizing the operation and expanding.

  "Do you know how much money I lose because of these old docks?" he'd complain. "Do you have any idea how many more boats I could handle if I had one of those big aluminum storage barns? This place is so old and run-down the government might damn well come in and try to close us if I don't do something soon."

  Well, it was in the air-change.

  Not that Ford had anything against change; he just resented it interfering with the neat perimeter of his own life. It made him irritable, cranky. Worse, now Tucker was nipping at his heels, trying to maneuver him into one of his absurd schemes. The man was poison, had always been poison. Tomlinson wouldn't believe that. That afternoon, Ford had stood on the dock and told him, but Tomlinson wouldn't listen. Had to borrow his truck anyway and drive down to Mango.

  "I've flashed on one of the all-time great ideas, man! Your uncle wants to keep his land, him and Joe, then I'm the man to do it. Seriously, Doc, I don't see why you won't kick in a little help."

  "Because I don't want to help, that's why. And if you're as smart as I think you are, you'll see Tuck for what he is and stay the hell away."

  Blinking at him, giving him his new fatherly expression, Tomlinson had said, "I've got to say something here. You're the best friend I've ever had. I love you, man, but you're dead wrong."

  "Aw, Lord, spare me the analysis."

  "I'm just saying that the price of hate is too high. I can feel it coming out of you, man. Like heat whenever I mention the old dude's name. Now, it may not be any of my business-"

  Handing him the keys to the truck, Ford had said, "You're right. It's none of your business," and turned away.

  Ford felt badly about it now, the way he had talked to Tomlinson. The guy was weird, a flake sometimes, but he was as sensitive as a child and there was nothing to be served in hurting him.

  When he gets back with the truck, I'll say something to him. Apologize. Thinking that as he cleaned up his lab, scrubbing the dissecting table with Clorox and water, covering his microscope, checking to see that all the jars and vials and chemical bottles were in their proper places. Give him a couple of beers, he'll forget all about it.

  Ford checked his watch: 6:00 P.M. He'd worked later than usual, cleaning and curing a two-hundred-gallon tank, then fitting in the Plexiglas shield that would divide it in half. Into the tank he would pump raw turbid water from the bay. There would be only sand on the bottom of the control side of the tank. On the other side, he would introduce the floating mobilelike device upon which sponges, sea squirts, and tunicates were already growing. The strings of the sea mobile, with their clumps of sessile life, would serve as surrogates for natural sea grasses. The question was, how would the turbidity of the water be effected by the organisms-organisms that depended upon the grasses as bases for their own growth?

  Ford hadn't made any further headway on the paper he wanted to write. Had decided to wait until he got the procedure down pat before he put anything on paper. Which gave him an excuse to spend all his time out collecting, or perfecting the procedure in his lab.

  So he had worked later than usual and Tomlinson still wasn't back.

  Probably drinking whiskey with Tuck, out wrecking my truck.

  Thinking mean thoughts, Ford locked the door to his lab, crossed the roofed walkway between the living area and his lab, then knelt before the little refrigerator to take out two grouper fillets for supper. But then he thought, I'm not even hungry. Why bother?

  He felt like doing something, getting
out, going someplace.

  If I had my truck, I could!

  Ford stripped off his shirt, kicked off his shoes. He'd do a kick-butt workout, that's what. Be a good time to work out, get cooled down by the afternoon thunderstorm he could feel coming. Maybe that would wash the restlessness out of him. Run to the Sanibel Public Pool and back, nearly five miles; push himself, try to make it in thirty-five minutes, then dive right into the bay and swim out to the spoil islands. His own little biathlon. The same routine he'd once done with Dewey Nye, his tennis player friend. Only now she was a golfer, spending the summers up on Long Island… and just thinking about Dewey stirred the longing in him.

  I'll call her tonight. Tell her I miss her.

  Which was true. Missed feeling her arm over his shoulder, ragging him, the rough housing; missed having a woman to talk to as a confidante. They weren't lovers, just friends. Yet thinking of her fired his restlessness.

  Maybe I'll fly up and see her. Take the weekend off-I'm not married to this place. Have Mack feed my animals, and just go. And if she's busy, I'll… fly to Central America, that's what. A week in the jungle, that's what I need. Head down to Masagua, go in illegally because of the State Department and see how General Rivera's doing. Speak a little Spanish and eat some decent beans…

  Ford was walking around the room, thinking restless thoughts, putting on his running shoes, depositing his sweaty work clothes in the wash bag kept outside the door. That's when something caught his attention out in the bay, an odd movement out toward the rim of mangroves. The bay was choppy, streaked with contrails of dark and light: the afternoon rainstorm blowing in.

  Ford stood and looked, trying to define the dark shape he saw- something big thrashing around close to the sandbank that ringed the bay, or maybe on the sandbank. It was hard to tell at this distance, maybe a mile away. He ran inside, returning to the porch with his Steiner waterproof binoculars. With his glasses atop his head, he allowed his eyes to focus through the binoculars… then he knew what it was.