The Man Who Ivented Florida df-3

by Randy Wayne White

  But the Captain had his shotgun up, the two men facing one another. Later, Bambridge would remember an odd stink in the air, a strange, musky acidity that, forever after, he would associate with human rage.

  In the silence, the Captain spoke softly. "This scattergun knows her work, boy. She's done it before. Now yew drop that'er knife. Let Fat'un tie your arms till you cool off."

  Herbott had dropped the machete… but then threw himself on the ground, pounding his own face with his fists while he screamed and cursed. Over the noise, Chuck Fleet had yelled, "His brain's snapped, Captain! Couldn't you take him back to the mainland before he hurts himself-or one of us? I'll finish the damn cane by myself!"

  But the old man wouldn't do that. He had to keep Herbott tied now, when he wasn't in the pit; it was the principle of the thing. And the old man was right. Bambridge had told him so later. "Captain, you give Short One an inch, he'll try to take a mile. I know his type."

  On the morning the old man came in and told him, "I'll be takin' you three back to the mainland day after tomorrow," William Bambridge finished his sweeping, poured the Captain's coffee, then walked down to the pit to tell the two Chucks.

  On the way back, he decided he'd stop at a tamarind tree he'd found. The pulp inside the tamarind's seedpods made a wonderfully sweet drink, and its red-striped flowers were delicious, perfect in a hearts-of-palm salad.

  Get a really good meal into the old man, and maybe he'd tell a few more stories before they had to go. Use the pencil he'd found to make more notes on the grocery bags he used for paper.

  Bambridge stopped at the screened opening of the pit and kicked the roof frame. "Hey, you two awake yet? The sun's almost up!"

  Looking down into the gloom was like peering into a cave, and he could see the two dim figures getting slowly to their feet. "What the hell you want, lard ass? Go away!"

  Herbott: not so wild now, but still crazy with meanness.

  "I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to Chuck. And if you don't stop being so profane, I might not tell either one of you the news."

  "What news is that, Bambridge?" At least Chuck Fleet could be civil.

  "This news: We're going home."

  "We're going-"

  Bambridge repeated, "We're going home."

  "What!"

  "That's right. Just like he said he would. The Captain's taking us back to the mainland. He told me not ten minutes ago."

  "Jesus Christ, you mean it! He's really-"

  "If you get your work done! You finish up with the syrup, do a good job, he'll take us back day after tomorrow. But if you don't, no deal."

  Bambridge just threw that in; knew you had to use leverage on men like this.

  "I'll be damned… You really think he means it?"

  "He means it. He has to deliver a load of syrup and stuff to a man who lives in Mango, and he's going to take us back with him. I told him he could tow our boats in later. He gave his word."

  "His word, my ass!" Herbott mouthing off again. "Here or back on the mainland, it doesn't matter a bit! You tell that skinny old nigger it's too late!"

  "Don't you call him that!"

  "And I'll take care of you, too!"

  "He's got a name! Use it!"

  Bambridge had told them both the Captain's name. It was Henry Short.

  FOURTEEN

  Tuck told Joseph, "Looky how things is working out. You don't think God's dropped everything else to sign on for this drive? Got us free food, free beds, 'bout twenty secretaries, and my own command post. The marines messed up when they made me a private, Joe. That's what I'm telling you. I was naturally meant to be an admiral or a major. Something like that."

  The two of them were leading the horses around, letting them graze on the green sod pastures of Palm Valley Ranch. They'd been there three days, and the horses and Millie had to eat something besides the bran muffins and apples the women kept sneaking them.

  Driving range was what it was. Golf balls all over the place. Only Tuck called it the north pasture-he still wouldn't let go of the idea the place was a real ranch. A long, open field the maintenance crew didn't keep mowed, so there was grass for the horses, and a little bulldozed pond, too, only Tuck wouldn't let the horses drink there.

  To Joseph, he had explained, "If you knew what I know about water, you wouldn't stick your pinkie in that mess. The way they squirt around their fertilizer and their bug dope. Nope, we pour them a jug of spring-water back at the command post, like always."

  Meaning the red aluminum building shaped like a barn, where there was a phone so he could do interviews, and a little podium so he could stand and give speeches to the four or five journalists who'd hunted him down. Acting like he was talking to a big crowd, even if there was just one in the room.

  When one of the journalists would ask, "You got a phone number, if I need to get back in touch with you, Mr. Gatrell?" Tuck would say, "Check with one of my secretaries. They know my schedule." Just so the women-Mrs. Butler or Jenny or Thelma or one of the others-would smile at him, feeling important.

  Not that he ignored the men. That first night, Tuck had talked up Mango so much that a couple of them, John and Bill and Lloyd, decided they couldn't wait to see the place, so Tuck volunteered Ervin T.'s truck and drove them there. Mango was a long day on horseback, but only forty minutes by car, yet they didn't make it back until after midnight, smelling of beer and the three men raving about what they called "The most beautiful little place in Florida."

  It irked Ervin T., being left out like that. "Hell's fire, the old fart leaves me here with nothing to-drink but tea and buttermilk, and stays gone in my truck! And they don't got no satellite dish here, neither."

  But it didn't bother Joseph at all. Anyplace that Tuck wasn't seemed quiet in comparison, and it was a relief after so many days with him on the road. Besides, that nice woman, Thelma, had invited him back to her trailer for dinner, saying, "I'm a very good cook." Which may have been true, though Joseph never found out. But she sure did have smooth skin.

  The next day, John and Lloyd and Bill, along with a few others, wanted another look at Mango. So many they had to take a couple of cars, and Ervin decided he'd just go along and not come back. Let Tuck and Joe finish the ride on their own, while he remained in Mango to keep an eye on things. That night, Jenny said she felt sorry for Joseph, him left at Palm Valley all alone, so she invited him to her trailer for dinner. Same thing happened-Jenny never got around to cooking, and Joseph got out just in time to listen to all the beery men tell him what a nice place Mango was.

  Now, leading the horses back toward the aluminum barn, Tucker said to Joseph, "The trailer park men want to have a meeting with me this morning." He let Joseph see his sly smile. "Wonder what it could be about. Yes indeedy… I just wonder."

  Joseph said nothing, just walked along, feeling Buster's warm muzzle rubbing at his arm, his back.

  Tuck said, "Should be able to pull out right after lunch, if things go right. At the meeting, I mean. Ride back to Mango."

  Joseph said, "None too soon for me. If we didn't, I'd have to eat dinner with Miz Butler tonight. Edith? I think that's her name."

  "I know, I know"-Tuck was making a conciliatory gesture with his hands-"you're kinda pissed off about me leaving you alone so much. But you have to admit, these here are nice people.

  The way the women keep taking you in, stuffing you full of food. Hell, I musta had four women come up to me at breakfast, ask me if you was free for dinner. Couple more days of this, you'd be too fat to move."

  Joseph nodded his head soberly. "Another couple of days, I'd have trouble moving. That much is true. You know"-he looked over at Tuck-"I think them women are gossips."

  Tuck started to say something, but then he jerked up on his horse's lead rope and wagged his finger at him. "Gawldamn it, Roscoe! You eat one more of them golf balls, you'll be shittin' rubber bands for a week!" He pursed his lips at Joseph. "And they call this place a ranch."

  A whole group of the t
railer park people were waiting for them in the barn, sitting around a table that had coasters for the glasses of iced tea and little doily place mats probably made in one of the craft classes. Tucker picked up one of the place mats and said, "Hoo-ee, now ain't these pretty?" as he swung himself into a chair, moving his head around so he could beam at everybody at once. "You keep this place neat as a preacher's sock drawer. No wonder you love it, folks."

  Sitting at the far end of the table, John Dunn cleared his throat. "We appreciate that, Mr. Gatrell-"

  "Tuck! You got to learn not to be so formal. You folks ain't livin' up north no more."

  Dunn chuckled along with the others. "Exactly right-Tuck." He glanced around the table as if to say, "See? He's gone right to the point of the matter." "In a way," he added, "that's what we want to talk to you about. Where we live. Where we want to live. That's why we wanted to meet with you."

  "No place nicer than this," Tuck said. He turned to Joseph and gave a little wink. "Three days here makes me ashamed of that old shack of mine."

  "See, that's where we disagree, Tuck. We've been talking about it-" Dunn took another look around the table, gathering support. "Everyone you see here, we've visited Mango. You took us around, then we went back on our own. Hope you don't mind, but we did. Just walked around looking and thinking and talking. This morning, we went back again just to be sure."

  "Be sure of what?" Tuck asked.

  "To be sure, well…" Dunn hesitated. "This is awkward for me, and if you're not interested, just come right out and say it. There'll be no hard feelings. But we've been talking about it, and everyone here feels the same. We'd like to try and work out a deal with you-"

  "About buying Everglades Springwater? No problem. You can have all you want." Tuck thought for a moment before adding, "At a discount, too."

  "It's not the water," one of the other men said. "It's those little houses of yours you said you used to rent. Down by the bay? That's what we're talking about. Tell him, John."

  Dunn said, "That's exactly right. We're offering to rent those houses. Or perhaps buy them, if you're willing. We want to live in Mango."

  Joseph watched Tuck take his hat off; saw the familiar look of stage surprise on the man's face. Thought to himself, They can't see through this flim-flam old fool? as Tuck said, "Them old shacks of mine? That's what you're talking about? Why hell, folks, they ain't fit for animals to live in."

  "We'd fix them up," said one of the women. "It would give us something to do besides sitting around here playing shuffleboard, listening to our veins harden."

  The man named Bill said, "I spent forty years in the construction business, Tuck. John put in about the same amount of time as an engineer."

  "Electrical engineer," Dunn said. "That's what I was getting around to. If you would rent those places to us at a reasonable fee, we'd do the work, take the cost of the materials out of the rent, and within a year we'd have Mango looking like a postcard. Here-" He reached out to hand Tuck a rolled sheet of bluish-looking paper. "We sat around last night, Bill and I, and drew up these designs. The way the houses would look once we were done. They're just quick sketches, of course. If there's anything you don't like…"

  Tuck rolled the paper out on the table, scratching his head. "Little dots and dashes…" He glanced up. "These are my shacks?"

  Bill came around to stand behind him, pointing to show him what was what. How they'd rip out such and such beams, put pilings in where, how they'd re-tin the roofs and pour cement for new foundations, where the flower gardens would be planted, what the porches would look like. "A couple of us want to keep our units here, sort of commute," Bill said. "But most of us are willing to move in, go to work right away."

  "It would be like camping out," one of the women-Jenny- said. "An adventure, like in the pioneer days."

  Tuck said, "Just so you can be near the spring?" Enjoying it, letting all these people convince him.

  "No," said Dunn, "the spring has nothing to do with it-no offense, understand. We don't question your claims-"

  Thelma said, "I certainly don't," smiling at Joseph, watching him sigh and look at the ground. "I'll be drinking that water! I have a feeling I'll need the extra energy."

  Dunn said, "That's up to each and every individual. What I'm saying is, Tuck, we'll support your claims when it comes time for you to talk to the park people. That'll be part of the agreement. We'll be your neighbors, and neighbors help neighbors-that's the way I see it. My own reasons for wanting to move to Mango are…" He smiled softly, looking from face to face. "My personal reason is, I see it as a chance to do something constructive, something different. Personally, I'm damn tired of being old."

  Riding the horses, still leading the steer, Tucker and Joseph followed a winding ridge known, in the old days, as Fahkahatchee Trace. The Trace crossed the saw-grass prairie, east to west, and sometimes swooped far enough south so that they could hear the piercing vibrato of truck tires on the Tamiami Trail. It was an odd noise to hear amid all that silence; sounded like a prolonged animal cry, fading and rising on a gusting wind that diffused the heat, then propelled it in drifting, oily pools across the Everglades. Joseph on Buster lead the way, though every so often Roscoe would lunge ahead and try to nip Buster on the rump, only to be yanked down by Tucker, who would hiss, "You dumb bunny! You want to get paint-poisoned?"

  Not that Tucker really minded. The horse had spirit, and Tuck was feeling pretty good about himself. True, his back and butt hurt a little and, if he sneezed or coughed, he could feel that tender vessel up in his head throb, reminding him that his own flesh and blood body was still a traitor. But he was used to that; didn't let it bother him much anymore. Hated to give the damn thing credence by worrying about it. Otherwise, he felt okay,- full of ginger, as a matter of fact.

  As he rode, Tuck let his brain drift around, grazing on those topics near and dear to him. He pictured the Monday-afternoon meeting with the park people from Tallahassee. He'd have a table set up outside so the mosquitoes would feed on them; see if those shitheels could survive a couple of hours without air conditioning! The folks from the trailer park would be there, too-but they'd be too busy cheering for his speech and getting interviewed by reporters to pay much attention to the bugs. Tuck imagined that pretty lady, Thelma, smiling at him, telling him how smart he was. Now there was a woman with potential. Any woman with enough heart to feed a worn-out old Indian like Joseph had to have some spirit, as well. True, she wasn't as pretty as his old Cuban love, Mariaelana, but that didn't mean Thelma wouldn't know what it took to make a man happy.

  Tuck imagined the way Mango would look. The trailer park folks would have only a few days' work under their belts, but they were energetic as bees. The women had been ordering supplies when he and Joseph left, while the men assembled their tools. That would be a nice shot for the TV cameras and the newspaper photographers: men on ladders hammering, hauling off trash, setting pilings. Give Mango the look of a young town, too full of life to be killed by them Tallahassee shitheels. Of course, Marion would be there. Henry Short, too! And that girl policeman, Miz Walker, if Tuck could arrange it. She was so smart and pretty, it would make him feel good to give her career a boost.

  Tuck imagined the look on Duke's face as he listened to old Lemar Flowers give them government people what for. Lemar with his white hair and old-timey black suit, while him and Duke stood there listening.

  That was a nice thought, him and Marion on the same side, for once, two grown men standing shoulder-to-shoulder, blood relatives.

  Tuck allowed the image to linger, musing on it, getting the taste of it, feeling what it would be like to beat those shitheels, using the same water he'd been drinking for more than seventy years to make 'em cry uncle.

  Sell water! Get the whole country's attention, everybody wanting to buy the stuff.

  Maybe those French people with their little green bottles weren't so dumb, after all…

  On his saddle, Tucker jolted abruptly, then hollered out to
Roscoe, "Whoa, gawldamn it! You run up that big black's ass, you'll get us both kicked!"

  Ahead, Joseph had stopped. Stopped at the edge of a myrtle flat and little cypress head. From the trees, egrets and ibis flushed white as ice shards, swirling out of the hot swamp gloom.

  Tuck took his hat off, used a red neckerchief to wipe his face. "Joe, sometimes I think the onliest thing that separates the Glades from the equator is a sick palm tree and a Key West whore. Ain't it hot?"

  Joseph had dismounted. He said over his shoulder, "Find some shade. I want to take a look around."

  "Why you stopping?"

  "Just am."

  Tuck let his eyes roam, getting his bearings. "Hey-ain't this one of your old hunting camps? Didn't we use this little hummock as a gator base once?"

  Joseph said, "I won't be long," walking toward the woods, hoping Tuck wouldn't follow-but knowing he would, the man was so nosy.

  Joseph stepped into the shadows of the cypress dome, and the temperature instantly dropped ten, fifteen degrees. The ground was soft as sponge, all those cypress needles, and the roots of the trees poked up out of the black-water pond, orderly as headstones in a cemetery. Joseph found the old path that circled the pond to the back of the cypress head, and there, beneath silver limbs, was his shack. What was left of it, anyway.

  Joseph stood staring, hands on hips, feeling as if there was a weight on his chest.

  The door had been ripped off its rope hinges, and part of the palmetto thatching had imploded. He ducked under the doorway and stood inside, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Someone had a made a mess of the place. Beer cans and cigarette butts all over the ground, and the bed tick he'd filled with egret skins had been kicked open, gray feathers everywhere. The shelf that had once held the few tin plates and cups he owned had been ripped down, too. Joseph stooped to retrieve a cast-iron fry skillet, noted the rust on it, then tossed it into the corner by the wooden bed frame near the Playboy calendar that was still tacked to the timber post there.