Sanibel Flats

by Randy Wayne White

  Beneath the names he wrote Wendy Stafford? then opened the metal box he had found on the island.

  He removed one of the jade amulets from the box, a small parrot's head with wings folded close to the chest, and studied it under the light. It looked authentic, but he wanted to be sure. He crossed the room and placed the artifact on the dark stage of his Wolfe zoom binoculared microscope. He raised and rotated the binocular tube, dialed to the lowest power, and took off his glasses, focusing carefully on the parrot's drilled left eye. Through the illuminated lens, the jade—jadeite, really—was a brilliant field of translucent green, magnified seven times. Ford wanted to be certain of how the eyes had been drilled. The indigenous peoples of Central America had used wooden augers, string, and the cutting power of sand to fashion their amulets. Ford was looking for the trace spirals of a modern metal drill. Street shysters were selling mass-produced jadeite junk all over Central America, but this little parrot wasn't junk; he found no spirals. It was a little green god, cool to the touch, a dense little weight on the palm. Probably eight hundred years old or more, and Mayan, though it could have been Chorotega, Corobici, Brunca, or possibly even Inca—there had been trade between most of the Meso-American tribes. Ford didn't know enough about it to be sure.

  He gave the other amulets a quick inspection, then took the plastic bag from Rafe's metal box and used a tweezers to extract a thin beige flake of residue. He dampened it, mounted it on a slide, touched the reflected light switch, upped scope power to 25x, and took a look: rough congealed particles; some kind of membrane. He choose another beige flake, the largest in the sack, and positioned it beneath the scope. This sample was blotched with a long dark stain. As Ford increased power and illumination, the hairline stain became a sweeping reddish-brown stroke that bled and faded into the beige membrane.

  Ford opened the plastic sack once more and inhaled the faint odor of old leather—but now from another direction he caught a stronger odor.

  Damn it!

  Ford ran across the walkway into the room he thought of as his living area, and yanked the pot of burned beans off the propane stove.

  Now he'd have to start supper all over again.

  Through the window above the stove he could see the marina. Dock lights shimmered, strips of gold on liquid darkness, funneling out across the bay. Most of the boats were lighted, too, sitting in rows looking bright and Christmasy, vibrating with muted laughter, wild sentence fragments rising above the night sounds.

  Ford listened to the party for a time as he made fresh beans, trying to pick out words, match voices with the silhouettes he could see on the docks. Then the hilarity began to underline his own sense of solitude; made him feel like an eavesdropper, so he decided to make a little noise of his own. He slid a cassette into the Maxima waterproof stereo system, The Beach Boys' Pet Sounds, cranked it loud, poured coffee in a mug, went out onto the porch and down the wooden steps to his fish tank while the beans simmered.

  To make the tank, he'd taken a thousand-gallon wooden cistern built like a whiskey barrel, cut it in two, mounted it on the widest part of the dock, added a subsand filter and a hundred-gallon upper reservoir to improve water clarity. He'd spent a week checking pH, getting the raw water and overflow pumps just right, then began to slowly introduce some of the local flora and fauna: turtle grass, tunicates, sea hydroids, then a few common vertebrates, killifish, small snappers, immature groupers, then plenty of shrimp he had seined up so the fish wouldn't eat each other. Finally he'd caught three reef squid knowing that squid, because they were delicate, were good indicators of an aquarium's integrity.

  The squid all died within three days.

  Ford started over. He made structural adjustments. Got rid of the killifish—they attacked everything that came near them. Rechecked the tank's pH, fine-tuned the intake flow, and tried again, this time with two squid. Now he turned on the light above the tank—a bare bulb beneath a green metal shade—and watched fish scurry, saw the glowing ruby eyes of shrimp, finally found the two squid side by side, their wine-colored spots throbbing with, what seemed to Ford, outrage.

  "You guys still alive?"

  The squid held themselves suspended above the bottom, their keen eyes apparently fixed peripherally on Ford.

  "Don't die on me. I've had enough of that for one day."

  With the light on them, the squids' chromatophores were beginning to function, changing color from brown to pale yellow, matching the shade of the sand beneath them while their posterior fins fluttered, holding them in place.

  Ford said, "Here it is, Friday night, and I'm talking to cephalopods. And everyone I knows at a party."

  He switched out the light, went back up to the cabin, replaced The Beach Boys with shortwave, Radio Havana. He recognized the announcer's voice. She spoke a fluid, sensual Spanish that did not mesh with the way he remembered her: a nicotine-stained hulk he'd met at some long-ago embassy party. His mind slipped easily into Spanish, thinking in Spanish. He was jolted out of it, though, when the Hulk put on the New York Philharmonic doing Aaron Copeland's Dangon Cubano. Listening, Ford put snapper on to fry and ate alone looking out the window. The bay, calm in the June night, was a black mirror and the sky a basin of stars.

  After the dishes were done, he found a local AM station on the shortwave. The news guy didn't say anything about the body of Hollins being found. Maybe the woman at Everglades County Sheriff 's Department thought he was kidding, a crank. No way of telling. But the idea of Rafe still out there, still hanging in the darkness, was oddly unsettling, and Ford decided to do some work to put it out of his mind.

  * * *

  Tomlinson came clattering out of the darkness in the tiny painter skiff he kept tethered behind the Morgan sailboat, the boat that had been his home since his arrival in Dinkin's Bay two months earlier—and probably years before that.

  He tied up at the dock beside Ford's skiff and flat-bottomed trawl boat, stepped out waving with one hand, pulling his shoulder-length hair back into a ponytail with the other, calling "Hey, Doc, hey, man, what's happening?" Then he climbed onto the stairs, into the light, saying "Sittin' out there all alone, listening to that party going on—" Tomlinson, tall and bony, blond with a black beard, shrugged. "Really got to be kind of a bummer, you know? Thought I'd stop by."

  Looking at Tomlinson was like stepping into the past and seeing a child of the Sixties with that look in the eyes, still hearing music, an old hand at psychedelic visions, a man about Ford's age who had weathered badly but had visited God often enough not to care. Tomlinson had taken to stopping by the stilt house off and on in the evenings, sometimes bringing a book to read while Ford worked; other times talking away, and Ford didn't mind. He liked Tomlinson and was glad for the company.

  Ford had just removed Jeth Nicholes's shark from the ice. It lay on the outside cleaning table beneath the light of the twin overhead bulbs, its three-foot body in rigid curvature. Ford said, "How's it going, Tomlinson?"

  Tomlinson said, "Are you kidding? How's it going? You've got to be kidding." He made a face, showing he was not as serious as he sounded, saying "You been listening to the music they're playing over at the marina? How could you miss it, loud as hell, man. Damn people at that party are deaf or something. Going to ruin their damn inner ears playing it that loud. There's been research done on that stuff."

  Ford said, "I've got some beer up in the refrigerator, you want to go get it?"

  "What?"

  Grinning, Ford spoke louder. "I said I've got some beer."

  Tomlinson said, "Oh," reaching his hand out, touching the shark with one finger. "My God, they're playing Twisted Sister. They're playing Van Halen. They're playing Prince, man. Rot their damn brains, listening to junk like that. These kids today, huh?" Tomlinson shuddered. "What kind of beer?"

  "I didn't even look in the sack."

  "A cold beer'd be nice right now."

  "Make sure you get the refrigerator closed tight. The door's got a bad seal."

 
; Tomlinson stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down into the shark pen. The floodlight made the water the color of strong tea, and, beneath the surface, three black torpedo shapes cruised slowly into the light, following the perimeter of the pen. Tomlinson said, "Why they always swim that way, man, that direction? Every time I come here, those three big sharks are always swimming the same way, the same speed. It's weird, like they're police dogs or something."

  Ford looked up from the cleaning table briefly. "I don't know why. Sharks in captivity almost always swim clockwise. In Florida, anyway. Not in Africa, though. It was different in Africa. They swam counterclockwise. Someone somewhere probably knows why, but I don't."

  "You think if I fell in there, all three of them would nail me? Eat me up?"

  Ford said, "If you fell in, the noise would probably scare them so bad they'd bust through the wire, so don't, okay? It's hard enough just getting them to eat fish."

  Tomlinson returned with two bottles as Ford took up the scalpel and made a long cut, opening the small bull shark's belly. He penned back the skin as the huge gray liver slid out, spilling over the edge of the cleaning table as if trying to escape. He pushed the liver away and found the larger of the fish's two stomachs and snipped it open with scissors, front to back. Inside was a litter of catfish spines and bits of shell and crab carapace. Tomlinson said, "He was hungry, huh?"

  "Could be. This is its cardiac stomach, the one they can expel through their mouths, inside out, if they want to get rid of something they can't digest."

  "Then why's it still have all that gravelly junk in it? They can't digest that kind of stuff, can they?"

  "Some of it probably. But I'm not sure."

  Tomlinson finished his beer quickly and now opened Ford's bottle. "You want this?"

  "No. Go ahead."

  "Sharks are your thing, huh? You told me that's what you've been studying, what your work's all about."

  "Now it is. For a long time my main interest was biolumi-nescence. Phosphorescence. You know how sea water sparkles?"

  "Yeah, man. Boat leaves a bright trail at night. I love it. Like green fire."

  "Only it's cold light caused by tiny organisms that light up when they're disturbed. I got interested in a little crustacean called an ostracod. It gives off a pale-blue light; very pretty. Put a bunch of ostracods in a tube of water, shake it, and they give off enough light to read by. The Japanese used to collect them and dry them. During the war, Japanese officers would take a little ostracod powder in their palm, moisten it, and read dispatches in dark-out situations."

  "Dormitory chemistry," said Tomlinson. "I used to be good at that."

  The skin around Ford's eyes crinkled when he smiled. "From ostracods I went into the single-celled bioluminescent organisms, things called armored flagellates. That was my main interest for a while. Then I went to fish. Tarpon. The tarpon is one of the most popular gamefish in the world, yet hardly anything is known about its life history."

  "But now it's sharks."

  "Temporarily, anyway. Just bull sharks. I don't know that much about them yet. No one does, really. I got interested when I was in Africa. Second to Australia, there used to be more shark attacks off the coast of Durban, South Africa, than any other spot in the world. The Durban businesspeople have spent a lot of money enclosing the public beaches with nets. The shark responsible for most of the attacks is the Zambezi shark. It's called that because it goes up the Zambezi River into fresh water." Ford tapped the fish he was working on. "This is the Zambezi shark. Our bull shark. The same species. Then I was in Central America. In Lake Nicaragua and in a Masaguan lake they call Ojo de Dios, God's Eye, there's a freshwater shark that is extremely aggressive. Attacks on people are so common that the natives won't even bathe in the lakes. The Maya considered the shark a deity; some still do. Used it in their glyphs, their carvings. They still refer to the sharks as El Dictamen, The Judgment. You'll see an occasional boat on the lake, but that's it. Natives consider swimming out of the question. "

  "And those are bull sharks, too? All the same fish, right?" Tomlinson was combing his fingers through his hair, getting into it.

  "Right. So I'm interested in the bull shark for a couple of reasons. Why is it more prone to enter and live in fresh water? Why's it so aggressive off South Africa and in Central America, but not here? It's one of our most common sharks, but this area has had only four recorded shark attacks in the last hundred years, none fatal. Those attacks may have involved bull sharks, no one knows. Even so, with all the people who swim here, the chance of shark attack is statistically insignificant. Why?"

  Tomlinson said wasn't that always the stumper, why? "But what a great way to make a living, man. Catching stuff and selling it. This is what you've always done?"

  Ford said, "No. Just now." Still using the scissors, he clipped away the fish's spleen, then sections of the pinkish-white pancreas and the long rectal gland at the posterior end of the intestine. He was going slower now, using a probe to reveal the shark's urogenital system, pushing apart the cloacal opening with his fingers, then using the probe again to see if the abdominal pores were closed. They were not. He said, "I got my degree when I was still in the navy. When I got out, I couldn't get a job in marine biology, so I went to work for a company that could send me to the places I wanted to go. I worked for them and did my research on the side."

  "Like some kind of international corporation?"

  "International, right."

  "World conglomerates, man. You don't have to tell me. They recruited us heavy back at Harvard. Once I got in the wrong line and almost ended up working for IBM. LSD and IBM—that's a business trip for you. I was messed up. Thank God I couldn't remember my Social Security number, or I'd probably be in New York right now. Paris maybe, wearing a tie."

  Ford looked up from the shark. "Harvard? You went there?" It was the first he'd heard of that.

  "For seven years, man. Seven long years. And I don't mind saying, toward the end, morale was at an all-time low. You go for a doctorate at the university, you better expect to take a written test or two."

  "A Ph.D.?"

  "Eastern religions. My master's was in world history, but I figured what the fuck, why not shoot for enlightenment? Sometimes you got to go for broke."

  Ford said, "I'm going to segment this shark's brain, then weigh the parts. How about a couple more beers?"

  "I've got a number all rolled and ready ... in my pocket here someplace if you're interested. " Tomlinson was patting his pockets, searching.

  "A number?" Ford knew what it meant, but it didn't register right away.

  "A joint . . . someplace."

  Ford said, "I thought you said you don't do that stuff anymore."

  Tomlinson was smiling, suddenly sheepish. "Can't find the damn thing anyway. Maybe I did quit." He was still patting his pockets. "Yeah, I guess that's what happened. I musta quit. How about another beer?"

  "Good idea."

  Ford used a fillet knife to remove the skin from the shark's head, then a scalpel to scrape away the cartilage that protected the brain. There were blood clots from the clubbing Jeth had given it. Ford washed the clots away and found the cerebellum, neat as a walnut above the optic lobes. Tomlinson watched while Ford segmented and weighed the brain, and then they sat out on the dock for another hour, talking, listening to the music and the noise of the party at the marina. Ford established that Tomlinson did, indeed, know a lot about world history; probably even enough to have majored in it at Harvard. When Ford went to bed at 1 A.M., he looked toward the mouth of the bay to see if Jessica's porch light was still on. It was . . . and it was still on when he awoke at three, made a trip to the head, then lay awake thinking. . . .

  FOUR

  Ford had found an old number for Harry Bernstein, so he got the operator, clunked in a pocketful of quarters, and listened to a distant, distant recording in Spanish: line disconnected, muchas gracias. He hadn't much hope for it anyway. So he waited around the pay phone, hop
ing Bernstein would call him. As he waited, Ford took out the photograph of Rafe's son. Jake Age 5. What was it in the faces of children, he wondered, that created the impression of innocence and keyed in some adults—himself, to name one—the urge to shield them from all harm? It was more than bone structure and the absence of facial lines. It had to be more than an experiential judgment, too, for children sometimes demonstrated the capacity for great cruelty. Perhaps the source of the emotion was some deep coding in the DNA, evolved during speciation to protect the young from marauding adults; a built-in check for the preservation of species. It would be a good one to bounce off Tomlinson some night. Whatever it was, the boy's photograph communicated that innocence: the slight, shy smile and the wide brown eyes staring out as if waiting for something; eyes that trusted and expected only good things.

  Ford wondered what the expression on the boy's face would be if photographed now, this moment; wondered if young Jake still had access to that expression of trust, of pure expectation. What would it be like to be an eight-year-old boy in a strange country, unable to understand the language, stolen from his father by strangers? The child was getting the adult course in terror, and the sense of urgency Ford felt wasn't alleviated by the fact that Bernstein didn't call.

  At noon, he ordered a fried conch sandwich from the marina deli and went in to talk to MacKinley. MacKinley was sitting behind the cash register reading a magazine called This Is New Zealand.

  "Have I gotten any phone calls, Mack?"

  "Had one this morning, but they didn't leave a message."

  "A man?"

  "Nope. A woman. Might have been that artist friend of yours out on the point."

  "Oh." Ford nodded toward the magazine MacKinley was reading. "You getting homesick, Mack?"

  "Homesick? Don't think of the islands as home anymore. Left when I was sixteen, and haven't been back." Speaking with a New Zealand accent, MacKinley added, "Still have a fondness for the place, though. Like to look at the pictures—but that's as close as I care to get. All those sheep, you know. And the women aren't as pretty. Unless you go to Australia. The women in Australia are something." He put down the magazine. "You missed quite a party last night, Doc."