Nature Girl

Twenty-three

As the helicopter sped north along the coast, Eugenie Fonda frowned out the window. One minute she’d been watching snowy egrets scatter like confetti across a carpet of mangroves; then abruptly the view had changed to a dreary checkerboard of parking lots, condo towers and suburbs. Eugenie had anticipated a rush of relief at the first sight of civilization, but instead she felt depressed.

Gillian was chatting up one of the Coast Guard spotters, while another crewman tended to the private investigator. Eugenie couldn’t hear a thing over the turbines, which was fine. Her thoughts turned to the boy in the football helmet, Honey’s son. Eugenie tried to imagine what it was like living in the backwater of Everglades City, where there were no Jamba Juices or Olive Gardens or Blockbusters; where the only entertainment was a swamp bigger than Dallas.

Fry seems like a fairly normal kid, she thought. A happy kid, too. She was sure that his old man would find him soon, and run him to a doctor.

Eugenie also wondered about the tall blue-eyed Seminole. She was glad that she hadn’t tried seducing him to get a lift off the island, because that would have hurt Gillian, of whom she’d grown fond. It also averted the humiliating possibility that the Indian might have refused to have sex with her. Eugenie was unaccustomed to such rejection because she was unaccustomed to dealing with men of character.

Exhibit A being Boyd Shreave.

On the regret meter, Eugenie Fonda had passed the “What was I thinking?” stage and was cruising toward “Boyd who?” Their fling had been an idle blunder of her own devising, and she bore him no malice. In fact, she would’ve been bummed if he were mauled by a panther, poisoned by a coral snake or otherwise savaged in the boondocks.

But Eugenie doubted that a fate so colorful would befall her dull Boyd. She saw him begging a ride back to the mainland with Honey and her ex, then hastening to Fort Worth on a doomed mission to head off a divorce. It was easy to envision his thunderstruck reaction as Lily Shreave presented the graphic pictorial and video evidence of his infidelity. A more endearing schmuck might win a reprieve, but Boyd didn’t stand a chance. Eugenie had no reason to hope that being single and destitute would improve his personality, or his prospects. Boyd was what he was, and she’d already moved on.

Minutes after the helicopter landed in Fort Myers, an ambulance whisked Lester off to a hospital. A female paramedic examined Eugenie and Gillian while a Coast Guard petty officer took their statements. Gillian told him that she was a weather personality for WSUK, a non-existent television station in Tallahassee. Eugenie, using her real name of Jean Leigh Hill, was inspired to identify herself as Gillian’s videographer. The two of them had gotten lost, she explained, on a kayak expedition in the Ten Thousand Islands. Juicing up the yarn, Gillian said they’d befriended Lester, who while skinny-dipping was shot by a poacher who’d mistaken him for a manatee. The ski-masked assailant, she added, escaped in a silver-blue speedboat called Wet Dream.

The young Coast Guard officer showed no sign of doubting the yarn. He mentioned that Wet Dream was the most common boat name in Florida, followed by Reel Love and Vitamin Sea. He also reported that Lester was actually Theodore Dealey, and that he was suffering from a rare and unpronounceable medical disorder. The petty officer commended Gillian for diving into Dismal Key Pass to assist Mr. Dealey, who would have otherwise drowned. The petty officer then asked the women if they’d seen anyone besides the trigger-happy poacher on the island, and both of them-wishing to protect the fugitive Seminole-answered no.

The petty officer said they were free to leave, and offered to call a cab. Eugenie picked up the Halliburton that held Dealey’s video gear; Gillian grabbed the one with the Nikon.

Outside it was getting warm, so they waited in the parking lot and soaked up the sun. Gillian yawned and said, “So, whatcha gonna do now-go home to Texas?”

“I haven’t decided. You?”

“Back to FSU, I guess. Try not to flunk out this term.”

“Bet you’re gonna miss Taco,” Eugenie said.

Gillian laughed. “It’s Thlocko. And yeah, I miss him already,” she said. “But, hey, at least we got to do it. Only once-but he was amazingly awesome.”

“Well, good for you.” It was the natural order of things, and Eugenie didn’t feel the least bit jealous.

“I could totally eat a horse,” Gillian said, stretching.

“Me, too.”

“Can I borrow a few bucks?”

“All I’ve got is a credit card,” said Eugenie, “but you’re welcome to join me. There’s some stuff I need to tell you, anyway.”

“Cool. Where do you wanna go?”

“Looks like a good day for the beach.”

“I’m there,” Gillian said.

“And maybe a spa treatment?”

“Oh, momma.”

“And for lunch,” Eugenie said, “a bowl of French onion soup.”

“You’re my hero,” said Gillian.

“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

Tree-bound, Boyd Shreave was revisiting the high points of his telemarketing career:

Troy Marchtower, age seventy-three, who had dumped the last of his 401(k) into sixteen acres of abandoned soybean fields near Gulfport, Mississippi, with the expectation (based on Shreave’s spiel) that the tract would be developed into upscale waterfront town houses. Hurricane Katrina obliterated Gulfport soon afterward, and Marchtower’s property lay beneath seven feet of toxic mud, a bleak turn of events that Shreave couldn’t have foreseen (and in any case fell under the contractually absolving “act of God” clause).

Mr. and Mrs. Clement Derr, whom Shreave had signed up for supplementary health insurance that cost a whopping $137.20 per week. Unfortunately for the Derrs, the policy reimbursed only for treatment of cholera, Ebola virus, chikungunya fever, trypanosomiasis, and six other tropical diseases not likely to afflict a couple in their mid-eighties living in Skowhegan, Maine.

Mrs. Rosa Antoinette Shannon, who was so upset to hear that Hillary Clinton was secretly plotting to confiscate all privately owned firearms that she’d patriotically recited for Boyd Shreave her husband’s Platinum American Express number, pledging $25,000 to a Republican PAC called Americans for Unlimited Self-Defense, which had hired Relentless to do its fund-raising. Rosa’s donation was hastily returned after it was learned that her spouse was none other than Marco “Twinkie” Shannon, the most prolific supplier of Mexican heroin on the eastern seaboard. His unappetizing past came to light in personal correspondence from the East Jersey State Prison, where he was serving twenty to life for kneecapping two associates on the driving range at Pine Valley. In a handwritten letter leaked to the Washington Post, Mr. Shannon-citing a previous commitment-regretfully declined an invitation to visit the White House with other GOP donors for a photograph with the First Lady and her Scottish terrier.

All three deals had been buttoned up by Boyd Shreave’s supervisor but, being the one who’d chummed up the suckers, Shreave awarded himself full credit and glory. If Relentless wouldn’t take him back, surely a competitor phone bank would.

His immediate challenge, however, was to escape the island. As the morning ticked away, Shreave felt less like a “Survivor” and more like Gilligan. He was reluctant to attempt descending from the royal poinciana, partly because he didn’t trust his balance and partly because he felt safer in the branches than he did on the ground. In addition to a nerve-racking assortment of wildlife, at least two dangerous outlaws were running loose-the vile-smelling derelict who’d kidnapped Honey Santana, and the elusive Indian with whom Eugenie Fonda supposedly had skipped off. Boyd Shreave had no desire to interact with either of them.

Nearly as daunting was the cactus dilemma: Directly below Shreave’s roost was a thriving spray of prickly pear. An ill-chosen step, a gust of wind-and he’d be impaled like a cricket on barbed wire. He blanched at the sight of the long, pale needles on the beckoning green pads, and thought: Not again. Shreave flashed back to that doomed orthotics sales call in Arlington, the old crow practically tripping him with her oxygen tank and then cackling when he fell crotch-first into her potted dwarf saguaro. The pincushion tracks on his pubic triangle might have paled, but the excruciating memory had not.

Shreave hugged the poinciana and resolved not to look down until he was better prepared. Fastening his eyes on the sun-kissed treetops proved calming, and gradually he began inching his butt backward along the bough. Eventually he’d have to stand and traverse branch to branch, but why hurry? The slower he moved, the less noise he made-and until the next helicopter appeared, his plan was to remain silent and unseen.

It hadn’t occurred to Boyd Shreave that absolutely nobody would be searching for him; that his absence would leave no void in the lives of those who knew him. He would have been stupefied to learn that the Coast Guard crew that he’d fruitlessly signaled had been sent by his own wife to rescue the private investigator who was gathering ammunition for their divorce.

After barely fifteen minutes of worm-like exertions, Shreave needed a rest. Clinging with one hand to a sturdy sprig, he fished a granola bar out of his shorts and tore off the wrapper with his teeth. Cramming the dry shingle into his mouth, he began to crunch so loudly that he failed to hear the two men enter the campsite below.

“Yo!” one of them yelled.

Shreave jerked and let out a terrified gasp, spraying crumbs. Anxiously he lowered his eyes and appraised the strangers, one of whom was carrying a weapon flatter and sleeker than Honey’s Taser. Shreave assumed that it was a real handgun and felt compelled to make a case for his own harmlessness, yet he was unable to speak. With his gullet spackled by damp oats and mushed peanuts, he was left to pant like a pleuritic mandrill.

“Get your ass down here,” said the man with the gun. He was middle-aged, with broad shoulders and a real outdoor tan.

His companion was taller and much younger, with brown skin, high cheekbones and light eyes. Shreave suspected that he might be Eugenie’s Indian. The man held up the foil wrapping from the snack bar and said, “You drop this?”

Shreave was so dry that he couldn’t make himself swallow. Theatrically he pointed at his bulged cheeks and began huffing, to demonstrate that his speech was temporarily impeded.

The man with the handgun asked, “Are you one of the kayakers? Did you take the tour with Honey Santana?”

Shreave saw nothing but risk in admitting the connection, so he shook his head and shrugged in fake puzzlement. He was confident that he could mime a lie as convincingly as he could vocalize one, and as usual he was mistaken.

The Indian said, “The guy’s bullshitting, Mr. Skinner.”

The other man nodded impatiently. “I don’t have time for this bumblefuck.” He trained the handgun on the imaginary center point of Shreave’s shiny forehead. “Last chance, junior. The truth shall set your sorry ass free.”

Shreave’s response was a rude quiniela of fear-based reflexes. First he soiled himself and then he volcanically expelled the remains of the honey-nut granola bar. The intruders alertly stepped back from the poinciana, avoiding the volley.

“Nasty,” the Indian said.

The gunman re-aimed. “Get outta that tree,” he commanded again.

Shreave wiped his face with the back of his hand. It was time for a desperate change of strategy: the truth.

“A man took her!” he shouted down hoarsely. “Took Honey!”

“What’d he look like?” the gunman demanded.

“Sick,” Shreave replied. “All fucked-up-his hand, his face…”

“Where’d they go?” the Indian asked.

Shreave pointed feverishly. “That way! He had her on a leash.”

“A leash?” The older man slowly lowered the gun.

“Yeah! Can you guys help me down?”

“What for?” The Indian crumpled the foil from Shreave’s snack bar and shoved it into his pocket. He spat in the cactus patch and said, “Damn litterbug. I hope you rot up there.”

Then he followed the gunman out of the camp.

For diversion, Honey composed in her head another letter to the newspapers. Inspired by her predicament, the topic was sexual harassment.

To the Editor:

Recently I had an altercation with an employer, Mr. Louis Piejack, who groped me in the workplace. I fought back to defend myself, and then immediately quit my job.

In retrospect I should have reported what happened to the authorities and contacted a lawyer, to deter Mr. Piejack from future misbehavior. Unfortunately, he has persisted with his unwanted advances and is presently holding me captive at gunpoint on a deserted island in the western Everglades.

The lesson to be learned from my experience is that women must aggressively discourage mental and physical intimidation at the job site-not just with a crab mallet, but with the force of law.

Most sincerely,

Honey Santana

She thought it was a darn good letter; succinct and low-key, the way the newspapers preferred them. If she’d had a pencil and paper, she would have written it down.

“You ready, angel?” Piejack asked woozily. The pain pills were working their magic.

“Ready for what, Louis?”

“A ride in my boat.”

He was sprawled beside her, befouling an otherwise-splendid morning. He hadn’t stirred in so long that the fire ants had quietly returned to their dank hideaway inside his surgical swathing. Piejack had found another bottle of water in a duffel bag but, after laboring to open it, had lost interest. Listlessly he’d watched Honey drink the whole thing. She was grateful to be free of the ropes but mindful of the sawed-off shotgun, which Piejack had wedged erect between his legs.

“Look here, I don’t need no hands!” He moved his hips to make the barrel sway.

“Adorable,” Honey said.

“You think this is a monster, wait’ll you see ol’ John Henry.”

“That’s what you named your cock?” Honey laughed. “Sorry, Louis, but that’s lame.”

He lifted his head. “You got somethin’ better? I’ll call him whatever you want.”

Honey said, “Okay. How about Charlemagne?”

Piejack snorted. “Sounds like a girl.”

“He was a king, Louis.”

“King a what?”

Now that Piejack was half-stoned, Honey had decided to make a grab for the stubby shotgun.

She said, “He was king of the Franks.”

“Then why don’t I just call my dick Frank? It’s easier to say.”

“Because Charlemagne sounds better,” Honey said. “Hotter.”

Piejack smiled. “You like that, huh?”

He pumped his pelvis twice, bobbing the gun. The weapon was small enough that Honey believed she could handle it.

“He was the master of Western Europe, Louis. Emperor of the Romans,” she said. “How about another pill?”

With his good hand, Piejack picked up the rope. His eyelids drooped and his head began to loll. “Charlie Main,” he murmured. “That ain’t so hard.”

“You want the last Vicodin or not?”

“Sure. Bottle’s in my pants,” he said. “But first I need you to take care a somethin’ else down there. See, I got this special itch I can’t scratch ’cause my fingers are messed up.”

Honey said, “Don’t even ask.”

“It’s Charlie Main’s boys.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Aw, come on. They got a rash that won’t quit,” he said.

Honey scooted close and nearly gagged on his smell. “Be a good boy and take your medicine. Here, let me help with the bottle.”

She leaned over as if reaching toward his pockets, then locked both hands around the sawed-off. She yanked, but the barrel wouldn’t budge-Piejack had clamped his thighs on the grip. Honey was shocked by his strength, and the quickness of his reflexes.

He cursed and rolled to his right, dragging her body across his torso. The shotgun’s muzzle stuck hard in the ground, causing both of them to lose hold. As Honey tumbled she heard a muted concussion, and then a cry.

Her ears were ringing when she sat up. Piejack’s face was spattered with sand and leaf fragments blown back from the point-blank blast. He moaned dolefully and pinched his knees together, the heavy recoil having replaced his private itch with a stupendous bruising.

Honey couldn’t believe that the man was still conscious. Wobbling to his feet, Piejack retrieved the wisping gun, which looked as if it had been used to dig a grave.

“Don’t you fuckin’ move!” he rasped at Honey.

She didn’t. Her jaw was pounding again, and a sharp pain in her belly made her wince-one of Piejack’s slimy cactus needles, poking through her shirt. Honey wondered if any infection could be worse than his company.

Desolately, she asked, “What now, Louis?”

He hunched forward. “Louder!”

“I said, what now?”

In frustration he screeched, “You think this is funny? Huh, bitch?”

Honey realized that his ear holes were plugged with dirt. As a test, she said, “Louis, you’re nothing but a rancid bucket of scum.”

He squinted quizzically yet gave no indication of registering the insult.

Swell, Honey thought. Now I get to play charades with a sex fiend. She tugged at her earlobes and shook her head.

“You can’t hear nuthin neither?” Piejack asked loudly.

Honey made a rowing motion and shouted, “Where’s your boat, Louis? Let’s go find the boat!”

“The boat?”

“Bravo!” she said, clapping.

Piejack smiled crookedly.

“Mom! Dad!” A voice from the woods.

Honey went white-it sounded like Fry, but that was impossible. Fry was far away, safe at home with his father, and neither of them would’ve known where to find her. Honey told herself that she was imagining what she heard; cracking under the stress.

“Hey, Mom?”

The voice was closer now-too close. Honey didn’t answer. With all her heart she wanted to shout back, but she knew better. If it was really Fry, he’d come running. No matter what she told him to do, he’d come running to save her.

And he couldn’t possibly save her, not all by himself. He was twelve and a half years old, for heaven’s sake.

“Mom, Dad, it’s me!”

Honey already knew.

Run away, kiddo, she thought. Please, God, make him go the other way.

There was still hope, because Piejack couldn’t hear him.

“Where are you?” the boy hollered.

He was dangerously close now. Tragically close.

Honey couldn’t stop herself.

“Fry, go away!” she blurted. “Go get help!”

Piejack was momentarily preoccupied, pawing at a string of fire ants that had greedily attached themselves to his neck.

“Fry, do what I say!” Honey cried out. “Go away-”

But there he was, sprinting out of the trees as fast as he could, which was fast indeed…and wearing, of all things, a football helmet.

Honey held out her arms and blinked away hot tears. Fry practically knocked her down with a flying hug.

“You okay?” he asked breathlessly. “God, what happened to your face?”

“I’m fine. Just fine.”

The boy stared at Louis Piejack and the stubby shotgun.

“He’s nearly deaf,” Honey said.

Piejack was glaring at both of them. “Git lost, kid!”

Fry whispered to his mother: “I heard the gun go off and I freaked. Have you seen Dad?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dad’s tryin’ to find you. We came out here together.”

Honey thought: I’m gonna brain that man.

“I tole you to beat it!” Piejack bellowed at Fry.

“Chill out, Louis,” Honey said.

“It’s just you and me, angel, that was the deal. You and me for all time.” Piejack coldly leveled the sawed-off at Fry. “I ain’t gonna be nobody’s step-pappy. Now git movin’, boy. Go home to your old man.”

Honey firmly turned her son. “You heard him. Get outta here.”

“I’m not leaving. No way.”

“What’d you say?” Piejack tilted his head. “I can’t hear a goddamn word. You gotta speak up.”

Fry pulled free of his mother’s grasp and stepped toward Louis Piejack until the barrel of the shotgun touched the face guard of his helmet.

“I said, I’M NOT GOING ANYWHERE!” the boy hollered.

Then he doubled over and puked on Piejack’s shoes.