Nature Girl

Twenty-six

On the thirteenth day of January, overcast and crisp, Lily Shreave sat before the bedroom television and replayed for the fourth time a VHS cassette that had arrived that morning by courier.

The tape was only six minutes long, and after it ended she made a phone call.

“You lied to me,” she told the man on the other end.

“Not completely. I said I got penetration, which is true.”

“But it’s not Boyd!” Lily snapped.

“Obviously. Nothing was happening between him and the girlfriend, so I had to wing it.”

“Oh please, Mr. Dealey.”

“This was the best I could do.”

“Lizards? Two lizards humping?”

“I was on an island, Mrs. Shreave. Lost in the goddamn Everglades.”

“And you’d still be stranded there if it weren’t for me,” Lily said. She clicked the remote to rewind the tape. “I hope you’re not expecting twenty-five thousand dollars for this spectacle.”

Dealey chuckled. “No, ma’am. But remember I took a bullet for the cause.”

Lily hit the play button. “I do like the music,” she remarked.

“Ravel’s Bolero. It’s pretty standard.” He’d dubbed it himself, to erase the conversation between Eugenie Fonda and the boy in the football helmet.

Lily went on: “I’m not fond of creepy critters, but these slinky little rascals are cute, I’ve gotta admit. And definitely hot for each other.”

“I’m told they’re chameleons,” Dealey said. “Green is their happy color.”

Lily was impressed by the male’s lithe piggybacking. It couldn’t have been easy maneuvering around his mate’s tail to achieve the glandular docking.

“You still there?” Dealey asked.

“I’ll give you ten grand, but that’s it.”

“Sounds fair.”

“To help with your out-of-pocket medical.”

“Much appreciated,” said the private investigator. He could hear Bolero rising in the background, along with Mrs. Shreave’s breathing.

She said, “FYI, I’m filing the divorce papers next week.”

“Should be a breeze.” Dealey figured that she’d finally closed the deal on her pizza joints.

“Just out of curiosity, where exactly is my husband?” she asked.

“I have no earthly idea.”

“Then I’ll assume he ran off with his six-foot bimbo.”

Dealey didn’t say a word.

Lily wasn’t finished. “By the way, the Coast Guard said they rescued two women from the same island.”

“Campers,” he said. “They were lost, too.”

“Serves ’em right. It sounds like a perfectly awful place.”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Shreave.”

Dealey hung up smiling. When Eugenie Fonda asked him what was so funny, he told her about the ten grand.

She whistled and said, “What’d I tell ya? The woman’s seriously gettin’ off on those reptiles.”

“Nice job with the camera. Helluva job, actually.” Dealey’s shoulder, bolted together with three titanium pins, was throbbing. He hunted through the desk for some Advils.

“You got any normal clients?” Eugenie asked.

“A few. You’ll see.”

“So, what’s the dress code around here?”

“Surprise me,” Dealey said.

Eugenie had strolled into his office two days earlier offering a deal: She would return the two Halliburton cases containing the costly surveillance equipment if he promised to deliver the chameleon sex tape to Boyd Shreave’s wife. During that conversation it had occurred to Dealey that Eugenie, with her vast and intimate knowledge of human frailty, could be a valuable addition to his staff.

“Does this mean you’re taking the job?” he asked.

“Just don’t try to get in my pants. You’ve got no chance whatsoever.”

“Understood,” Dealey said.

“And if you set me up with any of your loser buddies, I’ll personally break your other arm. Think compound fracture.”

“Right.” He was almost certain that she could, and would, do it.

“One other thing-those tapes and pictures you took of me and Boyd. Did you make copies?”

Dealey frowned and shifted in the chair.

“Burn ’em,” Eugenie said.

He thought ruefully of his masterpiece, the delicatessen blow job. “They’re in a safe box at the bank. Nobody but me has a key.”

“I said burn ’em.” Eugenie leaned forward, tapping her fingernails on the desk. “Did I or did I not just make you ten thousand ridiculous dollars?”

The investigator slouched in resignation. “But I thought you wanted to see ’em-the videos and prints.”

Eugenie said no, she’d changed her mind. “It’s ancient history.”

“You looked pretty damn fine, for what it’s worth.”

“Don’t make me tell you what it’s worth, Mr. Dealey.”

He uncapped a pen to write down her Social. “When can you start?”

“Hang on. I’m not done,” she said. “Did you make those calls for our friend?”

She was talking about Gillian, the spacey college kid with whom Dealey had been forced to share a sleeping bag. It was not an entirely unpleasant memory.

He said, “Nobody at the Indian reservation would tell me a damn thing. They acted like they’d never heard of Mr. Tigertooth.”

“Tigertail.”

“Whatever. Guy could be anywheres by now.”

“Gillian’s determined to find him.”

“I don’t get the attraction.”

“If you’ve gotta ask,” Eugenie said, “then you definitely need my help around here.”

Dealey’s inquiries to Collier County had not been altogether fruitless. From a newspaper reporter he’d learned that Louis Piejack, the freak who had kidnapped him, was missing in the Ten Thousand Islands. Having no wish to be subpoenaed to that dreadful part of the planet, Dealey had elected not to enlighten the authorities about Piejack’s many crimes.

“What about Boyd?” Eugenie Fonda asked.

Dealey flexed his hands and shrugged. “No John Does at the local morgue. He probably got off the island and hauled ass. Were you expecting him to call?”

“Oh, I’d be very surprised,” Eugenie said. She had changed her phone number the day after arriving back in Fort Worth. It was the first call she’d made after quitting her job at Relentless.

“Now let’s talk salary,” she said to Dealey.

“Fire away.”

With the exception of Sister Shirelle, the moaners had become disillusioned with the one who called himself Boyd. For a savior he seemed whiny and graceless.

One afternoon, Brother Manuel took him aside and said, “You blew it, dog.”

Boyd Shreave bridled. “Bite your heathen tongue!”

“They took a vote. Gimme the damn robe.”

“No way.” Shreave locked his arms across the sash.

“You had a sweet gig here,” said Brother Manuel. “Why couldn’t you just smile and look wise and keep your trap shut?”

“But I read somewhere that Jesus was like a rock idol.”

“Charismatic is the word, but that ain’t you, man. You’re just another loudmouthed schmuck.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll tone it down.”

“Too late,” the chief moaner said curtly.

The moment reminded Shreave of his many past failures in sales. Over the phone he could be a master of persuasion; in person he seemed doomed to rankle. This he blamed not on multiple character defects but rather on miscalculating his target demographic. From now on he would upwardly skew his efforts toward a more cosmopolitan market, with needs yet unrevealed.

Brother Manuel went on: “Fact is, you’re way too obnoxious to be the Son of God. I can’t cover for you anymore.”

“Was it unanimous?”

“Everybody except Shirelle, and she’d go down on Judas Iscariot if he was a hottie. Now hand over the robe.”

“I don’t think so,” Shreave said.

Brother Manuel calmly punched him in the gut and he doubled over. The glorious Four Seasons vestment was peeled off his shoulders like a snakeskin.

“We’re headin’ back to the mainland tomorrow,” said Brother Manuel. “The girls are gonna leave you two loaves of sourdough and a jug of Tang. If you’re ever passin’ through Zolfo Springs, stop by the AAMCO and I’ll cut you a break on a pan gasket.”

Shreave was wheezing. “This is a joke, right?”

“No, friend, this is adieu.”

“You can’t leave me out here! Even on Survivor the losers get to go home.”

Brother Manuel said, “We’ll call the Park Service on our way out of town.”

“But you don’t even know the name of this friggin’ island! How’re they supposed to find me?”

“Worse comes to worst, you’ve always got the canoe.”

“But I’ll die out here! I’ve got a heavy-duty disease and I need my medicine,” Shreave said. “Aphenphosmphobia!”

Brother Manuel snorted. “That’s not a disease, it’s a disorder. And if you were truly afflicted, brother, you wouldn’t have asked Sister Shirelle to rub your feet last night.”

Boyd Shreave wilted.

“My cousin’s an aphenphosmphobic,” Brother Manuel added in a frosty tone. “That’s how I know.”

There was nothing left for Shreave to do but beg. “Christ, please take me with you.”

“If He were here, perhaps He would. However, it’s my boat and it’s my call.” Brother Manuel slung the white robe over one arm and turned away.

“Gimme another chance!” Shreave called out, but the preacher kept walking.

That night Shreave built a feeble fire on the dune, using a book of matches that Sister Shirelle had tucked in his Speedos shortly before the moaners cast off. For tinder he sacrificed his ragged copy of Storm Ghoul, rendering to ashes the only keepsake of his fizzled affair with Eugenie Fonda.

Slumped against the wooden cross, Shreave stared out across the Gulf of Mexico and assayed his prospects, which were not as gloomy as he’d initially believed. The running lights of several large vessels were visible offshore, so he knew it was only a matter of time before somebody spotted him. At that point a major life decision would be required. Shreave ruled out a return to Texas, having no desire to face Lily’s wrath and his mother’s scalding denigrations. It never occurred to him that neither woman was interested in his whereabouts or his intentions.

Florida might be worth a shot, Shreave mused. Boca Raton supposedly had more telephone boiler rooms than Calcutta.

He gnawed on a hunk of sourdough but nearly gagged on the lukewarm Tang. The waves whispered him to sleep, and he awoke at daybreak sucking on his NASCAR toothbrush. Glancing up, he was alarmed to see-preening on the crossbeam of the bogus cross-a large white-capped bird that he recognized from countless documentaries on the Discovery Channel as an American bald eagle.

“Boo!” Shreave yelled hoarsely. “Beat it!”

The eagle was old and hunched, yet its amber gaze was penetrating. The flexed talons were larger than Shreave’s hands, and he didn’t doubt for a second that the predator was capable of removing his face with one swipe.

“Go away!” he brayed twice, whereupon the great bird hitched its chalky tail feathers, uncorked a prodigious bowel movement and flew away.

With a woeful moan, Shreave rolled himself down the dune, over the cold fire pit and into the water. There he threshed in hysterics, trying to slosh off the pungent stickum of feathers, bones, fur, mullet scales, cartilage and less identifiable ingredients of the jumbo eagle dropping.

It was in this frothing state of aggrievement that he was found by a passing park ranger, drawn to the scene by Shreave’s howls. After being hauled aboard the patrol boat, he was transported in his befouled Speedos to the public landing at Everglades City. There he was hosed off vigorously and examined by a paramedic wearing full biohazard gear.

Later, sporting ghastly tartan shorts and a double-knit golf shirt donated by the local Red Cross, Boyd Shreave wandered alone to the Rod and Gun Club, where he slapped his wife’s MasterCard on the old mahogany bar. The bartender was the same one who’d provided directions on the night that he and Genie had arrived, but the man didn’t recognize him. Shreave’s bearing had been considerably diminished on Dismal Key by a deleterious combination of sun poisoning, wind chafing and general character abasement.

After five Coronas, Shreave felt not nearly so adrift and out of sorts. A couple in their sixties, plainly from the Midwest, settled a few bar stools away and began rhapsodizing about their vacation to southwest Florida.

“It was twelve degrees at O’Hare this morning!” the wife chortled.

“Three below with the windchill,” said her husband.

“I don’t want to go home, Ben. It’s so incredible here.”

“McMullan called from the club-the lake on the seventeenth hole is froze solid. The kids are out there playing ice hockey with dog turds.”

“Ben, did you hear what I said? I really do not wish to go back.”

“You mean it?”

Boyd Shreave picked up his beer bottle and moved closer.

“We could get a place in Naples,” the wife was suggesting.

“Or right here on the river,” said the husband. “Buy a boat and dock it behind the house.”

The bartender had heard the same conversation maybe a thousand times, but to a defrocked telemarketer from Texas it was revelatory; a thunderbolt of inspiration.

“It’s paradise here,” Shreave heard himself say. “Heaven on earth.”

The husband turned on his bar stool. “Today I caught eight ladyfish, and a flounder as big as a hubcap. That’s no lie!”

His wife said, “But what about the mosquitoes? I hear it’s torture in the summer.”

Shreave smiled. “That’s what the locals tell all the Yankees. You folks seriously in the market?”

“Aw, we’re just dreamin’ out loud,” the husband said.

“No, we’re serious,” the woman spoke up. “I’m serious. Do you live here?”

Shreave didn’t hesitate. “Just up the road,” he said.

It had of course dawned on him that, being immune to the wonders of the place, he was ideally equipped to exploit it. Erik fucking Estrada, eat your heart out.

The husband introduced himself. Shreave shook his hand and said, “I’m Boyd Eisenhower.”

“Like the president?”

“No relation, I’m afraid.”

The wife asked, “Are you a broker?”

“I handle a few select waterfront properties, yes.”

Shreave was experimenting with a new, low-key style. The beers definitely helped. So far, the couple had not recoiled or grown even slightly leery in his presence; just the opposite. They were so eager to escape Chicago that they hadn’t noticed he was half-trashed.

“And what would it cost,” the husband was saying, “for, oh, a three-two on the river? Hypothetically, I mean.”

“Or a town house on Marco,” the woman added eagerly. “Do you have a card, Mr. Eisenhower?”

“Not with me.” Boyd Shreave experienced a rush like no other. It was, he believed, his deliverance.

“Let me take your number,” he said, reaching for a cocktail napkin.

First thing in the morning, he would inquire about a real-estate license.

I am home, he thought. At last.

The eagle flew south and spent the night in the top of a dead black mangrove along the Lostmans River. Even from a distance Sammy Tigertail could see that the bird was ancient, and he wondered if it was the ghost spirit of Wiley, the demented white writer about whom his Uncle Tommy sometimes told stories.

At dawn Sammy Tigertail motored the johnboat to the base of the mangrove tree and called up at the eagle, which responded by yakking up a fish head. The Indian waved respectfully and headed upriver to check the spot where he’d submerged the corpse of Louis Piejack. It was the same deep hole in which eleven days earlier he had anchored Jeter Wilson, the luckless dead tourist. Recently, Wilson’s rented car had been recovered from the murky Tamiami Trail canal, which was now being searched by snake-wary police divers. Sammy Tigertail wasn’t in any hurry to come out of hiding.

No evidence of Wilson or Piejack had surfaced in Lostmans, so the Indian returned to his campsite near Toms Bight and carefully hid the johnboat. The day before, a chopper had passed overhead half a dozen times-it wasn’t the Coast Guard or the Park Service, but nonetheless Sammy Tigertail was on edge. He knew somebody was looking for something, although he wouldn’t have guessed that it was Gillian St. Croix looking for him, and that she was paying for the helicopter charters with a tuition refund from Florida State University. No longer was she a fighting Seminole.

Concealed by a clumsily woven canopy of palm fronds, Sammy Tigertail spent the daylight hours re-reading Rev. MacCauley’s journal and constructing a new guitar. From the shattered Gibson he had salvaged the neck, the tuning pegs and five strings; the body he was laboriously shaping with his Buck knife from a thick plank of teak that he’d gotten from a derelict sailboat. Sammy Tigertail was by no means an artisan yet it was satisfying work, and a task of which the inventive Calusas would have approved.

A month’s worth of gasoline and provisions had been delivered by Sammy Tigertail’s half brother, Lee, whom Sammy had contacted with a cellular phone that he’d found in Piejack’s johnboat. It was Lee who had delivered the news about Wilson’s car, and he’d agreed it would be premature for Sammy to return to the reservation. During Lee’s visit they had selected future drop sites and a timetable. Aware that his half brother’s wilderness skills were not as advanced as those of a full-blooded Seminole, Lee had also provided a compass, a dive watch, a NOAA marine chart and a bag of flares.

At night Sammy Tigertail was occasionally pestered in his sleep by the spirit of Wilson, who would complain sourly about sharing eternity at the bottom of a river with Louis Piejack.

“I thought you’d like some company,” Sammy Tigertail said the first time the dead tourist appeared at the camp on Toms Bight.

“The guy’s a total scumbag! Not even the damn crabs want a piece of him,” Wilson griped.

He’d brought along Piejack’s ghost for dramatic impact, but the Indian was unswayed. The depraved fish peddler looked no worse in death than he had when he was alive; the river scavengers were avoiding him like a toxin. Wilson, meanwhile, was disappearing by the biteful.

Sammy Tigertail said, “You told me you were lonely.”

“Lonely, yeah-not desperate. The dude’s a major perv,” fumed the dead tourist. “I can’t believe you wasted a perfectly good guitar on this fuckwit!”

His facial bones having been staved in by Perry Skinner’s lethal blow, Louis Piejack was unable to respond effectively in his own defense. It wouldn’t have mattered.

“I wasn’t the one who killed him,” the Seminole said.

“What happened to that guy you plugged?” Wilson inquired. “The porky one in the business suit. Hell, I’d rather hang out with him.”

“He didn’t die,” Sammy Tigertail replied.

“Always some excuse.”

“Go away now. I’m tired.”

“Fuck you, and good night,” said Wilson.

The dream visitations always ended the same way-the expired white men clomping away with their anchors dragging, two sullen figures deliquescing in a funky blue vapor. Afterward Sammy Tigertail would awaken and lie still, studying the stars. His uncle said that whenever a Seminole soul passed on, the Milky Way brightened to illuminate the path to the spirit world. On some crystal nights Sammy Tigertail worried that when his time came, the Maker of Breath would look unfavorably upon his white childhood as Chad McQueen.

He regarded the arrival of the hoary bald eagle as a powerful sign, and it remained near his camp as the days passed. Sometimes the old bird would drop a feather, which the Indian would retrieve and attach to a homemade turban of the style worn by his ancestors in the Wind Clan. Each morning he’d sneak from beneath the ragged palm canopy and scout the tree line to make sure that the great predator was still watching over him. During this period Sammy Tigertail’s sleep was undisturbed, for Wilson and Piejack did not show themselves.

On the same day that Sammy Tigertail finished rebuilding the Gibson, he began composing a tune for his mother. Musically its roots were closer to Neil Young than to the traditional Green Corn chorus, but nonetheless he was pleased by his first effort. Later he took the johnboat on the river and started casting for snook. He hooked a good one that jumped several times, attracting a nine-foot alligator. The animal exhibited no fear of the Indian, who tried to spook it by shouting and smacking the water with a frog gig. Even after the fish was boated, the gator lingered, its black fluted profile suspended in the current behind the transom. The sight reminded Sammy Tigertail of his ignominious stint in the wrestling pit at the reservation; he vowed never to harm another of the great beasts unless it was for survival.

Back at camp he cleaned and fried the snook. Then he doused the fire, stripped off his clothes and swam into the bight to watch a pod of dolphins herding mullet. He was a hundred yards from shore when the mystery helicopter returned, cruising low from the north. Exposed and unable to hide, Sammy Tigertail went vertical in the water, moving his legs only enough to keep his chin above the muddy chop. He hoped that from the air his dark head would look like a bobbing coconut.

The chopper banked and then hovered near the dolphins, which began vaulting and turning flips, the mullet spraying like silver fireworks. The aircraft was near enough that Sammy Tigertail could make out the features of the pilot and, on the passenger side, a young woman watching the frenzy through binoculars. The Seminole blinked away the salt sting so that he could better focus on the woman, her hair showing chestnut in the afternoon sunlight. When she lowered the binoculars she looked very much like Gillian.

Sammy Tigertail remained motionless, treading water and resisting an urge to wave. He was not dismayed by the idea that a rambunctious college girl in mesh panties might be searching for him, but at the same time he was grateful to the dolphins for distracting her. He could imagine Gillian’s half of the conversation on her cell phone, gloating to poor geeky Ethan about where she was and what she was seeing.

When the wild dolphin show was over, the helicopter moved on. Sammy Tigertail swam back to the beach and walked the shoreline for nearly an hour. There was no sign of the eagle, and the Seminole returned sadly to his camp, thinking the bird had been driven away by the noisy chopper. He sat down with the guitar in his makeshift hideout and resumed work on his song, which he suspected would have benefited from Gillian’s frisky creative input.

Shortly before dusk, something substantial struck the thatching above Sammy Tigertail’s sleeping bag. He grabbed Perry Skinner’s.45 and scooted from beneath the canopy, where he encountered the freshly stripped skeleton of a redfish. Slowly the Seminole raised his eyes.

Overhead, on the tallest branch of a lightning-charred mangrove, the old eagle was chewing on a ropy pink noodle of entrails. The Seminole grinned and called out in fractured Muskogee to the bird, which pretended to ignore him.

Later Sammy Tigertail moved his bedding under the stars. Although the temperature was dropping, he didn’t light a fire. The warrior spirit of his great-great-great-grandfather was traveling somewhere in the galaxy, and Sammy Tigertail wished him good night. Then the Indian closed his eyes and pondered what to do if Gillian came back tomorrow in the helicopter.

Maybe he would hide. Maybe he wouldn’t.

Honey Santana noticed the pearl stud pinned to a lamp shade next to her son’s computer.

“Where’d you get that?” she asked.

“From a woman,” Fry said.

“Miss Fonda had one of those. The telemarketer’s girlfriend.”

“You sure talk an awful lot,” he said, “for someone with their jaws wired shut.”

“Dinner’s almost ready,” said his mother.

“So I guess you’ll be skipping the corn on the cob.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Just a joke, Mom.” He gave her a hug.

She said, “Go help your father up the steps.”

Perry Skinner had moved into Honey’s painted trailer. They said it was no big deal because the arrangement was strictly temporary and didn’t mean a thing. Fry only heard that about ten times a day, which is why he was certain they were getting back together. While it was fun having both of them around at the same time, Fry was apprehensive. He remembered how they used to fight, and he worried that it would start up again once their respective injuries healed and they went back to being their old hardheaded selves.

He went outside where his dad was trying to walk with a cane. Skinner had a new left hip joint; Louis Piejack had blown the old one to bits. At the hospital a sheriff’s detective had gotten the same story from the boy and his parents: They’d gone out to Dismal Key for a picnic, and Skinner had accidentally shot himself while plinking beer cans. Fry’s mother didn’t think the detective believed them, but Fry’s father said it didn’t really matter. As vice mayor he enjoyed a solid relationship with the sheriff, who had never-even in the heat of a high-stakes poker game-questioned his credibility.

“When can I go skateboarding again?” Fry asked his dad.

“When the doc says so.”

“But my head feels fine.”

“Oh yeah? We can fix that.” Skinner playfully raised the cane like he was going to bop him.

“Glad somebody’s feelin’ better,” Fry said.

“Cut your mom some slack, champ. You’d be in a shitty mood, too, if you had to suck all your meals through a straw.”

“Know what she made herself for lunch? An oyster smoothie!”

“Dear God,” said Skinner.

For dinner Honey had broiled two fresh cobia fillets that she’d purchased at Louis Piejack’s market, which was prospering in his absence. Piejack’s long-suffering wife, Becky, had taken advantage of his unexplained sabbatical and fled to Sao Paulo with Armando, her orchid adviser, after cleaning out the joint money-market account. Nobody in town blamed her.

Fry and his father devoured the cobia while his mother sipped crab bisque.

“Skinner, did you happen to see your son’s stylish pearl stud?” she asked. “A lady friend gave it to him.”

Fry’s father looked over at him and winked. “What else she give you?”

“Nice,” Honey grumbled through surgically clamped teeth. “Setting a fine example as always.”

“Aw, c’mon. He knows I’m kiddin’.”

Fry watched his father reach over and touch his mother’s arm, and he saw her eyes soften. It was a good moment, but the boy had mixed emotions. He’d been trying very hard not to let his hopes rise. He was afraid of awaking one morning to the sound of an argument, and then the slamming of a door.

He put down his fork. “Can I say somethin’? Even if it’s probably none of my business?”

Skinner told him to go ahead.

Fry said, “Okay, I’m not sure this is a swift move-you two in the same house again.”

Honey sat back, surprised at his bluntness. “Honestly, Fry,” she murmured.

“I mean, everything’s cool now,” he went on, “but there was a reason you guys split up. What if…you know?”

His father said, “We told you it’s just for a few weeks, until I get the hip rehabbed.”

His mother added, “It was a practical decision, that’s all. Mutually convenient.”

“Nice try.” Fry knew they were hooking up late at night, him with a gimp and she with a busted jaw. No self-control whatsoever.

“Just what’re you getting at?” Honey asked.

Fry said, “The walls are like cardboard, Mom. I’ve been crankin’ up my iPod full blast.”

His mother reddened and his father’s eyebrows arched.

“I can’t believe you’re talking to us this way,” Honey complained, “like we’re two kids who don’t know what we’re doing.”

No comment, thought Fry.

Skinner said, “You seriously want me to move back to my place?”

“Dad, I just want you to slow down and remember what happened before.”

Which was: Skinner had burned out trying to deal with Honey’s manic projects, and Honey had burned out trying to explain herself.

“People change,” his mother asserted.

His father said, “Not true. But they do learn new tricks.”

Fry felt crummy about bringing up the past, but somebody had to break the ice. “Hey, I always knew you guys still had the hots for each other. That’s not the part I’m worried about.”

“Oh, I know what you’re worried about,” said Honey.

“Never mind, okay? It’s none of my business.”

“It’s totally your business,” she said. “All right, let’s say your father and I got back together-”

“What happened to ‘ex-father’?” Skinner chided.

“You hush up and listen,” she told him, then turned back to Fry. “Say we get back together or whatever. It wouldn’t be the same as before-I’ve got a much better grip these days. Both hands firmly on the wheel.”

“Oh, come on, Mom. The Texans?”

“Nobody’s sayin’ she’s normal,” Skinner cut in, “not even her. But there’s too many so-called normal people with no soul and no balls.”

“Thank you,” said Honey, “I think.”

Fry smiled because he’d spent lots of time trying to figure out his mother, and that was one of his theories: Her affliction was one of the heart, not the brain. She felt things too deeply and acted on those feelings, and for that there was no known cure. It would explain why all those medicines never worked.

“I believe I’ve heard you use the word crazy,” Honey reminded Skinner, “more than once.”

“Yeah, well, there’s good crazy and bad crazy.”

At Honey’s place the topic of Louis Piejack had arisen only once, when she’d asked Fry if he understood that by killing Piejack his father had almost surely saved Fry’s life. The boy had never doubted it, although he would have preferred to forget the desolate crunch of wood on bone. Later the Seminole had departed with Piejack’s body, the remnants of the shattered guitar and a bloodstained map provided by Perry Skinner.

Fry did not need to be told that he hadn’t seen a thing. It was a secret they would keep as a family, and he wondered if it was enough to hold them together.

His father said, “Everybody screws up, son. I made a big-time mistake that put me in prison, but your mom still stuck around. If she hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here right now, givin’ us grief.”

His mother said, “Eat your sweet potatoes, kiddo.”

Fry nodded. “Okay, fine. If the shit hits the fan, we’ll just call Dr. Phil.”

Skinner laughed. “Smartass,” he said.

Honey said they were both impossible, two peas in a pod. “And I don’t care what you say, people can change if they want to.”

The phone started ringing.

“Dammit,” Honey muttered. “Always in the middle of dinner. God knows what they’re selling tonight.”

Irritably she pushed away from the table.

Fry and his father looked at each other.

“What?” Honey crossed her arms.

“Nothing. Here’s your chance is all,” Fry said.

His mother rose, glowering at the phone. “They’ve got absolutely zero manners. Zero respect.”

“Just let it ring,” said Fry’s father.

“But they’re so incredibly rude to call at this hour.”

Fry said, “Sit down, Mom. You can do it.”

Eight, nine, ten times the phone rang.

“I forgot-the answer machine’s off,” she said.

“Perfect.” Perry Skinner slugged down his beer. “Let it ring, babe.”

“Sure. Nooooo problem,” Honey said, but she didn’t sit down.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen rings.

She looked achingly at Fry, as if to say, I’m trying.

He gave her a thumbs-up.

“Finish your soup, Mom. Before it gets cold.”

The phone stopped ringing.

Honey sat down with her boys.