Nature Girl

Seven

Disappointment was the fuel that cranked the aging pistons of Della Shreave Renfroe Landry-disappointment in the father who’d cashed out his Shell Oil pension early and invested every dollar in the DeLorean Motor Company; disappointment in the mother who’d refused to hock her heirloom earrings and send Della to a prep school favored by the tall rangy sons of petroleum tycoons; disappointment in the three successive husbands who’d died without leaving Della wealthy and carefree; disappointment in the one daughter who’d run off to follow a rock band called Phish, then married a public defender who was a known Democrat and quite possibly a Jew; disappointment in the other daughter, who’d taken a nursing degree and, instead of bagging the first available neurosurgeon, hooked up with the World Health Organization and moved to Calcutta.

And disappointment-corrosive and bottomless disappointment-in her only son, who after thirty-five years had failed to distinguish himself either professionally or socially, displaying to Della’s hardened eye not a speck of ambition.

“Don’t tell me you got fired again,” she said as he sat down across the table.

“As a matter of fact, I’m getting promoted,” Boyd Shreave said, and then to the waiter: “I’ll have the jerked chicken sandwich with extra mayo.”

Della glared. “Are you trying to make me vomit? Extra mayo?”

“Why would you think I got fired?”

“’Cause that’s the only time you ever have lunch with me, when you’ve got stinking rotten news and you don’t want me to make a fuss. You know damn well I won’t raise my voice in a restaurant.”

Boyd Shreave shrugged. “Last time you called me a lazy sack of muleshit.”

“Yes, but quietly.” Della stirred her jumbo Diet Coke with a straw. “So what are you getting promoted to-deputy chief telephone harasser?”

“Floor supervisor,” Boyd Shreave lied pleasantly. Not even his mother’s taunting could spoil his sunny mood. He was flying away with Eugenie Fonda!

“That come with a raise, or is it all glory?” Della grumped.

“Two hundred extra a week, plus commission bumps.” Boyd Shreave was pleased to see that his mother was disarmed by his fictional success.

“Guess what else,” he said. “I had the most sales leads of all callers last month, so Relentless is sending me on a free vacation to Florida.”

Della studied him doubtfully. “Where in Florida?”

“It’s called the Ten Thousand Islands.”

“Never heard of ’em. How many did you say?”

“Thousands. It’s just like the Bahamas,” Boyd Shreave said. That’s what the lady telemarketer had told him, and that’s what he believed.

Wistfully Della said, “Your father and I honeymooned in Nassau. I liked it so much I made both your stepdads take me there, too.”

With horror Boyd Shreave realized that his mother was angling to accompany him. “I wish I could bring you along,” he said tightly, “but they only gave me one ticket.”

“And you couldn’t spring for another? Now that you got this big fat raise?”

Shreave felt the sweat collecting under his collar. “Mom, it’s a company junket. I can’t even take Lily.”

Della Shreave Renfroe Landry grunted and reached for the soup crackers. “Boyd, are you screwing somebody from work?”

He gripped the edge of the tabletop. “What?”

His mother gnawed at the cellophane wrapper on the crackers. “Oh, come on,” she said. “Who gives away a free vacation where you can’t bring your wife or even your mom? For all I know, you could be running off with some dumb tramp from the call center.”

Boyd Shreave was shocked to hear himself say: “She’s not a tramp. She’s one of the Fondas.”

Della spit half a saltine into her lap.

“A cousin of Jane’s,” Shreave added.

His impulsive burst of candor made it official: Like a lizard, he’d shed his old skin. He felt like dancing on the table.

“This is not funny,” his mother wheezed. She couldn’t picture her chronically unmotivated son as a philanderer.

“If you tell Lily,” Shreave said, “I’ll never forgive you.”

The waiter brought their sandwiches. Della tidied herself and said, “Well, does this girl at least look like Jane?”

“More like Bridget. Only taller.”

“You got a picture?”

He shook his head. “I meant what I said-if you rat me out, you’ll be sorry. Everybody’s got ugly little secrets.”

Della didn’t need her son to spell it out. She had cheated on her last husband, Frank Landry, with one of the hospice workers who’d been caring for him in the final days. If the incident were made known, it would surely incite Landry’s grown and highly litigious offspring. There were still a few bucks kicking around probate that Della had no wish to forfeit.

She said, “Of course I won’t say a word. But seriously, Boyd, where are you headed with this thing?”

“To happiness, Mom. Where else?”

He bit into the jerked chicken and smiled, pearls of mayonnaise glistening on his chin.

While Fry scrubbed the kayaks, Honey Santana sat down to write a letter to the Marco Island Sun Times about what had happened to Louis Piejack. One of Honey’s past therapists had told her to do this whenever she got worked up. The therapist had said writing was a healthy and socially acceptable way of expressing one’s anger.

So far, Honey had gotten forty-three letters published in thirteen different newspapers, including the Naples Daily News, the Sarasota Herald-Tribune and the St. Petersburg Times. Once she’d almost had a letter about the Alaska oil drilling printed in USA Today, but the editors had objected to a sentence suggesting that the president had been dropped on his head as a child.

Honey kept scrapbooks of all her newspaper letters, including the 107 that had been rejected. Sometimes she felt better after writing one; sometimes she felt the same.

To the Editor:

Regarding today’s front-page article about the violent assault on Mr. Louis Piejack, I certainly agree that the perpetrators of this act ought to be pursued and brought to justice.

However, as a former employee of Mr. Piejack, I feel obliged to point out that his own conduct has occasionally bordered on the criminal, particularly the way he treats women. I myself was the victim of both verbal and physical abuse from this man, though I derive no pleasure from his current troubles.

Perhaps during his long and excruciating recuperation, Mr. Piejack will take a hard inward look at himself and resolve to change. As for the unfortunate mix-up during the reattachment surgery on his fingers, Mr. Piejack should be grateful to have all five, in any order, considering the places he has put them.

Most sincerely,

Honey Santana

Everglades City

She slipped the letter into an envelope and affixed three first-class stamps, even though it was traveling only thirty miles up the road.

Fry came indoors and flopped down in front of the television.

“Did you ask your ex-father if you can stay there?” Honey asked.

A sour glance was the boy’s only response.

She said, “Sorry. I meant your ‘dad.’”

“Not yet, but I will,” Fry said.

“Be sure to tell him it’s just for a few days.”

“Mom, chill, okay? It won’t be a problem.”

When the local news came on, Honey sat down beside her son to watch. The lead story was about a red tide that had killed thousands of fish, the majority of which had inconsiderately washed up to rot on the public beach in Fort Myers. The tourists were apoplectic, while the Chamber of Commerce had been scrambled to Defcon Three crisis mode. A video clip showed acres of bloated fish carcasses on the sand, pallid beachcombers fleeing with towels pressed to their noses.

“Look, it’s the seafood festival from hell!” Fry said.

His mother frowned. “That’s not funny, young man. We’re poisoning the whole blessed planet, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Fry didn’t want to get her fired up, so he said nothing.

The last story on the TV news was about a missing Wisconsin salesman named Jeter Wilson. After a night of partying at the Hard Rock Casino, he’d announced that he was driving alone to the Seminole reservation in the Big Cypress Swamp. Wilson’s family back in Milwaukee hadn’t heard from him in days, and it was feared that he’d dozed off and run his rental car into the canal somewhere along Alligator Alley. A search was under way, and in the meantime the Hard Rock had provided a photograph of the missing man, taken at the hotel bar. In the picture, Jeter Wilson’s ample lap was occupied by a full-lipped woman wearing a blue-sequined halter, whom the TV reporter identified as a “local part-time masseuse.”

Fry said, “What kind of a touron would go straight from the casino to an Indian reservation?”

“He’s a salesman,” Honey Santana said. “He probably wanted to sell them something-like we haven’t done enough harm to those poor Seminoles.”

“Poor? They’re rakin’ it in big-time off the gambling.”

Honey thumped her son on the head and ordered him to go Google the name Osceola and write a four-hundred-word essay about what he learned. Then she changed into some cutoff jeans and went outside to wait for the mosquitoes.

She was conducting an experiment based on information supplied by the night cashier at the Circle K, an amiable older gentleman who’d grown up in Goodland. When Honey had told him of her upcoming ecotour, the man had advised her to pack plenty of bug repellent in case the wind died and the temperature got warm, which could happen even in the heart of winter. He’d also counseled her to stop shaving her legs, explaining that hair follicles served as a natural obstacle to the hungry insects.

Honey had never heard this theory. Being somewhat vain about her legs, which often drew whistles when she jogged along the causeway, she was reluctant to relax her grooming habits. Moreover, it was possible that the guy at the Circle K was conning her, and that he was just some crusty old degenerate who had a thing for hairy women.

Still, Honey couldn’t summarily discount his advice. She’d listened to enough lore about the ferocity of Everglades mosquitoes to desire every possible advantage when kayaking through the Ten Thousand Islands with Boyd Shreave.

So as a scientific test she’d decided to let the hair on her right leg grow, and to observe the buggy response. She sat barefoot on the steps of the double-wide and wiggled her toes enticingly. On a yellow legal pad she noted that it was dusk and dead calm, and that the air temperature was a mild seventy-one degrees. The middle bars of a Tom Petty song, “Breakdown,” kept cycling through her head, although she didn’t write that in the bug journal.

The first mosquito showed up at 6:06 p.m. and alighted on Honey’s left knee, where she swatted it dead. Soon a second one arrived, and then a full airborne battalion. By the time Fry emerged with his essay from the trailer, Honey’s tan legs were covered with black-and-red smudges.

His face pinched with worry, Fry peered at his mother in the light from the open doorway. Eagerly she told him about the experiment, declaring: “See, there’s no damn statistical difference! Eleven bites on the shaved one and eleven bites on the unshaved one-I’m keeping a chart.”

Her son nodded uncomfortably.

“But maybe I should wait,” Honey said, running two fingers along her right shin. “It’s just a stubble now. Maybe it’s gotta grow in thick and curly before it works.”

Fry handed her his paper about the warrior Osceola. Then he went back inside and came out with a towel that he’d soaked with warm water from the kitchen tap. While Honey read through the essay, he wiped the dead mosquitoes from her legs.

He said, “Mom, let’s go in. We need to talk.”

“This is pretty good,” Honey said, tapping a fingernail on the pages he’d written, “except you got Jesup’s name wrong. There’s only one s.”

“I’ll fix it later. How about some dinner?”

“You didn’t put in the part about them stealing Osceola’s head after he died. About that army doctor keeping it at home in a jar, and taking it out to frighten his kids.”

“Are you making this up? Because it’s incredibly twisted,” Fry said.

“I did not make it up!” Honey Santana slapped the essay pages into his hand. He could see she was telling the truth.

“Mom, you’re getting all torqued up again. Maybe you should go back to the doctor.”

She smiled and stretched like a cat. “Oh, I’m perfectly fine,” she said. “You up for pizza? I’ve got a coupon somewhere.”

Dealey was tired of the Shreave case. He’d done his job, nailing the knucklehead in the act, and now he was ready for fresh meat.

“Trust me. Your husband won’t give you any trouble over the divorce,” he assured Lily Shreave. “After seeing what you’ve got on him, he’ll sign anything.”

She said, “I want more, Mr. Dealey.”

“But why? I got you dinner tabs and floral receipts and eight-by-tens and video.” Dealey could not suppress his exasperation. “You said the photos of the blow job weren’t enough. You wanted ‘documentation of intercourse,’ so I got that, too-on tape, for Christ’s sake! What else do you need, Mrs. Shreave?”

“Penetration,” she replied.

Dealey waited for her to chuckle and tell him she was only kidding. When it became apparent that she was serious, he shut the door to his office so as not to offend his assistant, who had recently found religion.

“That video you took was good,” Lily Shreave said, “but I want something a hundred percent irrefutable.”

“Excuse me? I got you a naked woman grinding your husband on the sofa of her living room, and you say that’s not proof of adultery?” Dealey had his share of wacko clients, but Lily Shreave was breaking new ground.

He said, “I’d kill to be in court when Bouncing Boyd tries to explain that little scene. ‘Honest, Your Honor, she’s not my girlfriend. She’s a pelvic chiropractor.’”

“Yes, but in the video all you really see of him is the back of his head,” Lily remarked.

“The lady nearly knocks him unconscious with her tits, Mrs. Shreave! In my business, it doesn’t get any better than that. Seventeen years, I’ve never seen a tape of that quality,” he asserted with no small measure of pride.

Lily Shreave had replayed the video over and over during her last visit to Dealey’s office. He remembered her sitting unusually close to the screen-not angry or tearful, but hunched forward and studious. At the time, Dealey had thought it was a little creepy.

He said, “This is a slam dunk, Mrs. Shreave. Ask any divorce lawyer in Texas.”

Lily was unswayed. “I’d prefer to see penetration,” she said flatly. “That would be the smoking gun.”

“No, that would be a fucking miracle,” said Dealey, “literally.”

“I suppose I could find another private investigator.”

“And I’d understand completely.” He passed his invoice across the desk. “That includes gas and expenses.”

As Boyd Shreave’s wife wrote out the check, she said, “You never told me if this slut was really a Fonda.”

“Not even close. No family connection,” Dealey said. “It’s in my report.”

“Right. One of these days I’ll have to read it.” Lily took a tube of mint lip balm from her purse and applied it conservatively.

Dealey glanced at his wristwatch. “Mrs. Shreave, I’ve got another appointment across town.”

She closed the purse and said, “Ten thousand dollars if you get me proof of penetration.”

“That’s just crazy.”

“Cash,” she said.

Dealey sat down slowly. The woman obviously was getting off, watching her old man do it with somebody else. One time Dealey had been hired by a husband who got his kicks the same way, except he didn’t have ten grand lying around.

“Well?” said Lily Shreave.

Dealey pondered the unappetizing dullness of his next case-a fireman who’d claimed he injured his shoulder while hosing a burning Airstream was now playing thirty-six holes of golf daily while on disability leave. The city’s claims adjuster had expressed an interest in either stills or videotape.

Lily said, “Think of it, Mr. Dealey. You pull this off, you’ll be a legend in your business.”

“But logistically, it would be…it would be…”

“A triumph?”

“A bear,” the investigator said. “Just so you know, I don’t do break-ins and I don’t do disguises. That means I’d have to figure out some other way to sneak a camera into her apartment.”

“Not necessarily,” Lily said. “This morning my husband informed me that his company is sending him to Florida to be treated for a rare condition called aphenphosmphobia.”

Dealey winced. “Holy crap. Is it fatal?”

“If only,” said Boyd Shreave’s wife. “It’s a fear of being touched. And as we both know from your excellent surveillance, my husband has no fear whatsoever of being touched. Or sucked, fucked and fondled, for that matter.”

“So he’s faking.”

“Here’s what else: Boyd was fired several days ago from the call center. He was out banging Ms. Fonda when his boss called to ask where to mail his final paycheck-minus the cost of some missing office supplies.”

Dealey said, “Mr. Shreave has no idea that you’re onto him?”

“No, it’s pathetic. I’ll give him as much rope as he needs to hang himself,” Lily said. “The only thing he’s not lying about is going to Florida. A friend of mine works at a travel agency-she went in the computer and found Boyd’s reservation on a flight to Tampa. Guess who’s got the seat beside him.”

“Where will the happy lovebirds be staying?”

“I haven’t a clue. But for ten grand I’ll bet you can find out.” Lily got up and headed for the door.

“Hold on,” Dealey said. “You expect me to do what exactly-hide in the closet of their motel room? This thing you’re asking for, Mrs. Shreave, would take some special planning. Not to mention luck.”

Lily told him to go rent some porn, if he needed tips on the camera work.

“But those are actors. They couldn’t care less if some stranger with a camcorder is crouched between their legs,” Dealey said.

“You’ll think of something.” Lily walked out of the office.

Dealey, who couldn’t recall accepting her offer, followed two steps behind. “It’s ten thousand plus expenses, right?”

“If you get me penetration, yes. Absolutely.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“Then all you get is a free trip to Florida,” said Boyd Shreave’s wife, “which isn’t such a bad deal, is it?”