The Man Who Ivented Florida

EIGHT

After a month on the sailboat, Sally Carmel's little white and yellow cottage seemed huge, a clapboard and tin delight with enough room to dismantle her tough on-board schedule and replace it with a more luxurious routine that, along with maintenance, study, and gardening, allowed space for soapy baths, morning jogs, and, in the evening, dancing alone, barefooted on the oak-strip floors.

Sometimes at night, sitting in the living room with just a reading lamp on, her legs curled up and with Ansel, the white cat, vibrating on her lap, Geoff would slip into her mind, the heat and weight of him. Geoff, her ex-husband. The man sounds he made, the intensity of his presence, filling the house with him, him, him, so that there was hardly room for her.

Geoff was a spoiled ass…

Still, it left a hollowness in the cottage-a hollowness in her, too. Not that she was still in love with him-well, maybe just a little-but losing a mate created a void that grew stronger in the lonely night hours and sucked at the foundations of the new life she told herself she was building.

You failed at marriage, and you'll probably fail at living alone, too…

Which was the way she felt sometimes, like a failure, for her marriage was a task started but not completed. An indictment of her own judgment and maturity. Her intellect, too.

How could I have been so stupid! I knew what he was before I married him, but I wouldn't let myself admit it and I went ahead and did it, anyway.

All true. It was like being in a car that had lost its brakes, gaining speed, faster and faster, and she'd ridden it right into marriage and beyond, a crazy smile frozen on her face.

On the worst nights, she would think, And I knew what I was, too-so it was a failure from the start. I loved the idea of having a hand in the design of great buildings; could picture him asking my advice about form and fountains and balconies, depending on my eye for composition. And I liked the idea of the money. What girl who grew up poor wouldn't…?

Feeling the chilly wave of depression move through her, letting the silence of the little cottage punish her. Sometimes it was intense, but it never lasted; came sneaking in at night, particularly just before her period. That's when her whole body seemed a bloom of raw nerve endings-her nipples sore, her mood cranky. The recriminations linked to her own body's cycle, like moon tides, flooded full then drawn dry. She could look out the window at a low tide, sea grass lying flat, the bay empty and exposed, and she could feel the draining of it in her own abdomen and breasts.

I've no more control of its effect on me than a damn oyster…

That wasn't true, she knew. Just something she felt sometimes. So at night, when the mood was on her, she'd put down her book, put aside the cat, and lose herself in work. Go to the darkroom she'd built and soup film or experiment with printing. Or she'd work around the cottage, cleaning and neatening and arranging. She'd bought some old cherry-wood shadow boxes at a yard sale and refinished them, then hung them in the living room and kitchen to display the collection of cream pitchers her mother had given her. She liked brass, too. Around the house, over the fireplace mantel and on the window seals, there were brass unicorns, horses, cats, and brass candle holders. She collected more than two dozen candle holders over the years, all holding long green candles, a color she favored; felt the green candles implied warmth even without being lighted. On the porch, there were woven baskets with arrangements of dried wildflowers, and in the kitchen there were shelves holding Ball canning jars and country crockery.

She'd completely redone the little cottage, gave it a whole new feel, a fresh identity, scrubbing and painting and rearranging to rid the place of its history of Geoff and failed marriage. Even so, he came stomping back some nights. Not him, really, but the feel of him, his presence. Which was depressing enough, but with that mood came the emotional need and body longing that refused her contentment and mocked her independence.

It must be so easy to be a man. Everything is either superficial or disposable…

That's the kind of bitterness that came over her sometimes, like the last few evenings, watching the new moon tilting westward above dusk's last light. Feeling it draw the water from her body, abrading the nerve endings. Damn it, she was tired of being alone in that cottage night after night. Not that she wanted a man-no way, not so soon. She just felt like doing something, going somewhere.

Which was the only reason she'd said yes to Tucker Gatrell. Old Mr. Tuck-she'd called him that as a girl. One of the fishermen who'd flirted with her mother-they all had, her mother was so handsome and strong-willed. Back then, he'd been just one more grinning face in the moving throng of adult faces, but now he was one of the last remnants of old times in Mango. Because Tucker had been a part of her childhood, there was added importance to his role in her life as an adult, so she rarely denied him anything he asked. Usually, it was breakfast. Sometimes dinner. Lately, though, the favors he'd asked had something to do with trying to stop the government from condemning much of old Mango to make a state park. Going to the library for him, getting copies of documents made. Like earlier that afternoon. He'd come sauntering up to the door in his jeans, cowboy hat in hands, saying, "Miz Sally, I got a big favor to ask. Has to do with that damn Peeping Tom nephew of mine. I want you to take him a bottle of the vitamin water, have him test it. I'd do it myself, only I got to go out in the boat."

Any other time, she would have said no. But now, with the dark mood threatening her, she agreed to go. It was something to do. Besides, the chance to see Marion Ford's uneasiness again appealed to a quirky, perverse streak in her. As a girl, Marion had made her uneasy often enough: the high school football star she'd tagged after. Once, when she was ten, she'd hidden in the shadows and watched him and a girl kissing in the old gray car he'd owned. It was one of the most exciting things she'd ever seen, but also one of the most hateful. Marion had always been so… mature, so neat-then to see him acting like such a fool.

She'd run off in tears.

It irritated her to think about that. Particularly now, driving her white Ford Bronco west on the Tamiami Trail, then north toward Sanibel Island, a Ball jar full of water beside her on the seat, headed for Ford's house.

Sally Carmel had her routine and Ford had his. Every morning, he was up at 6:30; didn't need an alarm clock, just woke up automatically. On the rare day he would have slept through, the noise the fishing guides made would have awakened him, anyway. Starting their boats, yelling in to Mack how much fuel and how many baits he should mark them down for, loading ice and drinks while they talked business across the docks, enjoying the private time and the morning coolness before their clients arrived.

Marinas were noisy in the morning-nice boat sounds to hear from a cool bed.

First thing Ford did was fit his glasses on his face, pull on shorts, then go outside to check his main fish tank. Made sure everything had lived through the night-no small drama, because more than once he'd found a soupy mess of decomposing specimens, the filter fouled or the raw-water intake plugged. Because Ford awoke to the fear of that every morning, his first ten paces of each new day were shaded with mild dread.

Usually, though, the tank was working just fine. The pumps were pumping raw water in, spilling overflow out. The hundred-gallon upper reservoir with its subsand filter cleared the water, then sprayed it in a mist into the main tank, where sea squirts and tunicates continued to filter until the water was too clear to support the weight of a human eye. Ford could look right through to the bottom. Even at morning dusk, the water seemed a brighter world: small snappers, sea anemones, swaying blades of turtle grass, sea horses, horseshoe crabs, whelk shells, the whole small world alive. Ford could see them all in a glance. Then his attention would focus, and he would pick out his favorite specimens, allowing his eyes to linger: three tiny tarpon stacked beneath the exhaust of the upper reservoir, as motionless as pale bars of chromium. Immature snook, too, heads turned into the artificial current. The half dozen reef squid were the hardest to find, because their chromatophores allowed them to blend with the sand bottom. Ford enjoyed looking for them. It was part of his morning ritual, and he always took his time, allowing the dread to fade with each small discovery.

Once he was certain his specimens were okay, he lighted the Propane ship's stove and put coffee on to boil, then made his bed. If he was working on a project-and he almost always was-he made notes while he drank his coffee. He had a simple breakfast, English muffin or fruit, unless there was a female guest. If he hoped the lady would stay another day, he cooked with a flair: mango and onion omelets, or fish poached in lime juice and coconut water. If he was ready to have his house and lab to himself, he'd ask her to follow him to breakfast at the Lighthouse Cafe on Periwinkle Way and hope she'd take the hint.

But it had been a long time since he'd had company-a couple of months, maybe more. So these days, after coffee, he did a short morning workout. If the tide was up, he'd swim to the spoil islands east of the channel and back. If the tide was down and the water wasn't deep enough to swim comfortably, he'd do pull-ups on the crossbar that connected the rain cistern to the cottage, then go for a quick jog down Tarpon Bay Road to the beach. There, he'd stretch and swim in the Gulf.

Then it was work, and the work was always varied. Sometimes it was collecting specimens to fill orders. Sometimes it was dissecting in the lab, injecting dye into the veins of whatever animals that high schools and colleges around the country had requested to buy for their classes. That kept him busy because Ford was a perfectionist, and he had built a steady clientele of repeat business.

As the fishing guides often said, they lived on repeat business and partied on walk-ins. The biological supply business wasn't much different.

Ford liked the marina's guides; enjoyed hearing them discussing fish and fish habits. Which is why he joined them during their lunch breaks, sitting on the picnic tables in the shade, talking above the noise of the bait tanks. Took pleasure in the community feel of the small marina, listening to gossip about the live-aboards, arguing politics and boats until it was time to go back to his lab and more work. By five or so, though, he was usually finished, then he disciplined himself with a longer run and a tougher workout before joining the guides again on the docks, where he opened his first beer of the day while they washed down their boats.

That was Ford's daylight routine. The monotony of it pleased him; appealed to his sense of order, and he didn't like to vary it. Same with his after-dark routine. He'd fix his own supper-usually fish the guides had given him or that he'd caught himself- then he'd have another beer out on the porch, looking at the water. If it was a good clear night, particularly if Jupiter and its moons were high and bright, he'd look through his telescope. Or he'd listen to his shortwave radio, carefully logging any unfamiliar world-bands stations he happened to stumble across. Then about nine, he'd hear Tomlinson's little skiff start, and Ford would go to the refrigerator and set out another beer, anticipating Tomlinson's nightly visit.

Ford looked forward to the visits, though he would have never said so-there was no reason to comment on such a thing. But Tomlinson was as brilliant as his interests were eclectic, and it was nice to sit in the cottage or on the porch and try to follow the man's assaults on conventional wisdom. It was a game they played. A subject would be selected, usually something commonplace, such as baseball, or sex, or the effects of television on society, and Tomlinson would accommodate the game by making an outlandish observation. "Celibacy is healthy! You shouldn't be complaining!" Then the two of them would argue the various byways and small branchings of thought on the subject until the subject itself sagged or burst into absurdity. "You mean absence. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Not abstinence! Geeze!"

It was something to do, part of Ford's routine, part of the life he enjoyed living. Only lately, he hadn't been enjoying it that much. Things had changed around the place. Jeth was gone, off being feted in some Central American country-Ford still hadn't heard from him. And Tomlinson had changed. Gotten fatherly, which wasn't so surprising, since he had fathered a child. Tomlinson and a woman from his commune days, Dr. Musashi Rinmon. They had had a daughter, and Tomlinson was spending a lot of time in the air, flying back and forth to Boston to see his little girl. Now Tomlinson, who for years hadn't driven anything faster than a sailboat or more traffic-worthy then a beach bike, seemed to havfe embraced a faster world. He borrowed Ford's truck-a lot. He was always running errands, going places. He had even bought a pair of slacks. Slacks. And he had joined Ford in the habit of going to the marina to read the local newspaper each day. "Been out of touch for the last couple of decades," Tomlinson had explained to Ford. "After Nixon, I thought it was safe to kick back for a while."

And Tomlinson wasn't the only one who had changed around the marina. Mack, who owned and operated the place, suddenly seemed obsessed with modernizing the operation and expanding.

"Do you know how much money I lose because of these old docks?" he'd complain. "Do you have any idea how many more boats I could handle if I had one of those big aluminum storage barns? This place is so old and run-down the government might damn well come in and try to close us if I don't do something soon."

Well, it was in the air-change.

Not that Ford had anything against change; he just resented it interfering with the neat perimeter of his own life. It made him irritable, cranky. Worse, now Tucker was nipping at his heels, trying to maneuver him into one of his absurd schemes. The man was poison, had always been poison. Tomlinson wouldn't believe that. That afternoon, Ford had stood on the dock and told him, but Tomlinson wouldn't listen. Had to borrow his truck anyway and drive down to Mango.

"I've flashed on one of the all-time great ideas, man! Your uncle wants to keep his land, him and Joe, then I'm the man to do it. Seriously, Doc, I don't see why you won't kick in a little help."

"Because I don't want to help, that's why. And if you're as smart as I think you are, you'll see Tuck for what he is and stay the hell away."

Blinking at him, giving him his new fatherly expression, Tomlinson had said, "I've got to say something here. You're the best friend I've ever had. I love you, man, but you're dead wrong."

"Aw, Lord, spare me the analysis."

"I'm just saying that the price of hate is too high. I can feel it coming out of you, man. Like heat whenever I mention the old dude's name. Now, it may not be any of my business-"

Handing him the keys to the truck, Ford had said, "You're right. It's none of your business," and turned away.

Ford felt badly about it now, the way he had talked to Tomlinson. The guy was weird, a flake sometimes, but he was as sensitive as a child and there was nothing to be served in hurting him.

When he gets back with the truck, I'll say something to him. Apologize. Thinking that as he cleaned up his lab, scrubbing the dissecting table with Clorox and water, covering his microscope, checking to see that all the jars and vials and chemical bottles were in their proper places. Give him a couple of beers, he'll forget all about it.

Ford checked his watch: 6:00 P.M. He'd worked later than usual, cleaning and curing a two-hundred-gallon tank, then fitting in the Plexiglas shield that would divide it in half. Into the tank he would pump raw turbid water from the bay. There would be only sand on the bottom of the control side of the tank. On the other side, he would introduce the floating mobilelike device upon which sponges, sea squirts, and tunicates were already growing. The strings of the sea mobile, with their clumps of sessile life, would serve as surrogates for natural sea grasses. The question was, how would the turbidity of the water be effected by the organisms-organisms that depended upon the grasses as bases for their own growth?

Ford hadn't made any further headway on the paper he wanted to write. Had decided to wait until he got the procedure down pat before he put anything on paper. Which gave him an excuse to spend all his time out collecting, or perfecting the procedure in his lab.

So he had worked later than usual and Tomlinson still wasn't back.

Probably drinking whiskey with Tuck, out wrecking my truck.

Thinking mean thoughts, Ford locked the door to his lab, crossed the roofed walkway between the living area and his lab, then knelt before the little refrigerator to take out two grouper fillets for supper. But then he thought, I'm not even hungry. Why bother?

He felt like doing something, getting out, going someplace.

If I had my truck, I could!

Ford stripped off his shirt, kicked off his shoes. He'd do a kick-butt workout, that's what. Be a good time to work out, get cooled down by the afternoon thunderstorm he could feel coming. Maybe that would wash the restlessness out of him. Run to the Sanibel Public Pool and back, nearly five miles; push himself, try to make it in thirty-five minutes, then dive right into the bay and swim out to the spoil islands. His own little biathlon. The same routine he'd once done with Dewey Nye, his tennis player friend. Only now she was a golfer, spending the summers up on Long Island… and just thinking about Dewey stirred the longing in him.

I'll call her tonight. Tell her I miss her.

Which was true. Missed feeling her arm over his shoulder, ragging him, the rough housing; missed having a woman to talk to as a confidante. They weren't lovers, just friends. Yet thinking of her fired his restlessness.

Maybe I'll fly up and see her. Take the weekend off-I'm not married to this place. Have Mack feed my animals, and just go. And if she's busy, I'll… fly to Central America, that's what. A week in the jungle, that's what I need. Head down to Masagua, go in illegally because of the State Department and see how General Rivera's doing. Speak a little Spanish and eat some decent beans…

Ford was walking around the room, thinking restless thoughts, putting on his running shoes, depositing his sweaty work clothes in the wash bag kept outside the door. That's when something caught his attention out in the bay, an odd movement out toward the rim of mangroves. The bay was choppy, streaked with contrails of dark and light: the afternoon rainstorm blowing in.

Ford stood and looked, trying to define the dark shape he saw- something big thrashing around close to the sandbank that ringed the bay, or maybe on the sandbank. It was hard to tell at this distance, maybe a mile away. He ran inside, returning to the porch with his Steiner waterproof binoculars. With his glasses atop his head, he allowed his eyes to focus through the binoculars… then he knew what it was.

Bottle-nosed dolphin…

Something wrong with it, too, the way it was kicking around. No other dolphins near it, either. That was unusual. He watched the animal's fluke tail throw a bright fountain of water into the green squall sky. It was either panicked or in pain, the way it rolled onto its side, then smacked its head on the surface. The dolphin's behavior had the flavor of desperation…

Ford swung into the house, put the binoculars on their hook, then swung right back out. His flats boat was tied to the stilt platform's north dock, and he was tilting the boat's big engine into the water when he heard, "Excuse me… excuse me?" A woman standing at the end of the boardwalk; red-haired woman wearing jeans on skinny hips and a cinnamon colored T-shirt. "I'm supposed to drop something off. Your uncle asked me."

He was so intent on getting to the dolphin, his mind had to scan around to connect the woman standing on the dock with a name: Sally Carmel. He called to her, "I can't talk now." The engine was in the water and he had the throttle's idle button in, ready to start the boat.

"I didn't come to talk. I came to-"

The engine fired in a haze of blue smoke, and Ford went to the stern, then to the bow, untying lines. "I may be gone a while."

"What?" She couldn't hear because of the motor.

"I MAY BE GONE A WHILE!"

"It'll take me fifteen seconds to give you the message your uncle wanted-"

Ford was already pulling away, but then suddenly he popped the boat into reverse. He yelled over the engine, "Get in!"

"What?"

"I said, get in. I may need some help. We have to hurry."

"Help doing what?"

"GET IN! YOU'RE WASTING TIME!"

Sally Carmel put the jar of water on the deck and got in the boat.

The storm was pushing from the north, accelerating and expanding. It became a smoky veil around the bay. Ford could see the rain: a silver haze with abrupt boundaries, as if sprayed from a nozzle; the sky a comberent gray with tentacles that drifted across the sea, absorbing light, blurring the horizon. Before he could get them away from the dock, the squall wind hit: a wall of air, cold and volatile, that ripped at his clothes and tried to lift the boat airborne before charging into the shoreward mangrove bank. Ford yelled, "Hang on!" as he punched the throttle. The bow of the boat jumped so high that, for a wild moment, he thought they might flip. But then the chines of the eighteen-foot skiff found purchase, the boat settled itself on plane, and Ford touched the trim-tab toggle to adjust the boat's pitch as he hunkered down behind the little console, Sally Carmel holding on beside him. Running into the wind, it seemed they were going a hundred miles per hour.

"WHY ARE WE DOING THIS?" The woman had to yell over the noise of the storm and the engine.

Ford glanced at her just long enough to imprint the image of wild red hair and facial features contorted by the wind stream; got the impression that she not only wasn't afraid but was enjoying it. "You see that out there?" Ford pointed. "Keep your eye on it. The tain's going to be on it soon." "But why-"

"It's a dolphin. I think it's hurt. In some kind of trouble."

"I can see something splashing."

"That's it. Don't lose it."

The rain caught them midway to the dolphin-fat drops smacking at their faces, then a stinging waterfall. Ford backed the throttle, slowing, then cupped fingers over his eyes to provide a shield, trying to protect his glasses and his eyes. The drifting partition of rain became a unit of movement and weight, a silver body that ingested them, then reduced their world to a circlet of breaking waves and tarnished light.

Z-Z-Z-clack-VOOM.

With the storm pod over them, the lightning blasts seemed to suck air out of the bay, replacing it with an odor of ozone so penetrating that it might have been the fluttering debris of an explosion.

"That was close!"

"Yeah."

"Oh damn…" The woman was looking down at herself, as if she'd spilled something.

"What's wrong?"

"Um… lightning scares the hell out of me." Ford's quick look was a question, so she added quickly, "Not that I want to go in. I was just saying it scares me."

"You still see it?"

Sally had her face pushed forward. "No-o-o-o."

"Keep looking."

"Slow down." She was making a hushing motion with one hand, holding the other up to protect her face. "It can't be far."

Ford pulled the boat off plane to fast idle speed, stepping up onto the boat's gunwale to get a higher vantage point. The rain was so heavy now, he couldn't even see the hedge of mangrove trees that formed the boundaries of the bay. Plus, his glasses were a smeared mess. He took them off, squinting. "Lost it." – "Hey-" Ford could feel the woman pulling at his T-shirt. "What's that?"

Ford turned the boat, looking. The tide was so low, he tilted the engine to keep it from kicking up bottom, going slow, searching. "Where? I don't-"

"I've got it. I've got it." Sally put her hand on the wheel, steering the boat in the direction her finger pointed. "You see it now?"

Ford did: a dark shape isolated by the scrim of rain, moving. He shook the water from his glasses and put them on again. There it was, a large gray dolphin probably seven or eight feet long, twisting, thrashing in water so shallow that a silt bloom grew from beneath it as the animal's tail slapped up mud. He gave the engine gas, then switched off the key, coasting to get closer, knowing the propeller would spook the animal.

The woman said, "It's sick or something. Or maybe it's like when whales beach themselves."

Ford thought, Ear parasites, but said nothing as the boat drifted toward it. He moved up to the bow to get a better look. "I don't see any obvious injuries… but its color is strange. Kind of spotted? You see what I'm saying?"

"Yes. Like the chicken pox or something, you mean?"

Ford said, "The anchor's in the dunnage box. I'm going to see how close it'll let me get."

He swung his legs over the gunwale and was already knee-deep in water before he remembered he had his good running shoes on, almost new Nikes. Saturated with muck, they'd stink for a month. He balanced himself on the boat, pulled the shoes off, and tossed them onto the deck, noting that the woman was getting the anchor set, no problem.

The rain had settled into a steady downpour, the wind gone, probably busting out over the Gulf now, racing ahead of the storm front. But there was still lightning, great clicking bursts that touched the distant mangroves. When the lightning struck close, Ford could feel the dissipating voltage move up through his legs toward his heart, and he thought, I haven't done anything this stupid for a while…

The bay water felt warmer than his own body temperature, or maybe it was just that the rain was so cold. Mud that sucked at his feet was hot, a mushy compact of accumulated heat. The dolphin was ten yards or so away now.

"E-e-easy… e-e-easy. Not going to hurt you…" Talking in soothing tones as he got closer. The animal knew he was there; had probably known long before, tracking the boat, then Ford's own body with a steady series of clicks and pings. Into Ford's mind popped a memory of sitting in the Triton Hotel, downtown Havana, watching a rerun of the old television series "Flipper" dubbed in Spanish but with Russian subtitles. That's what the noise the dolphin was making sounded like: Flipper trying to warn Bud and Sandy about something. But along with the squeals and squeaks, there was a sound Ford had never heard a dolphin make before, a moist whoop-whoop-whoop. It sounded like pain, that noise.

"E-e-easy… just want to find out what's wrong…"

Even through the splattered glasses and with his bad eyes, Ford was close enough to see the animal fairly clearly now. Big blunt-nosed animal that looked as if it were made from wet clay. White splotches all over its body-he'd never seen anything like that before. But the splotches didn't appear to be ulcerated, didn't have the look of disease.

He took a few steps closer, wanting to get a better look… but the dolphin spun toward him, rolling its dark eyes, then sprinted away with a thrust of its tail. Didn't keep going, though… rolled to its side after only twenty yards and opened its mouth in wild chattering.

"She's pregnant!" The woman was yelling to him through the rain. "There's a tail sticking out of her back end. Did you see it? A little tail?" Now Sally was out of the boat, wading toward the dolphin. Pushing through the water at a pretty good clip. "It must be some kind of breech birth. Does that happen?"

Ford couldn't see what she was talking about. "I don't know. I don't know much about dolphins."

"I bet that's it. I bet her baby's stuck. She can't get it out; that's why she's rubbing herself in this shallow water."

Ford had read somewhere that when a dolphin gave birth, there was always at least one other female dolphin in attendance. The attendant dolphin was called something… auntie dolphin?… midwife dolphin? Something anthropomorphic, which had irritated Ford. And probably why he hadn't anchored it in his memory. But this animal was alone.

"You sure you saw a tail?"

"I don't see how you could have missed it. It was sticking right out. See… there, when she rolls, I just saw it again!"

"She's not going to let us get close. I think we ought to leave her alone. I know some dolphin people. We could give them a call, maybe-" "She might sense that I'm a woman. That I'm trying to help_"

"What?"

"Maybe she wouldn't let you get close because you're a man. Male. Maybe she senses that."

Ford thought, Right…

"See? She's looking at me…"

Ford watched Sally Carmel drop to her knees in the shallow water, then to her stomach, pulling herself over the bottom, closer and closer to the dolphin. Ford kept waiting for the animal to bolt. It didn't. He stood motionless as the woman reached out and touched the animal… touched it again after it shied. Then she was stroking the dolphin's back, making a cooing noise Ford could barely hear above the squeaks and clicks the animal made. He saw Sally stroking her way toward the dolphin's big tail.

"You've got a little baby in there… Come on out, little baby…" Talking steadily in low tones, the emotion registering in an alto huskiness as Sally lifted her head high to reach beneath the animal's belly.

"My God!"

The dolphin was gone in an instant: a blur of moving water and great fanning fluke tail.

"I've got it. I've got it. I've got your baby!" Sally Carmel was sitting in the water, a small dark form cradled in her lap, yelling, "Don't go away!" as Ford ran to her, calling, "Keep its head out of the water. Keep it on the surface…" Both of them were watching as the mother dolphin turned and cruised back into the shallows, pinging and clicking.

Sally looked at Ford, her expression a combination of shock and wonder. "It's alive!"

Ford was close enough to see now. A small gray calf, maybe three feet long, pale birth bands on its sides and white splotches already showing on its skin.

Ford said, "It's not a bottle-nosed dolphin; it's a different species. That's what confused me. The spots are natural."

Sally said, "It's so warm! Look how its little porthole opens and closes! All I did was grab his tail."

Ford said, "The female must have come in from offshore. That's what happened. Having trouble."

"I almost fainted when she took off so fast, and there it was, right in my hands. I just held on…Oh-h-h, you're hungry." She was talking to the calf now. "Look at you move your little tail."

Ford said, "To break the umbilical cord, that's why she took off so fast. Spotted dolphin? I think there's a species called that. I'll look it up."

The woman got to her feet, holding the calf on the water, then gave it a gentle push. "There's your mother. Go on now… swim!"

The calf kicked toward the mother, its head slapping on the surface crazily. When the woman took a step to go after it, Ford touched her elbow. "It's okay. They're supposed to act like that. Getting used to breathing on the surface, I think."

The mother dolphin circled the calf, then nudged it several times, steering it toward the mouth of the bay and deeper water. Ford was watching but turned when he heard a high mewing noise: the woman standing there beside him, face in her hands, red hair hanging sodden in the rain, clothes plastered to her body, crying. "Hey," he said, "hey… the calf's fine. They're both okay." When he put his hand on her arm, Sally leaned against him, then buried her face against his chest. He said, "You did a great job. I'm amazed she let you get that close."

Sally was sobbing now, her whole body shaking. "I told you she knew. She did; she did… on the way out, my period started. She knew!"

Ford cleared his throat. Jesus, why did she have to tell him that? Still holding her, he said, "Let's get out of the rain."

Awkward now, standing in his own house with Sally Carmel, making it a point not to look at the way her wet T-shirt showed her body, trying not to sound strained and formal, which caused him to sound very strained, very formal. Saying, "Here's a towel. If you need to use the head… ah, the toilet… ah, the facilities. To dry off, I mean. Not to-" Ford wiped water off his face. It was just getting worse and worse. "Make yourself at home. I'll put some tea on."

It was nearly dark. The lamp beside the reading chair was on. Through the window that faced the bay, the night sky was descending upon a band of fading pearl. Lighting the propane stove, Ford could see the woman wiping her arms and neck with the towel. Watched her swing her head down so that her hair draped her face. She took handfuls of hair and scrubbed at it in sections. Pretty hair. Darker because it was wet, a deep amber color. Curlier, too. Bright ringlets above her ears.

Ford said, "It's outside-the facility. It's like an outhouse, just to your left as you go out the screen door, but there's a chemical toilet inside. Like for a boat."

Sally threw her hair back and began to dry her face. "We used to have an outhouse when I was a little girl. In Mango? Do you remember that?"

"Electricity but no plumbing. Sure. A lot of people had outhouses. I didn't mind it."

"I remember something about you getting in trouble because you threw firecrackers into one. I remember being afraid to use ours at night, afraid you'd be out there with a firecracker."

Ford thought, That goddamn uncle of mine, but said, "Nope, I never did that."

"Sometimes," Sally said, "I think about that, being a little girl. It seems like another lifetime, I've changed so much."

One minute she was sobbing, the next she was being nostalgic, talking to him like nothing had happened. How could women be that way?

Ford put water in the kettle and set it over the fire.

She said, "I remember feeling so jealous of the girls in town, they had such nice bathrooms. Of course, they weren't-not compared to now. And televisions, garbage disposals. Things like that. I remember feeling ashamed when they'd come over. I tried to work it so we'd be so busy, they didn't have time to drink."

Ford said, "Huh?"

"So they wouldn't have to pee."

"Oh!" Ford was searching the condiment shelf to the right of the stove. "What kind of tea do you want? Tomlinson brings them over. All kinds here-"

Sally Carmel said, "I like him. He has such wonderful eyes. Like

… poet's eyes. I've seen them in some of the very old image work by Matthew Brady, eyes like his."

Ford was saying, "Green tea, orange pekoe, Morning Thunder, Red Zinger…"

"I met him in Mango, up at your uncle's? I think he'd be a good friend to have." "He keeps things interesting." Ford held one of the tea boxes up. "What kind?"

"Whatever kind you like. I only talked to him for a moment. Your uncle introduced us, and he was so… different-looking, that I thought at first… well, he just struck me as being very kind. Real nice."

Ford didn't like any tea except the kind that came with ice and lemon, but he said, "Orange pekoe?"

"That has caffeine in it, and it's getting late."

"Oh."

"Tell you the truth, it's so sticky after it rains, I'd love a cold beer."

Ford turned off the fire. "There's an idea." Hearing that was like a little bit of Christmas. Maybe tonight he'd drink four beers. To hell with his rules.

She was folding the towel. "I keep thinking about the baby dolphin. That was one of the most… touching experiences of my life…"

Ford saw her looking around for a place to put the towel; watched her eyes stop on the red telescope standing by the window. Before her expression changed, Ford said, "I want to say something about that."

Her voice softer, she said, "You don't need to say a word. It's okay."

"No, I want you to know this-"

"Let's don't talk about it, please. I saw you with that dolphin, talking to it, out there in the water, with lightning everywhere-"

"I'm going to finish, whether you want me to or not. About me spying on you through my telescope-"

"That's ancient history, Marion. Hey… do you want me to call you Marion or Doc?" Smiling wryly at him, trying to change the subject.

Ford pressed on, anyway. "I watched you only once. While you were swimming. Getting ready to swim. You know… late afternoon-"

Sally was looking at the window. The lights of the marina were white streaks emanating from the boat docks. "I like the way the water feels on me. It's no big deal."

Ford said, "But that's the only time I looked."

"At that time of day," she amended.

"Yeah, of course. That time of day. I use the telescope a lot, but not then I didn't. Because you were there, and I didn't want to… look then."

He was uncomfortable and she knew it, which was probably why she was still smiling. She said, "That's what I remember most about you. When you lived down the road from us? You being so stern and so shy all at once. I could never tell which one you'd be, stern or shy." Then she said, "Wait a minute…" Thinking about it. "That's not much of a compliment. Looking once but not looking again."

Well, he had explained it as concisely as he could, and there was no pleasing her. He said, "It's Coors Light," handing the beer, already poured into a big coffee mug, to her.

She put the mug on the table, then wiped at her jeans as if that would dry them. "Gee, I'm a mess."

"I have dry clothes. They'll be too big, but-"

"That's not what I mean."

"Ah… oh. Then you'll need to-"

"I have to go to my car and get my purse first." Then pushing open the screen door, Sally said, "Your outhouse is to the right, you say?"

It was nearly midnight, the two of them sitting on the porch looking at the water, looking at the sky.

"All those stars…" She had said that several times. "Another meteorite!"

That made seven.

After the rain, the air was so clear, they could look right through ^ to outer space. Orion, the Big Dipper, Andromeda with its unseen? quasars, Cassiopeia, looking like a drunken M. To Ford, the constellations were familiar shapes; the Milky Way a glittering mist that refused definition to the eye or to the mind.

"This is one of the things I like best about sailing. Lying on the deck at night." Speaking softly, her voice was deeper, more relaxed.

But they weren't lying on the deck, though Ford had imagined that more than once. They were sitting on wooden chairs, close enough so that her elbow sometimes touched him when she gestured.

"That's probably the most disappointing thing about photography."

She'd been talking about that, photography. Talking about working her way through classes in design and journalism at the University of Florida, about working as an intern at the Miami Herald, about going free-lance when she married, because she had inherited the house from her mother, plus her husband wanted to live on Florida's west coast. About how tough it was to break into national magazines, particularly the natural history magazines. But now Ford had either lost the thread or what she said made no sense.

"Huh?"

"I said, trying to photograph the sky is probably the most disappointing thing in photography."

"Ah."

"Anything else, the lens will give precise values. The lens captures exactly what the photographer sees. What the artist sees. That's the way I think of it-an art."

Ford said, "Sure." He held up his Coors bottle to see how much was left. His fourth. A big night, breaking his own tough rules. But he still didn't feel as sinful as he hoped to feel. "You ready for another?"

The nice outline of the woman's face blurred when she turned toward him. "I'd like to, but I can't. Two's my limit, and I have a long drive."

"Oh yeah, that's right." As if he'd forgotten.

Sally said, "Like an autumn moon. When it's full, like it'll be in a couple of weeks. It comes up huge. You know, this giant ball of soft light. Orange light, kind of rusty. But if you photograph it, it prints up as a pinhole on a black field. To really get it, you have to shoot through a telescope, then sandwich the negative with a landscape shot. Even then, the color values aren't authentic. You have to really filter it down."

Ford said, "I didn't realize that," enjoying the fact that she knew her business, that she could articulate it and make it understandable. The whole evening had been like that, the two of them sitting around talking.

She said, "All those stars, the moon. The lens can't handle it. Maybe our eyes can't, either. It takes our minds to amplify the light and give it depth of field. It's the only thing-the only reality?-that has to be interpreted. No… there are probably others…"

Ford didn't say anything. Was comfortable just sitting there listening.

Tomlinson had returned earlier, made an appearance, then disappeared when he correctly read Ford's expression. Tomlinson had said, "I've been down visiting your uncle. Joseph, too."

Ford had said, "I know."

Sally had said, "I saw you. Remember?"

In the long silence that followed, Tomlinson had raised his eyebrows and said, "Love to stick around and talk, but I can't. Let's do lunch-tomorrow?" Smiling, handing Ford the truck keys, then climbing into his dingy to putter back to No Mas, his sailboat.

Ford had given her dry clothes. A pair of running shorts and a T-shirt, both so big and baggy that her body moved around inside them. He couldn't help noticing, then he didn't try to keep from noticing. He'd cooked dinner: the grouper fillets steamed in coconut water and lime juice, fresh mango slices and garlic toast. They'd gone for a walk around the docks, talked to some of the live-aboards. Ford had showed her his lab; had explained his fish tank to her,- had appreciated the way she o-o-ohed and ah-h-hed over his favorite specimens. A couple of times, she'd mentioned the jar of water she'd brought for Ford to test, but he had shifted topics so abruptly that he knew she sensed his reluctance. But she didn't push it, just let it slide. Same thing when she tried to talk about old times in Mango. Same thing when she asked what he'd been doing in the years after high school. How could he tell her about that? Not now, not yet. Sometime, maybe…

They talked a lot about the dolphins.

"I had its tail in my hands… next thing I knew, there it was! So warm, kicking around…"

Spotted dolphin, Ford had been right about that. They'd gone through his research library until they found it. Nice sitting there looking over her shoulder as she leafed through books. Could smell the shampoo she'd used in his rainwater shower. Prell, which smelled a lot better on her. She was beginning to look different, too. Not her body, but her face. It was a curious phenomenon Ford had noticed before in his life. See a friend unexpectedly in a crowd and, in the seconds before recognition, the friend's features would be as foreign as those of a stranger. The friend would appear older, taller, fatter, skinnier, younger, smaller, larger, always less important. But then recognition would modify the features, factor in personality, and the physical form would be transformed in the mind's eye. The mind amplified the retinal impression and made additions. Like Sally had said: It saw things the camera did not.

Same with Sally. Through the telescope, her face had appeared the way he had hoped it would appear: an idealized face for an idealized body. But the day he'd tried to introduce himself, it had seemed narrower, pinched by her anger. A happy disappointment. But now, after only a few hours, her face was different again. It wasn't pinched or narrow; it was angular and interesting. She had large dark eyes, brown, with copper flecks and black, black pupils-eyes that moved around, taking things in, looking out from beneath sun-bleached lashes and heavy brow like the eyes of a small, calm creature peering out from beneath a ledge. Her hair had changed, too. It was no longer dark red. It was black amber or gold-streaked, depending how she moved her head to the light- which changed the color of her skin, in turn, from pale Irish white to burnished brown. She was an interesting-looking woman, that's what Ford decided. He liked her face. It changed aspects in light and shadow. It kept the beholder on his toes. Plus, he couldn't disconnect it from the face of the freckled child he had once known. That seemed to add depth and history. It was a good face to look at; Ford decided that, too. Better than the idealized model's face he had imagined. There were things to discover in a face like Sally Camel's.

"Hey, Dr. Ford, are you listening to me?"

Well, he was and he wasn't, but he said, "Every word. You have a very nice voice." He sat up straighter in his chair. "I'm serious. You sound like a woman who could sing jazz. That kind of voice, but not as raspy. Probably because you don't smoke… at least I've seen no signs-"

"No. I don't." She was sitting up now, too, and he could tell by her movements she was about to leave. "You always do that when I mention your uncle. You change the subject."

She had been talking about Tucker Gatrell? Then he hadn't been listening. Sitting there thinking about the way she looked and smelled. Ford said, "What about him?" expecting her to mention the water again.

Instead, she said, "Maybe it's none of my business. I shouldn't have asked, but I was wondering how you happened to end up living with him."

"Tuck? I didn't end up living with him. I ended up living here."

"See? It's none of my business."

Ford said quickly, "I lived with him two years, then off and on before I went into the navy. My last year in high school, though, I had my own place. A little groundskeeper's cottage off West Gulf Drive. Here on Sanibel. I did work for the rent."

"I guess I was asking about your parents, why you weren't with them."

Ford said, "Oh." He sat for a while looking at the water before he spoke again. "My parents were killed when I was about the age I remember you being in Mango."

He felt her hand on his arm. "I'm so sorry, Doc."

"Nothing to be sorry about."

"Here I am pushing you to talk about… to think back about something that… well, that's going to upset you, and it's been such a great night."

"Upset me?" Ford put his hand on hers. "Why would something that happened twenty-five years ago upset me?"

"It's just… sad, you know? A child that age being orphaned. You, I mean. I don't blame you for not wanting to talk about it."

"There's no reason to talk about it, but I don't mind talking about it." Ford thought, Why's she being so emotional about this? He said, "They were killed in a boating accident. They were in a boat that had an inboard gas engine and it blew up. Gas fumes, you know how they can collect in the bilge? They were going on a cruise down in the islands because it was their… anniversary?" Ford had to think about that a moment, it had been such a long time. "Yes, anniversary. Wedding anniversary. It would have been their eleventh, I think."

She was squeezing his hand so hard; Ford liked the feeling of that, the heat and intensity of her coming through.

"That's why you didn't want to come back to Mango. That's where it was."

"The accident? Well, yeah, they left for the islands from Mango, but-"

"No, where you lived. When you were little."

"Before my parents…? Yes… right on the big curve as you turn along the bay. There was a big white house there. Well, maybe it wasn't big. And there was a brown boathouse built out-" Ford stopped. It had been years since he'd remembered that.

Sally finished for him. "Built on pilings over the water. I remember. Before the fish house my mother ran was closed down, when they banned commercial fishing in the national park. The little house built on stilts. I used to play in it, and she'd get so mad because there were holes in the dock. Before your uncle tore it all down. You know what, Doc?" Ford waited, then listened as she said in her soft voice, "That's what I thought about when I sailed into this bay and saw this house. The two are alike. Old icehouses that had been converted into something else."

Ford released her hand. "Believe me, that has nothing to do with me living here. It never crossed my mind."

"Your uncle kept coming over, talking to me, saying he couldn't get you to come down to visit him. To help, but he never told me why. Just that you two didn't get along, but I don't think the poor old guy ever made the connection."

"There's no connection to make."

"I'm so sorry, Doc."

Why did she keep saying that? "Look," he said, "Sally… you're attaching emotional values to this that just don't exist. You're talking about… one thing, and I'm talking about Tucker Gatrell. Connections? Tuck makes all kinds of connections that most people don't suspect. Unfortunately, he just doesn't do it very effectively. Don't let him fool you."

"You're still angry at him."

"Why would I be angry at him?"

"That's what I'm wondering. If you'd like to tell me-"

"I don't feel anything toward him. I was making an observation, a reasonable assessment of his behavior." She had to keep talking about it. Ford could feel the evening's good mood slipping away.

"I'm sorry. So damn sorry." Her hand was still on his arm, patting him.

"Now wait a minute." He turned to look at her, wanting to find a way to seal the subject. "I'm touched by… what you're feeling right now, I honestly am. But you have it all wrong. Look at it this way-why did Tuck say he wanted me to test the water? This whole scheme of his, finding an artesian well with some kind of magic healing properties. Has he explained it to you?"

Sally said, "I don't see it as a scheme. He found what he found- he really believes the water makes him feel better. Maybe it does… If you could see Tuck and old Mr. Egret romping around down there, riding their horses."

"Yes, but that's not the point."

"I don't see that it's so much to ask. He told me that you're a biologist, and that if you tested the water, it might carry some weight. I mean, all he wants to do is market the water and make some money so he can buy his property back."

Ford was shaking his head. "I've been all through that with Tuck, I don't know how many-wait." He wanted to explain it to her, make it as clear as he could. "Okay. For one thing, I don't have the knowledge or the facilities to do the kind of test he needs. I've told him that. But did he tell you that? No. Another thing, you just don't fill a Ball jar with water and take it to a lab. The bottle has to be specially prepared, depending on what you're testing for. See, Tuck needs a certified report that lists all elements contained in the water-minerals, chemicals, salts, that sort of thing. To prove it's safe to drink and market. The state lab in Tallahassee can do that, and there are some private labs around, too. But I can't."

"But he wants you involved. Is that so hard to understand?"

"You're saying that he wants me to help him stop the state from taking Mango and making it into a park. That's what you believe?"

Sally said, "What's wrong with that? I like parks… I know the land has to be protected. But I think the state has taken enough from people like your uncle. Besides, who are they to say he's not protecting the land? Or me, either, for that matter. My house is there. They may try to take it, too. In fact, your uncle says they will. What gives them the right?"

Taking Tucker Gatrell's side, no doubt about it. Ford would have sighed, but he didn't want to show his frustration. He said, "You're a trusting person; that's a wonderful personality trait. I'm not criticizing-"

"You think it's silly, don't you?" That's what she said, but her tone told Ford she thought he was being an asshole, not wanting to help.

"No, not silly. It's nice, it really is. I admire you for trying to give him a hand. But Tuck sent up some copies of papers for me to look at, data about his property, some copies of newspaper articles-"

"I did that, most of that research for him. All the copying." Her voice was beginning to sound a little chilly. "I got everything I could find on water. The makeup of it, the state's regulations regarding water. He had a stack of books and papers this high." She held her hands far apart, then put them in her lap. No more touching his arm now.

"That's a lot of work. I know. I hope he appreciates it." Ford was thinking, There's no way I can save this. Why am I trying? But he said, "Then you're familiar with the chronology. Do you mind listening while I go through it?"

"If you want. I don't see why-it's getting so late." Looking at her watch.

Ford said quickly, "Wait… late last year, the state announced it wanted to build a park adjacent to Everglades National Park, and that it was beginning the preliminary studies. Early this year, Tuck sold off a hundred acres of his property. Why would he do that?"

"Because of taxes," she said. "The state assesses all waterfront property higher. Pricewise, even if you've lived on it for a hundred years. It doesn't matter if you're a poor fisherman. That's put a lot of people out of business. Tuck couldn't afford it."

Ford said, "Okay. That makes sense. But what did he do with the money?"

"Money?… Oh, the money he received-"

"The money he got from selling a hundred acres. It had to be a lot of money, right? Even in an undeveloped place like Mango. Hundreds of thousands of dollars. But now Tuck claims to be flat broke. From the papers he gave me, he sold it to some kind of conglomerate. Kamikaze Enterprises, which sounds Japanese-"

"Yes, he told me that. A big Japanese company. When he came down to tell me, he seemed angry about it. He said something like, the Japanese have bought the rest of the country, they might as well have his land, too. I remember that."

Ford leaned forward, sensing he was finally getting somewhere. "That's my first point. Tuck despises the Japanese. He was in the South Pacific during World War Two. It was a favorite topic, the sins of the Japanese. The Bataan Death March, using American prisoners of war for scientific experiments, using Dutch women as sex slaves. Mention the Nazis, he had a whole speech about how the Japanese were just as bad. Tuck would never have sold his land to a Japanese company. No way. Besides, why would an overseas company buy land the state planned to take, anyway?"

That got her thinking. "You're saying he sold the land to someone else?"

Ford said, "I'm saying I doubt if he sold his land at all. He may have had that good old boy lawyer buddy of his, Lemar Flowers, set up some kind of dummy corporation as a front-"

"But why?"

"Tuck's tricky, that's why. It's his nature. Tuck never does things the… normal way. He never has and he never will. Hell, look at his house! Everything is jury-rigged, thrown together. That's the way he's lived his life. Anything conventional or orderly offends him."

"A lot of people, old-time people who live out in the country, that's the way they are. Junk in the yard, patched walls. He's no different."

"But Tuck is different… on purpose. He sees himself as an inventor, smarter than everybody else, but in fact he's just contrary. Give him the simplest problem and he'll take the most absurd route to solve it. The stranger the better. Tuck confuses convolution with brilliance. He always has. He likes being different because that's the only thing he's ever been successful at." Ford stopped, realizing his voice had risen. In a calmer voice, he said, "I'm trying to get you to see the other side of the man."

Sally said, "I'm starting to understand," in a way that could have meant something else.

Ford started to react to her tone, the knowing sound in her voice, but then decided to let it go. Maybe she'd drop it after she heard the rest. He said, "Why would anyone do that? Sell land to a dummy corporation, I mean. To most people, it's nuts, but Tuck would see all kinds of reasons. For the state to exercise its powers of eminent domain, it first has to do the standard title searches. Find out precisely who owns what land. Selling off to a dummy corporation would murk things up. That's the way Tuck might see it. Particularly a company with a Japanese name. Those people are very tough negotiators, and the state might just throw up its hands and say to hell with it. Scare them off that way. He's trying to buy time."

Another way to buy time was to kill or shanghai a couple of state employees, but Ford didn't say that.

Sally said, "You two are just so different." There was nothing chilly in her voice now. Instead, she sounded troubled. A little hurt, too. Ford found that unsettling, as if he'd explained to someone why there was no Santa Claus. She said, "Then what about the artesian well? He seems so sincere."

"That's one thing Tuck's good at, sounding sincere. But consider this: Even if he sold his land to a dummy corporation, he still had to pay sales tax and capital gains. On a hundred acres, it probably cleaned him out. He's probably telling the truth about being flat broke. He needs the money." Ford could see that hurt her, too, so he added, "Understand, I'm just guessing at all this. I have no proof."

"Yeah, I know but…" She was thinking about it.

Ford said, "But here's what I suspect is his real motive. The spring he says he found? Let's say he convinces a bunch of people that water from the spring really is beneficial. That there really are some health benefits. Let's say the water has all the necessary minerals-whatever it is people look for in bottled water. And he proves that by having the water tested. Okay, that makes his property even more valuable. If he can prove the water is a marketable, inexhaustible resource, the state will have to pay him ten, maybe twenty times the current accessed worth of his property. Do you understand?"

"Yes, of course… Well, no, but it makes sense. The way you say it."

"I just want you to see why I don't want to get involved with Tuck. One of his schemes. That it had nothing to do with… what you were talking about."

Sally stood, putting her hand on Ford's shoulder as he stood to face her. "I think it does."

He could look down right into her eyes, her face softer in the darkness. He put his hand on her waist, not even thinking about it. "You're leaving?"

"I have to. It's late."

"But you're not mad."

As she shook her head, her hair made a wind sound, brushing against her shoulders. "No. Just confused. And sleepy."

Ford wanted to say, "Then why not stay over?" but the words couldn't get past his own reserve. Instead, he said, "I'll wash your clothes and dry them. You can pick them up next time you're here." Looking at her face to see how that was accepted.

Sally touched her finger to his cheek. "You really are a nice man. I wonder if you believe that." Studying his eyes with hers.

"Or I could drive down to Mango tomorrow. Drop them off. If Tomlinson will let me use my truck."

Using his shoulder as a brace, standing on her toes, she leaned slowly, slowly, and pressed her lips to his, eyes open… then closed as Ford pulled her to him, feeling the weight of her breasts flatten against him. Then, talking into his chest, she said, "I've wanted to do that for a long, long time, Marion. Kiss you."

Ford didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing, just held her.

She said, "Maybe I could make dinner for you tomorrow night. At my place."

Ford whispered, "While I'm there, I can take some samples, have the water tested? I'll have to call someone, find out the proper procedures."

She kissed him again, then said, "I'd like that. But I'd make dinner for you, anyway."