Just when Ford was beginning to feel claustrophobic-his stilt house was simply too small for two people-Sally Carmel told him she had to get back to Mango for a few days, check on her cat, the phone messages, and mail.
Ford had said, "I'll try to stay busy with work," hoping he didn't show the private undercurrent of relief he felt.
Then she said, "Well, maybe we both need a little time away from each other to see how we… feel about all this." Letting him know that she was a little relieved, too.
Not that Ford was worried about that. People always built a little distance into good-byes when they knew they weren't going to be apart long.
She said, "I'll call you from home."
That was Saturday afternoon, but by Sunday evening, he still hadn't heard from her.
He had both hundred-gallon tanks nearly finished for his demonstration on the effects of filtering species on turbid water, and that's what he worked on all afternoon and right into dusk. The only interruption was when his friend from Tampa delivered an envelope-size package: the test results from water samples Ford had taken from Tucker Gatrell's artesian well.
Ford scanned the results quickly, then sat down and read them again. When he was finished, he folded them, shaking his head. "Jesus Christ," he whispered. "That poor old fool."
Then he got back to work.
Everytime he passed by the phone, though, he couldn't help looking at it. Even when he tried to ignore it, his eyes drifted to the damn thing and wouldn't let go. Maybe half a dozen times, he picked the phone up to make sure it was still working.
He thought, This is silly. I'll call her. But then he reminded himself, She has a right to her privacy, her time alone. Hell, I was glad to see her go! She'll call when she wants.
After a late supper, he filled both tanks with murky bay water, placed a single biofouling assembly in only one of them-the ropes were loaded with sea squirts and tunicates by now-and set the timer. If the filtering animals cleared the water, how long would it take? He decided he would check the tanks every three hours; sleep off and on through the night. So he searched around for something else to do while he waited.
The house didn't need cleaning again, and Tomlinson wasn't back from Boston yet, so he decided to read. Listen to some nice Gregorian chants on the stereo and kick back with John D. Mac-Donald. But he found himself staring at the wall instead of the book he held, so he finally picked up the phone and dialed.
Sally Carmel said, "I was just about to call you," when she answered. "I tried a couple of times yesterday, but you weren't there."
Ford said, "I was out late on the trawl boat, getting specimens. Don't worry about it."
"Me, too-I've been busy. Running around like crazy trying to get caught up, get these slides mounted and mailed, but every time I got some momentum, somebody knocked on the door."
Ford said, "What?"
"Asking for directions, or where there was a restaurant. Once if they could use my toilet. All day long, it's been like that."
"In Mango?"
"Of course, that's what I'm saying. The people down here," she said. "You wouldn't believe the people. Cars driving up and down the road, all the traffic. A family had a picnic on my lawn! I walked right into a circus; that's just what it's like. All because of your uncle, the publicity he's getting."
Ford said, "Tourists looking for the Fountain of Youth." He was thinking about the test results.
"When they're not looking for a toilet or for food, yeah." She said, "Wait a minute-you'd get a kick out of this… There are three campers. I can see them through the window right now. Those Winnebago kind of vans, parked out on the road. And there are more down toward your uncle's place. Hey"-her phone clacked against something, a window seal, maybe-"he's got a bonfire built down by his house, your uncle does. And I can hear fiddle music, like they're having a party. Can you hear it?"
Ford listened, then he said, "No," thinking that maybe he wouldn't call Tuck and tell him about the test results. Not tonight. Why spoil the party?
Sally said, "It sounds familiar, the tune. The 'Orange Blossom Special'? Bluegrass kind of music. Doc, you've got to come down and see this for yourself."
He wondered whether that was an invitation. But before he could feel her out, she said, "Look, Doc, something's come up. It's no big deal, but there was a letter waiting for me here, and maybe we should talk about a couple of things."
"Letter?"
"But I hate to tell you over the phone."
"I'd drive down, but I just started this procedure."
"Not even for an hour or so? I'd like you to be here when I tell you about it." Putting a little pressure on him. It was his turn to go to her place, no question about that.
He thought about the sea mobile in its tank of murky water, the care he'd taken in recording the weight of the assembly, everything noted and dated, times set. He'd have to go through the whole process over again.
"Maybe you could tell me a little bit about it now, then we can talk more later."
She said, "Okay, if that's the way it has to be."
"It's one of those procedures where I have to stay close, make notes, that sort of thing." Ford thought, Why am I feeling guilty? This is my work; she should understand that.
There was a silence, then she said, "First off, I think it's pretty good news," with a manufactured heartiness in her voice, and it took Ford a moment to realize that she was already telling him about it. "I got a letter today from Geoff. I mean, it was here and I opened it when I got back."
Geoff was her ex-husband; Ford knew that. He said, "Oh."
"Nothing personal, it was more in the way of a business letter. That's the good news."
"Oh."
"Don't sound so concerned." Being facetious.
"Something to do with the divorce? He wants to give you more money or something?"
Ford had no idea what the terms of her divorce were.
Sally said, "It was from his office. Miami still isn't all the way back after the hurricane, there's a ton of rebuilding going on, and they've been contracted to design and build a professional biocen-ter. His company has. Geoff's."
"A what?"
"A twelve-story office building on its own grounds, plus an outdoor mall. It was a job offer, the letter. His group wants to hire me as a consultant. To help on visual continuity. It would pay a lot, only I'd have to live there three, maybe four months. In Miami. It's too far to commute."
Ford listened to her describe the biocenter, what her duties would include,- knew she had already discussed it with her ex-husband-too many details for a letter. As he listened, Ford stretched the phone cord out enough so that he could see through the screen door into the lab where the paneled tanks sat on the dissecting table.
Squinting to see the tanks, Ford said, "What? I didn't understand the last part."
Sally said, "They want floral diversity, but an architectural continuity-the fountains, the mini-rain forest, the themes of the shops. And they need someone to coordinate, give them an overview."
Ford was still squinting at the water in the tanks; removed his glasses to get a more accurate look. "But you're a photographer," he said.
"Yes, which is another way of saying I'm a visual composer. That's what they need. I've done work like this before." Her voice wasn't stern, but a little cool, as if she wanted to deflect any further challenging of her credentials. Then she said, "I was really surprised to hear from him," meaning Geoff.
Ford said, "I know this: You'll be good at anything you choose to do. And if you've already accepted…"
One of the tanks appeared to be empty, the one with the sea mobile hanging in it. Christ, the tank was leaking-the water was gone.
Sally was talking again. "Not officially, I haven't. I wanted to hear how you felt about it."
"I feel… well…" Ford pulled away from the phone for a moment, staring at the tank. "Sounds like a good opportunity. Miami? I get over there occasionally."
It was a while before he realized she wasn't talking at all now. Just silence. He said, "Sally?"
She said, "That's how you feel about it? A good opportunity?"
"Isn't that what you said? More money, right? And if it's work you like doing-"
"It is. I guess it's what I've always wanted to do."
Ford wondered whether her tone had changed or if he was just misreading her. Then he heard her say, "They want me to drive over tomorrow, spend a couple of days sitting in on planning discussions. I think it's because they want to hear my ideas before they make it official."
"Of course. That makes sense."
"So I'll have to miss the public hearing. The park thing, tomorrow. I haven't talked to Tucker yet, but I'm worried he'll be disappointed if I'm not-"
"He's going to be disappointed, but it won't be because of you."
"Huh?"
Ford expected to see water seeping under the door any second. "The public hearing. I said don't worry about it. I received the test results today. They're not going to let Tuck sell his springwater. And, if they did let him, no one would buy it. That's what I mean-he'll be disappointed, anyway."
"What are you talking about?"
"The water's contaminated. The water I collected and sent to the lab? Pesticides… herbicides, benzene from gas-contaminated. Everything. Maybe the worst I've ever seen. The moment the state park people see it, Tuck's lost his leverage. Any worse, and it would be poison… Hey? Sally?"
"The water they've been drinking."
"Yes… look there's something going here I need to check on-"
"Then you can't let the park people see the report. It's that simple. You can't do that to your own uncle. You're not going to show it to them, are you?"
"They'll have their own test results. If not now, they eventually will." Ford had the phone cord stretched as far as it would go. "Sally, listen for a minute. Something's happened here. Can I call you back?"
"You're not hurt?"
"No. It's in the lab. I think I've got a tank leaking. I'll call you right back."
Ford opened the screen door, stepped into the lab, and stood searching the floor-dry. He glanced at the control tank: The water was still murky green. Then he looked at the hundred-gallon tank within which was mounted the living, filtering sea mobile; had to step closer to be sure. The tank hadn't leaked; the water was still there. But unlike the control tank, the water was now window-clear, a flat transparent body that did not hinder light.
He whispered, "That can't be," as he checked the timer.
The transformation had taken less than fifteen minutes.
When Sally Carmel stepped away from the phone, she stood for a moment glowering at the couch, then picked up a cushion and threw it. "Goddamn men!" Didn't yell it, just said it loudly enough for her own ears to test the emotion behind it. Then she picked up the cushion and replaced it tidily on the couch before going to her bedroom to pack.
If he doesn't care if I go to Miami, then I'll go to Miami.
That's what she was thinking. But on a deeper, private level, there was a little hum of absolution. She didn't have to make the decision; Ford's indifference had made it for her. She felt relieved. Her anger was like a wedge bar, providing insulation between the desire to take the job and whatever pain the rest of her felt.
The chance to build something: to take form, color, and space, then transform it into something big and modern and solid. It's what she had always wanted to do. Well, to play a part in it. To put a little piece of herself into something that would last. Plus, there was the money. More money in a few months than she had made in the last two years.
Geoff had said, "Miami's floating in it. The insurance companies and the government disaster people keep throwing it at us. Hell, my crews can't wait for the next hurricane. We wrote a design coordinator into the contract and they didn't even blink an eye. Just said, 'How much?' The job's yours, if you want it."
That was Geoff being Geoff, cool and smooth, the confident businessman. But Sally knew that he was just trying to do it again: prove to himself that he could still manipulate her if he wanted. He was like a kid. If he had it, he didn't want it. If he didn't have it, he wanted it.
"This is strictly business," he kept saying. "You're the best man for the job."
The New Age male proving there were no hard feelings, that divorce was just one more negotiation, nothing personal.
Well, this time, she was going to turn the tables. He wasn't going to use her. She was going to use him. She was going to use this job as a springboard. Make a nice portfolio and carry it on to bigger and better things. And if he tried to lay a hand on her, she'd just smile and say, "Really, Geoff. Don't you know the government has laws against that sort of thing?"
Use the word government so he'd remember who was paying for the biocenter.
She zipped the bag, swung it onto the bed, and took another from the closet. She had so damn much to do! There were plenty of people around Mango now. It wouldn't be hard to find someone to take care of her cat. And the sailboat, she'd have to have it hauled. The electric, she'd leave on so she could spend the weekends at home. And she'd have to find an apartment in Miami- Coconut Grove, maybe. Something small but plush, with a functional kitchen and a great big bathtub. She deserved it, and she'd be able to afford it, with the new job.
For some reason, that made her think of Ford. She stopped packing and wondered for a moment.
Oh, the bathroom…
She could see herself trying to live in Ford's little house. Taking outdoor showers, using a chemical toilet. An outhouse, really; just like when she was a little girl. Well, she'd worked too hard for that, and Doc would just have to understand…
Then… unexpectedly, Sally found herself oddly close to tears, overcome by a profound sense of being untethered. All that passion, getting so close in such a short time. Why? And for what? It had been like an explosion, all mixed together with nostalgia and loneliness, what she was as a child, what she was now… that plus the wildness of her own body, which almost no one knew about but her.
Well, Ford knew now. And it wasn't as if they couldn't still see each other on weekends. This was just a job, for God's sake.
So why had he been so damn distracted and impersonal on the phone?
Then she remembered: He had yet to call back!
She checked the clock on the reading table beside her bed. It had been more than an hour. She stood to pick up the phone, make certain that she hadn't left it off the hook in the kitchen.
Nope. Doc was just too busy to call.
Sally threw the second case on her bed, yelling, "Goddamn men!" and was instantly worried that she had spoken so loudly, because, in the same instant, she heard someone tapping at the front door.
There stood Tucker Gatrell's old friend, the tall Indian with the long hair and the wide, slumped shoulders. She wiped her face, hoping he wouldn't see that she had been crying, as he said, "I'm real sorry to bother you, Miz Sally, but there's something I'm needin' to find."
Sally showed him a big smile. "Why aren't you up at the party, Joseph?"
"There's too many people there for me, Miz Sally. Ever'body asking me questions, wanting to talk. Figured it was a good time to ask you. What I need is a nice sack. A pillowcase, maybe. Some-thin' real plain."
Behind Joseph, from the shadows, the voice of a mature woman called, "I told him I had pillowcases, but he insisted on coming to you."
She could see the shadowed form of a woman there, and Sally's smile broadened. "Why, Joseph! You shouldn't leave your new friend standing out there in the dark."
The big man sighed, his face forlorn. "If I asked all my new friends to come in, there wouldn't be no room for us. Besides"- his soft voice became even softer-"their pillowcases all got little flowers and stuff on 'em. What I need is something a man wouldn't mind."
Sally found a pillowcase for him-refused money for it when he took out a soggy roll of bills, then watched him ramble away, the smaller outline of the woman trailing after him.
Remembering about the public hearing, Sally called to him, "Oh, Joseph? Could you please tell Tuck that I won't be at the meeting tomorrow? I have to go out of town on business. I'm really sorry."
Heard Joseph's reply: "Don't blame you. I ain't going to be there, either."
Then the woman's voice: "Oh yes he will be there!"
Closing the screen door, Sally thought, That's the way it is. The way it is and always will be, men and women at odds. Out of synch on a mutual path. The only question was, who would lead and who would follow?
Sally thought of her mother-Loretta Carmel was no follower! She had been a damn smart, tough, and independent woman. And if it was good enough for her mother…
Sally worked around the house, packing, doing bills, getting ready for the drive to Miami, telling herself that she didn't care one way or another whether Ford called, but thinking that he probably would, any minute.
He never did.
By midnight, Ford had repeated the procedure a half-dozen times. It was always the same. Take murky bay water, drop in the strings of sponges and tunicates, and within fifteen minutes, the water was transformed.
Ford noted on a yellow legal: "Turbidity zero."
According to anecdotal accounts, the bays of southwest Florida had been tannin-stained but clear up until the turn of the century, when a powerful consortium-the Army Corps of Engineers and the state government, plus land-boom developers-began its assault on the swamps, dredging, filling, building roads, straightening rivers. It was generally accepted that the wholesale loss of root structure had murked the water system. Erosion. It was also generally accepted that, because most of the dredging had been stopped in the 1970s, the bays would gradually heal themselves.
On the notepad, Ford wrote: "The initial loss of root structure undoubtedly created a sudden increase in turbidity. Did that tur-pidity interrupt the life cycle and range of filtering species?"
The question implied a startling concept, and Ford was pleased with himself.
If murk caused by the early dredging had killed a significant area of grass habitat, then the filtering species may never have had a chance to reestablish themselves. To remain clear, water required filtering species. Sea-grass meadows required clear water. Filtering species required sea-grass meadows. One was constantly dependent on the other. Remove one symbiotic element from the system-even if for only a few years-and the whole system was sentenced to gradual, inevitable doom.
That was the premise.
Halt the dredging, replant all the thousands of acres of lost mangroves, but if the estuaries continued to be fouled by fresh water carrying nitrates and phosphates, it wouldn't make much difference.
The bays would never heal themselves unless a way was found to provide surrogate bases for a massive reintroduction of filtering animals.
Sea mobiles…
Ford stepped away from the dissecting table, excited. He had the blood and bones of the paper he wanted to write. But there was so much more research he wanted to do.
He leaned to jot something on the legal pad: "Do filtering animals also remove invisible contaminants? Contact labs; get price for long-term test series."
That caused him to think of Tuck, the tests he'd had done. Ford had the brief mental picture of dropping a sea mobile into the old man's artesian well, instantly decontaminating the thing-which was absurd. Exactly the kind of idea Tuck would come up with. But tunicates and sponges couldn't survive in fresh water. Particularly Tuck's springwater, judging from the long list of pollutants it contained.
Ford returned his attention to the legal pad, made a few more notes, then hurried across the roofed walkway to get a chart that included Dinkin's Bay. He wanted to calculate the approximate amount of water in the bay so he could get a rough estimate of how many biofouling units it would take to effect the turbidity. Perhaps it wasn't practical. Obviously, water flushed in and out with the tides, but he still wanted to try and set up some kind of proportional model'.
He set to work converting the bay's circumference into rectangles, keeping careful track on the chart as he did the math.
From the other room, he heard the phone ring. He ignored it at first, then carried the chart across the roofed walk, still calculating as he went.
A bay roughly 10,250 feet long by 4,400 feet wide… with a median depth of, say, four feet. But the average depth would be more because of the channel, all the potholes…
He picked up the phone and said, "Sanibel Biological Supply."
He heard Sally Carmel's voice but didn't hear all of what she said.
Hunched over the chart, he said, "Sally? Hey look, I'm right in the middle of something here. Can I call you back in an hour?"
Ford heard Sally say, "That's what you said three hours ago. I was worried…" as he wrote, "Average depth, 5 feet+-.," and then began to do the math.
Sally said, "I'm leaving for Miami in the morning, and I don't know which hotel I'll be staying in, so-"
"First thing, then. I'll call you when I get up." Ford was writing: "10,250 x 4,400 x 5 = 225,500,000.
More than 200 million cubic feet of water! Or perhaps he should set up the model in pounds: pounds of water to pounds of filtering animals it would take to have an impact on the bay's turbidity. Base the model on that.
"I thought we ought to at least say good-bye!"
"You're absolutely right," Ford said. "Oh-wait until you see what I've been doing here. It's amazing. That's what I want to tell you about."
"If you can find the time."
"First thing in the morning."
"Good-bye, then!"
Ford said, "Thanks for understanding," then hung up the phone, still writing as he walked back to the lab.
Four A.M., and Ford thought, Well, I ought to try and get a little sleep before I do any more. I'm starting to make mistakes.
The lab was a litter of papers and books lying open, places marked with clips. Everything Ford had on water, salt and fresh; everything he could find in his own little library. Scientific journals, university bulletins, government publications on water ac-cessment and environmental law-by guessing lag time, scientific interest in water pollution could be traced through legislation passed to protect it. Plus, he would certainly have to apply for special permits to plant sea mobiles on any expanded bases. The regulations were something he would have to know about.
So he had spent the night reading and making notes. Took time out to do the tank procedure one more time-the precision of it, the inexorable efficiency, delighted him.
Tomlinson would appreciate this. When the hell's he getting back!
In one of the journals, Ford had read: "In the South Florida acquifer, from which water streams sometimes percolate upward, under pressure, to create artesian wells, groundwater attains ages of hundreds to thousands of years. Research by Hanshaw and Back suggest that an armoring of the limestone surface by inorganic ionic species, or by organic substances, may produce a state of pseudoequilibrium between crystal surfaces and solution."
Which was of no interest in his own work, but it was exactly that kind of datum bit that Tomlinson could take and weave into a whole monologue on the timelessness of time, the elemental symmetry of life. Water held in the veins of the earth, existing through eons in its own dark space, until sumped skyward by nature or the ingenuity of man.
And what about the man-made additions, such as benzene and pesticides?
Tomlinson would probably make that fit neatly into his own example of the unceasing harmony of existence. Ford could just hear him: "We manufacture, then cast off emotional pollutants every day, man! That doesn't mean we're flawed!"
Ford smiled, then considered his lab one last time before flicking off the lights. He hated to leave the place in such a mess-but he'd get back to work right after his morning run, so it was almost the same as working right through. Even so, the disorderliness of the lab created an uneasiness in him, which he stood taking in for long seconds… then he decided that it was less trouble to neaten up than to worry about it, so it was nearly 5:00 A.M. when he finally lay down on his cot.
More than four hours later, Ford awoke with a start, aware that on some level of dream or consciousness, his brain had arrived at a solution to something… what?
He sat up groggily and threw the sheet back.
Sunlight glared through the windows. Overhead, the ceiling fan labored, making a whispered whap-whap-whap.
What the hell had he been dreaming about? Something to do with his work… something about water. His subconscious had been wrestling with some problem, exploring ways to best some obstacle… and finally had succeeded. Nothing else could account for the sense of triumph that had awakened him. But a solution to what?
Ford stood, preoccupied, scanning the memory tracers, willing the data to return. He made the cot up military fashion, stretching the gray-and-blue-banded navy-issue blanket tight enough to bounce a quarter on.
"Something to do with water," he said aloud.
Beside the cot was the brass alarm clock. He checked the time against his own watch, startled that he had slept so late. Which caused him to think of his promise to Sally Carmel, and he immediately went to the phone and dialed.
No answer.
"She's probably already left for Miami. The job interview." Talking to himself.
So she'd be back late that night. No… she had mentioned a hotel, so she'd be back the next day, Tuesday. Or would she? Had she said?
Ford thought, Well, she'll call. Or I can leave a note at her house when I go to Mango for the public hearing…
Which was when he remembered that it was now Monday; the meeting would start in-what?-less than two hours.
Christ!
Ford began to hustle around, making coffee, collecting his papers
… then stopped, transfixed. It was all coming back to him, the dreamy workings of his own subconscious. It had nothing to do with his own work, but it was about water. Fresh water. Artesian wells. Contaminants. And the solution…
It was both a revelation and a disappointment. In that instant, Ford knew how to prevent the state from taking Tucker Gatrell's property.