Carl Hiaasen (29 page)

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

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

“Dear God,” said Skinner.

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

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

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

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

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

“Aw, c’mon. He knows I’m kiddin’.”

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

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

Skinner told him to go ahead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His mother reddened and his father’s eyebrows arched.

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

No comment, thought Fry.

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

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

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

“People change,” his mother asserted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, come on, Mom. The Texans?”

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

“Thank you,” said Honey, “I think.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skinner laughed. “Smartass,” he said.

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

The phone started ringing.

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

Irritably she pushed away from the table.

Fry and his father looked at each other.

“What?” Honey crossed her arms.

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

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

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

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

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

Eight, nine, ten times the phone rang.

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

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

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

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen rings.

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

He gave her a thumbs-up.

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

The phone stopped ringing.

Honey sat down with her boys.

Carl Hiaasen was born and raised in Florida. He is the author of ten previous novels, including the best-selling
Skinny Dip, Sick Puppy
and
Lucky You,
and two best-selling children’s books,
Hoot
and
Flush.
He also writes a weekly column for
The Miami Herald.

ALSO BY CARL HIAASEN

Fiction

Skinny Dip

Basket Case

Sick Puppy

Lucky You

Stormy Weather

Strip Tease

Native Tongue

Skin Tight

Double Whammy

Tourist Season

FOR YOUNG READERS

Flush

Hoot

Nonfiction

Team Rodent: How Disney Devours the World

Kick Ass: Selected Columns
(edited by Diane Stevenson)

Paradise Screwed: Selected Columns
(edited by Diane Stevenson)

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

Copyright © 2006 by Carl Hiaasen
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
www.aaknopf.com

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Grateful acknowledgment is made to Black Cypress Music and The Night Rainbow Music to reprint an excerpt from “Learn To Be Still,” by Don Henley and Stan Lynch. Copyright © 1994 Black Cypress Music (BMI)/Matanzas Music (ASCAP) and The Night Rainbow Music (ASCAP)/WB Music Corp. (ASCAP).
All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hiaasen, Carl.

Nature girl / Carl Hiaasen.— 1st ed.

p. cm.

1. Florida—Fiction. 2. Ten Thousand Islands National Wildlife Refuge (Fla.)—Fiction. 3. Manic-depressive illness—Fiction. I. Title.

PS
3558.
I
217
N
39 2006

813'.54—dc 22 2006049360

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

eISBN: 978-0-307-26659-0

v3.0