The Man Who Ivented Florida (23 page)

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."