The Man Who Ivented Florida (37 page)

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."