Whale Season (15 page)

She knew Americans liked the word
gringo
because they used it in all their westerns.

Still, that would have been wrong to say. Spiteful. Prideful. Fun, but wrong.

So she said, “Bless you, Me-stir Doc-ter!” And she spoke loudly, smiled that “I-Got-Me-A-Burro-So-I-Am-Happy” kind of smile that she'd seen in
The Treasure of Sierra Madre,
a movie that long ago she had decided not to hold against director John Huston because she liked
African Queen
so very much.

Then she said a prayer for the doctor. And two for herself.

Still, it was true. Zip. Zip. A laser, a hose, a digital camera in her belly—and ten minutes later, she was a new woman. Medical science had come a long way since her days as a resident. The surgery was quite simple. The painkillers, divine. And while she wasn't exactly feeling all that well—sliced up and sans gallbladder—since Jesus was around, Sister Inez Alverez, operating under a delicious Vicodin cloud, thought it was just professional courtesy to pay her respects. Especially since she was still feeling a little guilty about the doctor incident, and the fact that while under sedation she fantasized about grinding his store-bought tan body into taco meat and feeding it to a pack of wild miniature Chihuahuas.

“How's that for a stereotype?” she kept on screaming. “We don't need no stinking badges!”

She had to scream to be heard over the mariachi band.

Anger issues—just one of the many reasons Sister Inez Alverez had joined the Carmelites.

“Holy Mother of God!” she screamed when she entered Leon's room.

An overactive imagination was the other.

Nurse Becker ran down the hall, threw the door open, half-expecting more bees. But there, in the fading light of day, was the Virgin Mary's image on Leon's window. It was the very same window through which the swarm of bees had entered. It was just a trick of the light, the sun setting through streaky glass. But the Virgin was smiling and waving a “Hey there!” kind of wave. So it was all rather convincing.

“Dude!” Sam the Gator said.

Leon could see it, too. It nearly scared the Bee-Jesus out of him.

And so the wire services picked up the story. And Sam the Gator called Harlan Oakley, the tabloid reporter who first called him “Gator Boy.”

Sam might not know enough to ever become a junior at Florida State University, but he knows a reporter who will pay for a somewhat accurate eyewitness account when he sees one. And, if this guy really is a Miracle Guy, Sam thinks, even better.

Chapter 23

T
he ghost house has risen, Trot thinks as he walks through the gigantic gator grin and opens the gate that after all these years still nearly shuts tight. He's never seen anything like this house before. Bleached to the bone, it sits in what seems to be a crater. The Gulf of Mexico rolls around the sides of it and back again.

It's low tide, he thinks. Winter. Could be only a matter of months before the entire house will be pulled into the ocean. But of course, it took forty years to whittle away the sinkhole, so you never know. Could take forty more. Or a good storm. Or, maybe not.

He knocks on the door. The smell of bleach is overwhelming.

“It's open!”

It's Carlotta's voice, but she sounds all business. Doesn't remind him of crushed velvet, or prom night. Just sounds like somebody who is in the middle of something and doesn't want to be bothered.

“Miss Carlotta?”

He opens the door and it's 1960 all over again. The television is nearly as big as a porch swing but has a tiny round screen. There's a set of TV tables rusted in a stand by the window and a cocktail table in the shape of a kidney. The small couch has plastic covers to protect its cushions. Reminds Trot of his mother's couch. “You going to put the couch in the freezer, Ma?” he always says to her when he visits. Teases her about living a Ziploc life.

Now he will never tease her again. The wooden frame of the couch is rotted in most places, but the cushions look nearly new.

Trot wonders what else his mother is right about. Probably everything, he thinks. Gives him the willies.

“Miss Carlotta?” he says again. He's nervous. Not sure why he's so nervous, but when Carlotta walks out of the kitchen it becomes clear. He just needed to see her again. Just wanted to make sure she was really alive, really that beautiful.

And she is. Without a doubt. At least to him.

Outside the ghost house, a cloud moves away from the sun and the room is suddenly filled with light. Everything looks silver. Shines. Takes his breath away. Or maybe it's the bleach. Or maybe Carlotta. It's hard to tell. His eyes are watering profusely.

She is so beautiful, he thinks over and over again.

Carlotta is wearing cutoffs and a T-shirt with so many holes it looks as if it's made of Swiss cheese. She holds the bleach-soaked mop like a scepter. There's a fresh crown of passion fruit flowers in her hair. Her pink rubber gloves glow. Her scar is not hidden. In the silvery light it looks more like delicate lace edging her face. Makes her seem even more beautiful.

Trot is speechless.

“Nice to see you, Sheriff,” she says, sweetly. Seems to be blushing a little. At least, that's what Trot hopes.

He nods. Clears his throat. His mind is blank.

“You okay?” she asks.

He nods again. Then, like a newborn, he coughs until he is red-faced. Carlotta suddenly looks alarmed. When he finally catches his breath, “Miss Carlotta,” he says in a voice that he remembers from puberty: two octaves higher than his own, and splintered.

Not exactly the sort of effect he was going for.

Carlotta puts a bleached arm around him. “You sure you're okay?”

Trot shakes his head, but before he can say anything else, the smell of bleach overwhelms him. Burns in his throat. He starts to cough again. At first, it's just a tickle. Then it seems as if his lung is about to eject itself.

Get a grip, he thinks, sweating. This is unprofessional. This is not going well. But Carlotta looks exceedingly concerned, and he likes that.

“I got some water, hang on,” she says and goes into the kitchen. Comes back out with a half-filled bottle in her hand. “I only took a couple of sips. I hope that's okay.”

Perfect, he thinks.

She wipes the top of the bottle on her T-shirt. Even better.

Trot now, officially, wants to be that shirt.

He takes a long drink from the bottle and coughs a few times. Takes another drink. It's a slow process for Trot to recover from the overdose of her beauty, and the fear it inspires. But when he finally does and finds his voice, he says, “Miss Carlotta, what are you doing here?”

The question makes her go pale. “I was waiting for Leon.”

Was.

She shrugs. Wraps her arms around her shoulders. “I heard the explosion, but . . .” Trails off. Looks away.

Trot wants to hold her, but can't. Not professional, he tells himself, and wonders why she stayed out here so long without heat or electricity. But she seems so upset, he's afraid to ask.

Truth is this: she stayed because she's in love.

She heard the explosion. Saw the flash of light. Watched the fire in the distance. Didn't move. Of course, she didn't know it was Leon, but still. She just sat on the cypress porch and watched the stars hang low over the harbor, fat as fruit. Watched the bats as they wove around each other—blind, yet so graceful. Watched the ancient sea turtles lumbered onto shore, uncaring as gods.

At the time of Leon's reported demise, Carlotta was falling in love with this place, the ghost house—its pounding surf, its warm taffy salt air.

As a family of cats walked along the moonlit shore, Carlotta couldn't imagine ever leaving this place. She'd never been anywhere so wild, and so kind, at the same time. The mother and three kittens were as big as hunting dogs. They had crooked tails, and a cowlick in the middle of their backs. Long Roman noses.

Panthers, she thought, and remembered that Trot said they could eat you. But it didn't seem possible. They looked quite sweet as they whistled back and forth to each other. Made little peeping sounds. Every now and then one of the kittens would veer away from the pack and the mother would pick it up by the nape of its neck and carry it back to the others in her teeth. Lick the top of its head. Whistle and coo. Then they would all move on.

But she doesn't tell Trot any of this. She can't. It seems too personal. Besides, now that Leon is dead, she knows she'll have to leave. The thought pains her. She gets a faraway look in her eyes.

“You okay?” he asks.

She shrugs.

Trot knows he should ask her where she was at the time of the accident—did she hear the explosion—any number of questions that a good sheriff should ask, but he can't. She is just so beautiful—her crown of passion fruit flowers, the delicate lace of her face—and alive.

“Need anything?” he says.

“More bleach.”

Chapter 24

I
t's Happy Hour and the Blind Brothers' Blues Band is playing low down and dirty. Jimmy Ray growls, “Don't send me no doctors cause doctors won't do me no good.” His eyes are closed. His body sways. He seems to have crawled into the music. It pulses through him.

The crowd would be his, if there still were a crowd.

Happy Hour at The Dream Café is usually packed. But at this moment, the only customer left in the place is Jesus. He's sitting against the back wall beneath the “Hall of Fame” photos, which include a series of sixteen-by-twenty-four full-color candid shots of “Roxy the Rabbit Girl” and “Naughty Nurse Nanci.” Each dancer is captured at the height of her career. Each photo illustrates a set of particular skills.

The range of limberness is breathtaking.

But Jesus isn't looking at the photographs. He's intent on the band. In the dark, his white sheet glows. The ancient black men, their bones rattling the blues, move in and out of songs with great sorrow and real wisdom. Jesus' bare feet are tapping. His head nods along. He whistles with the harmonica. He even got up once and did the hand jive—unfortunately the band was playing “Handyman” at the time.

And so The Café is empty.

Dagmar, perched at the bar, watched the steady flow of customers out the door. She hoped that it would stop on its own. However, when a bachelor party of twenty left before their orders could be taken, she panicked. She grabbed the man she thought was the groom and said, “Hey! He's not Jesus, he's just crazy!”

Unfortunately, the man did not find this comforting. Nor did anyone else. People then began to push as they fled.

That was about the time that Bernie, sounding every inch of Irish Catholic with immigrant parents from County Cork that she is, said, “Dagmar, girls told me to tell you that the show's canceled tonight. They just can't with him out here.”

Then she made the sign of the cross.

Bernie's match-red hair was still in hot rollers. She held her worn pink chenille bathrobe at the neck so tightly her knuckles were pale. She looked ready for a slumber party, not a strip show. Jesus was singing along with Jimmy Ray. “She was a red-hot hootchie-cootcher! Hi-de-hi-de-hi-di-hi! Ho-de-ho-de-ho-de-ho!”

“Even Syd the Atheist doesn't want to go out,” Bernie said.

Off to the side of the stage, Dagmar could see the cluster of dancers standing in their bathrobes watching Jesus watch Jimmy Ray. Dagmar sighed.

“Happy Hour's nearly over,” she told Bernie. “He'll be gone soon.”

“So you're telling me that Jesus just came by for free nachos?”

Dagmar frowned. “You do know he's not Jesus, don't you?”

Bernie looked confused. “Well, yeah. Of course. I mean—sure. But he's still leaving, right?”

“Soon as this set's over.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Bernie hesitated. “It's too bad he's not Jesus, though. That'd be something, wouldn't it?” She sounded wistful.

“Yes,” Dagmar said, watching him roll his head around to the beat like Little Stevie Wonder. “That would
really
be something if he was Jesus.”

On stage, Jimmy Ray now rumbled on. “If my body can't heal no more. That's okay; I've had my fun.

“There's no need to call the doctor, baby. Let's just get this dying done.”

The set is finally over. Jimmy Ray disappears. Probably the men's room, Dagmar thinks, so she walks over to Jesus' table. “How's the iced tea?”

“He doesn't have much time left,” Jesus says. “Hope you've made your peace with him.” Two days and counting, he thinks.

“You're not much for small talk, are you?”

Jesus shrugs, “Just thought you should know.”

They both watch as Jimmy Ray reappears from backstage to pack up his things. The old man is shaking a great deal. Sweating harder than he should.

This Jesus guy could be right, Dagmar thinks, and feels a spidery numbness crawl across her chest.

“I better go help,” Jesus says.

When he leaves the table, Dagmar takes a plastic bag out of her pocket and uses it to pick up his empty glass. She shakes the ice into a plant. All she needs is the glass for fingerprints.

Not exactly Buddhist of her, she knows that, but a little caution is in Jimmy Ray's best interest. Dagmar woke up in the middle of the night suddenly worried. In all the confusion over Leon's death, she'd forgotten to mention Jesus to Trot. At 2
A.M.
it occurred to her that the American Dream showed up the same day Jesus did. And Trot is worried about these Levi people who could be missing. So, even though the Jesus guy seems harmless, Dagmar knows it's better to check it out. Drop the glass by Trot's office.

It's the right thing to do, but Dagmar still feels guilty. Jimmy Ray really likes the man. Seems happier when he's around. She knows that as soon as she gives the glass to Trot, he'll play cop. Probably haul Jesus in for questioning on general principles. Then Jimmy Ray will give her the “bad Buddhist lecture” and be icy for at least a week.

Unless I don't tell Trot the real story about the prints, she thinks. I could say they belonged to some guy who drove away without paying. Make it seem like it's a favor. He'd buy that. Trot always believes me.

She looks back at the stage, and Jesus and Jimmy Ray are joking like old friends. They see her watching them and they both wave, arms around each other like Siamese twins. Then laugh. The guilt grinds her, but that's not uncommon. Everyone Dr. Ricardo Garcia encounters always feels a little guilty when they first suspect he's a murderer. It's only natural. He really isn't a bad guy, as far as serial killers go. He means well. People sense that. He wants to do what's right. And he's very helpful. Sure, he kills people. But he has manners, elegant manners. He knows his salad fork from the dessert. His parents made sure of it.

As a child, Dr. Ricardo Garcia was given all the best life had to offer. His father, Dr. Luis Garcia, was a wildly successful plastic surgeon in predominately white St. Petersburg, Florida. His mother, Maria Garcia, was a family practice doctor.

The Garcias were an attractive, popular family. They lived in a barrel-tiled Spanish house on a deep-water canal in the old money Snell Isle neighborhood. The country club district was well known for red brick streets that wrap genteelly around Coffeepot Bayou and flood in high rains—but flood with all the style that money can buy. They played tennis often. To the outside world, the Garcias were a successful prominent Cuban American family.

There was only one problem—they were actually Polish.

Luis and Maria, born Boguslaw and Jadwiga, were olive-skinned Poles who immigrated to this country right before Ricardo was born. They came to America for money. And sunshine. It was a fairly easy transition for them. They were successful doctors in Krakow and spoke many languages, including Spanish. They were also politically connected—and quite skilled at blackmail—so a diplomat who had a fondness for cross-dressing and small farmyard animals magically transferred their medical licenses. He extended them diplomatic immunity and made them the official physicians for the consulate in Miami. No further schooling or medical training was required.

The only snag came when a low-level immigration officer wondered “Why on this good green Earth” would someone from Poland want to change his or her name to “Garcia.”

“It's like exchanging one problem for another. If you're going to change your name at all, most like “Smith.” Something neutral like that,” she offered. “Or “Brown.” Or “Eisenhower.” Everybody likes Ike.”

The idea of taking the name of the then-current president did have a momentary appeal. However, in textbook Spanish, Luis said, “My wife wants to live in Florida. How many successful Polish doctors do you know in Florida?”

And so the Garcias came to be. They never stepped foot in Miami, but moved to St. Petersburg because it had the fewest Cubans in the entire state. They wanted to refine their newly acquired ethnic heritage without question.

The scheme worked well until Ricardo turned ten years old, and Maria decided it was time to tell her son of their secret Polish heritage. Hoping to make her child understand the difficulty of their decision, she attempted to ease the shock with a meal that her mother used to make back in Poland.

With great love and devotion, Maria/Jadwiga explained each of the seven courses in both English and Polish. There was borscht made with cabbage and sausage;
Kielbasa,
a garlic sausage, served on a bed of sweet and sour red cabbage; cabbage rolls stuffed with sausage and mashed potatoes, and, of course,
perogis,
moon-shaped raviolis stuffed with mashed potatoes, cabbage, and sausage, then served with a white cream sauce. There were also herrings in cream sauce and sauerkraut with caraway seeds. And potato pancakes with chives. And lots of butter. And lots of sour cream. And three kinds of poppy seed cake for dessert.

It was July. The temperature was ninety-eight degrees with 98 percent humidity. It was also the 1960s—a time when air-conditioning was an inexact science.

“This was Sunday dinner in Krakow when I was a girl,” his mother explained with a homesick lilt to her voice.

For a boy who grew up teething on mangos (“This is how we did it in Havana,” his mother would tell her Snell Isle neighbors), the food of his real ethnic heritage had a profound impact on both his psyche and digestive system.

Ricardo spent the better part of two days doubled over in the bathroom.

The only comforting thought for the boy was that this revelation finally explained the unsettling first memory of his parents rocking him to sleep at night singing the “I Don't Want Her You Can Have Her She's Too Fat for Me” polka.

Still, the family secret gnawed at him. Eventually Ricardo found himself listening to Liberace and Bobby Vinton. He surreptitiously read everything he could about famous Poles like Fredric Chopin, Madame Curie, and the Polish American baseball great Stan Musial.

After a while, the pressure became too great. He began hearing voices. He began taking risks. He developed a fondness for mashed potatoes, poppy seed pastry, and plum preserves. On his twenty-first birthday, after being awarded a Harvard Medical School fellowship designed for Cuban refugees, he bought himself a button accordion.

And so, in the dead of night, urged on by voices only he could hear, he lurked in the alleyways of Harvard Square practicing such polka greats as the Flying Dutchmen's massive hit, “In Heaven There Is No Beer.”

The double life had just become too much.