The Man Who Ivented Florida (21 page)

Once he was certain his specimens were okay, he lighted the Propane ship's stove and put coffee on to boil, then made his bed. If he was working on a project—and he almost always was—he made notes while he drank his coffee. He had a simple breakfast, English muffin or fruit, unless there was a female guest. If he hoped the lady would stay another day, he cooked with a flair: mango and onion omelets, or fish poached in lime juice and coconut water. If he was ready to have his house and lab to himself, he'd ask her to follow him to breakfast at the Lighthouse Cafe on Periwinkle Way and hope she'd take the hint.

But it had been a long time since he'd had company—a couple of months, maybe more. So these days, after coffee, he did a short morning workout. If the tide was up, he'd swim to the spoil islands east of the channel and back. If the tide was down and the water wasn't deep enough to swim comfortably, he'd do pull-ups on the crossbar that connected the rain cistern to the cottage, then go for a quick jog down Tarpon Bay Road to the beach. There, he'd stretch and swim in the Gulf.

Then it was work, and the work was always varied. Sometimes it was collecting specimens to fill orders. Sometimes it was dissecting in the lab, injecting dye into the veins of whatever animals that high schools and colleges around the country had requested to buy for their classes. That kept him busy because Ford was a perfectionist, and he had built a steady clientele of repeat business.

As the fishing guides often said, they lived on repeat business and partied on walk-ins. The biological supply business wasn't much different.

Ford liked the marina's guides; enjoyed hearing them discussing fish and fish habits. Which is why he joined them during their lunch breaks, sitting on the picnic tables in the shade, talking above the noise of the bait tanks. Took pleasure in the community feel of the small marina, listening to gossip about the live-aboards, arguing politics and boats until it was time to go back to his lab and more work. By five or so, though, he was usually finished, then he disciplined himself with a longer run and a tougher workout before joining the guides again on the docks, where he opened his first beer of the day while they washed down their boats.

That was Ford's daylight routine. The monotony of it pleased him; appealed to his sense of order, and he didn't like to vary it. Same with his after-dark routine. He'd fix his own supper—usually fish the guides had given him or that he'd caught himself— then he'd have another beer out on the porch, looking at the water. If it was a good clear night, particularly if Jupiter and its moons were high and bright, he'd look through his telescope. Or he'd listen to his shortwave radio, carefully logging any unfamiliar world-bands stations he happened to stumble across. Then about nine, he'd hear Tomlinson's little skiff start, and Ford would go to the refrigerator and set out another beer, anticipating Tomlinson's nightly visit.

Ford looked forward to the visits, though he would have never said so—there was no reason to comment on such a thing. But Tomlinson was as brilliant as his interests were eclectic, and it was nice to sit in the cottage or on the porch and try to follow the man's assaults on conventional wisdom. It was a game they played. A subject would be selected, usually something commonplace, such as baseball, or sex, or the effects of television on society, and Tomlinson would accommodate the game by making an outlandish observation. "Celibacy is healthy! You shouldn't be complaining!" Then the two of them would argue the various byways and small branchings of thought on the subject until the subject itself sagged or burst into absurdity. "You mean
absence.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Not abstinence! Geeze!"

It was something to do, part of Ford's routine, part of the life he enjoyed living. Only lately, he hadn't been enjoying it that much. Things had changed around the place. Jeth was gone, off being feted in some Central American country—Ford still hadn't heard from him. And Tomlinson had changed. Gotten fatherly, which wasn't so surprising, since he had fathered a child. Tomlinson and a woman from his commune days, Dr. Musashi Rinmon. They had had a daughter, and Tomlinson was spending a lot of time in the air, flying back and forth to Boston to see his little girl. Now Tomlinson, who for years hadn't driven anything faster than a sailboat or more traffic-worthy then a beach bike, seemed to havfe embraced a faster world. He borrowed Ford's truck—a lot. He was always running errands, going places. He had even bought a pair of slacks.
Slacks.
And he had joined Ford in the habit of going to the marina to read the local newspaper each day. "Been out of touch for the last couple of decades," Tomlinson had explained to Ford. "After Nixon, I thought it was safe to kick back for a while."

And Tomlinson wasn't the only one who had changed around the marina. Mack, who owned and operated the place, suddenly seemed obsessed with modernizing the operation and expanding.

"Do you know how much money I lose because of these old docks?" he'd complain. "Do you have any idea how many more boats I could handle if I had one of those big aluminum storage barns? This place is so old and run-down the government might damn well come in and try to close us if I don't do something soon."

Well, it was in the air—change.

Not that Ford had anything against change; he just resented it interfering with the neat perimeter of his own life. It made him irritable, cranky. Worse, now Tucker was nipping at his heels, trying to maneuver him into one of his absurd schemes. The man was poison, had always been poison. Tomlinson wouldn't believe that. That afternoon, Ford had stood on the dock and told him, but Tomlinson wouldn't listen. Had to borrow his truck anyway and drive down to Mango.

"I've flashed on one of the all-time great ideas, man! Your uncle wants to keep his land, him and Joe, then I'm the man to do it. Seriously, Doc, I don't see why you won't kick in a little help."

"Because I don't want to help, that's why. And if you're as smart as I think you are, you'll see Tuck for what he is and stay the hell away."

Blinking at him, giving him his new fatherly expression, Tomlinson had said, "I've got to say something here. You're the best friend I've ever had. I love you, man, but you're dead wrong."

"Aw, Lord, spare me the analysis."

"I'm just saying that the price of hate is too high. I can feel it coming out of you, man. Like heat whenever I mention the old dude's name. Now, it may not be any of my business—"

Handing him the keys to the truck, Ford had said, "You're right. It's none of your business," and turned away.

Ford felt badly about it now, the way he had talked to Tomlinson. The guy was weird, a flake sometimes, but he was as sensitive as a child and there was nothing to be served in hurting him.

When he gets back with the truck, I'll say something to him. Apologize. Thinking that as he cleaned up his lab, scrubbing the dissecting table with Clorox and water, covering his microscope, checking to see that all the jars and vials and chemical bottles were in their proper places. Give him a couple of beers, he'll forget all about it.

Ford checked his watch: 6:00 P.M. He'd worked later than usual, cleaning and curing a two-hundred-gallon tank, then fitting in the Plexiglas shield that would divide it in half. Into the tank he would pump raw turbid water from the bay. There would be only sand on the bottom of the control side of the tank. On the other side, he would introduce the floating mobilelike device upon which sponges, sea squirts, and tunicates were already growing. The strings of the sea mobile, with their clumps of sessile life, would serve as surrogates for natural sea grasses. The question was, how would the turbidity of the water be effected by the organisms—organisms that depended upon the grasses as bases for their own growth?

Ford hadn't made any further headway on the paper he wanted to write. Had decided to wait until he got the procedure down pat before he put anything on paper. Which gave him an excuse to spend all his time out collecting, or perfecting the procedure in his lab.

So he had worked later than usual and Tomlinson still wasn't back.

Probably drinking whiskey with Tuck, out wrecking my truck.

Thinking mean thoughts, Ford locked the door to his lab, crossed the roofed walkway between the living area and his lab, then knelt before the little refrigerator to take out two grouper fillets for supper. But then he thought, I'm not even hungry. Why bother?

He felt like doing something, getting out, going someplace.

If I had my truck, I could!

Ford stripped off his shirt, kicked off his shoes. He'd do a kick-butt workout, that's what. Be a good time to work out, get cooled down by the afternoon thunderstorm he could feel coming. Maybe that would wash the restlessness out of him. Run to the Sanibel Public Pool and back, nearly five miles; push himself, try to make it in thirty-five minutes, then dive right into the bay and swim out to the spoil islands. His own little biathlon. The same routine he'd once done with Dewey Nye, his tennis player friend. Only now she was a golfer, spending the summers up on Long Island ... and just thinking about Dewey stirred the longing in him.

I'll call her tonight. Tell her I miss her.

Which was true. Missed feeling her arm over his shoulder, ragging him, the rough housing; missed having a woman to talk to as a confidante. They weren't lovers, just friends. Yet thinking of her fired his restlessness.

Maybe I'll fly up and see her. Take the weekend off—I'm not married to this place. Have Mack feed my animals, and just go. And if she's busy, I'll ... fly to Central America, that's what. A week in the jungle, that's what I need. Head down to Masagua, go in illegally because of the State Department and see how General Rivera's doing. Speak a little Spanish and eat some decent beans. ...

Ford was walking around the room, thinking restless thoughts, putting on his running shoes, depositing his sweaty work clothes in the wash bag kept outside the door. That's when something caught his attention out in the bay, an odd movement out toward the rim of mangroves. The bay was choppy, streaked with contrails of dark and light: the afternoon rainstorm blowing in.

Ford stood and looked, trying to define the dark shape he saw— something big thrashing around close to the sandbank that ringed the bay, or maybe on the sandbank. It was hard to tell at this distance, maybe a mile away. He ran inside, returning to the porch with his Steiner waterproof binoculars. With his glasses atop his head, he allowed his eyes to focus through the binoculars ... then he knew what it was.

Bottle-nosed dolphin . ..

Something wrong with it, too, the way it was kicking around. No other dolphins near it, either. That was unusual. He watched the animal's fluke tail throw a bright fountain of water into the green squall sky. It was either panicked or in pain, the way it rolled onto its side, then smacked its head on the surface. The dolphin's behavior had the flavor of desperation. . . .

Ford swung into the house, put the binoculars on their hook, then swung right back out. His flats boat was tied to the stilt platform's north dock, and he was tilting the boat's big engine into the water when he heard, "Excuse me . . . excuse me?" A woman standing at the end of the boardwalk; red-haired woman wearing jeans on skinny hips and a cinnamon colored T-shirt. "I'm supposed to drop something off. Your uncle asked me."

He was so intent on getting to the dolphin, his mind had to scan around to connect the woman standing on the dock with a name: Sally Carmel. He called to her, "I can't talk now." The engine was in the water and he had the throttle's idle button in, ready to start the boat.

"I didn't come to talk. I came to—"

The engine fired in a haze of blue smoke, and Ford went to the stern, then to the bow, untying lines. "I may be gone a while."

"What?" She couldn't hear because of the motor.

"I MAY BE GONE A WHILE!"

"It'll take me fifteen seconds to give you the message your uncle wanted—"

Ford was already pulling away, but then suddenly he popped the boat into reverse. He yelled over the engine, "Get in!"

"What?"

"I said, get in. I may need some help. We have to hurry."

"Help doing what?"

"GET IN! YOU'RE WASTING TIME!"

Sally Carmel put the jar of water on the deck and got in the boat.

The
storm was pushing from the north, accelerating and expanding. It became a smoky veil around the bay. Ford could see the rain: a silver haze with abrupt boundaries, as if sprayed from a nozzle; the sky a comberent gray with tentacles that drifted across the sea, absorbing light, blurring the horizon. Before he could get them away from the dock, the squall wind hit: a wall of air, cold and volatile, that ripped at his clothes and tried to lift the boat airborne before charging into the shoreward mangrove bank. Ford yelled, "Hang on!" as he punched the throttle. The bow of the boat jumped so high that, for a wild moment, he thought they might flip. But then the chines of the eighteen-foot skiff found purchase, the boat settled itself on plane, and Ford touched the trim-tab toggle to adjust the boat's pitch as he hunkered down behind the little console, Sally Carmel holding on beside him. Running into the wind, it seemed they were going a hundred miles per hour.

"WHY ARE WE DOING THIS?" The woman had to yell over the noise of the storm and the engine.

Ford glanced at her just long enough to imprint the image of wild red hair and facial features contorted by the wind stream; got the impression that she not only wasn't afraid but was enjoying it. "You see that out there?" Ford pointed. "Keep your eye on it. The tain's going to be on it soon." "But why—"

"It's a dolphin. I think it's hurt. In some kind of trouble."

"I can see something splashing."

"That's it. Don't lose it."

The rain caught them midway to the dolphin—fat drops smacking at their faces, then a stinging waterfall. Ford backed the throttle, slowing, then cupped fingers over his eyes to provide a shield, trying to protect his glasses and his eyes. The drifting partition of rain became a unit of movement and weight, a silver body that ingested them, then reduced their world to a circlet of breaking waves and tarnished light.