The Man Who Ivented Florida (34 page)

Tomlinson was a little disappointed. He had always wanted a Nehru jacket.

Later, he shopped for a hairstylist. But the only thing he found open was a little place in Boston's industrial section called Benny's Quick Cut. There, a startled man in a blue smock studied Tomlinson's scraggly hair and beard for a moment, grinned as he recovered his composure, and said, "I'd do this one for free, buddy!" And he waved him into the old Koken barber's chair.

Now it was nearing midnight, and Tomlinson sat outside Musa-shi's apartment building, wondering whether he should go in and say good-bye.

He would, of course. That's why he'd done the shopping. But he wanted to gather his spiritual reserves first. Didn't want to face the woman while negative vibes still controlled his spirit. Finally, he stepped out of the car and walked up the steps to the door, where he took a deep breath, straightened his tie, touched the doorbell, and waited.

No answer.

He was about to touch the button again when he remembered that the bell didn't work. So he tapped on the door, three soft raps, then knocked a little harder when no one answered.

The door swung open on its own.

Tomlinson stepped into the apartment, worried that something was wrong. But then he saw the empty champagne bottles on the counter, the two empty wineglasses, the ELECT JOHN NIIGATA signs in a stack on the floor, the CONGRATULATIONS JOHN! banner tacked to the wall, and Tomlinson knew it was okay. Musashi had had a little party and forgot to lock the door. Probably a private celebration—her man had won last Tuesday. Tomlinson already knew that.

He felt uneasy standing in her apartment. Japanese pen drawings on the walls; screens made of rice paper; shelves with rows of books. It was Musashi's private space, and it was wrong to invade that space without invitation. But then he began to wonder whether she was home. It was so quiet. There was a light on over the sink and a night-light in the bathroom. That was all. Even Nichola's little room, down the hall to the left, looked dark.

She's my daughter, Tomlinson thought. If she's here, I should check on her.

He crossed the carpet to the hall, past the master bedroom . . . then stopped. Through the wedge of open doorway, he could see the outline of Musashi's sleeping face. Beside her was a man, a black-haired man with, a neat black beard.

Tomlinson touched his own bare face, now so smooth after his visit to the barber.

Damn it. I shaved for nothing!

In his abdomen, deep within, he felt a growing spasm of jealousy. It was so abrupt and strong, he stepped away from the door in an attempt to dull the feeling. He stood in the dark hallway, breathing slowly, rhythmically, wanting the hurt to fade, wanting to access the calm that was at the very core of him.

I have no right to be angry. I've been wrong all along. Kern could have been describing Musashi instead of his own wife: She's a good human being. All she has been trying to tell me is that I have no claims on her life.

Quietly, very quietly, Tomlinson reached out and pulled the bedroom door closed, then entered Nichola's room. His daughter lay beneath soft blankets, asleep. There was a night-light plugged into the wall—a plastic bird in flight—and just seeing the infant's small form, asleep, at peace, caused Tomlinson to sag a little at the weight of the love he felt.

"Little daughter, my dearest child ..." He whispered the words as he bent to kiss her: tiny warm creature, butt hunched up beneath the covers, blond curls, with little wrinkled hands that grasped and held his big fingers reflexively. "Somehow, we will work this out. I promise."

He turned quickly then and fixed the lock on the open apartment door, pausing briefly when he thought he heard the whispered words "Good-bye, Tomlinson." He hesitated, looking toward Musashi's bedroom. Had he imagined her voice, or had the words been muted by plasterboard and dry-wall?

He choked out a reply: "My loves . . . good-bye," then stood motionless in a silence too repellent to endure.

Quickly, he stepped out onto the stairway and closed the door behind him.

Outside, the city night was as cold as the leaf-strewn concrete. Above the haze of sodium lights, scudding clouds gave the illusion of a few frail stars adrift in a wind that, to Tomlinson, seemed to blow right through him.

He started the car and drove numbly toward the airport, his small suitcase on the backseat, the sheath of lab results in a ma-nila envelope on the seat beside him. Musashi's apartment was miles behind before he realized the radio was still on. The jazz program had been replaced by a talk show, the volume turned so low that it could not pierce the roar of Tomlinson's own thoughts. He reached to touch the radio's scan button, but then something that was familiar about one of the voices caused him to pause.

Oh, it was Larry King, the interviewer. Tomlinson turned the volume up and sat back to listen. If he no longer had the power to still his own thoughts, perhaps he could divert them.

King was saying, ". . . who claims to have made a startling discovery, is our guest this hour on the Mutual Broadcasting Network. He's controversial, eclectic—you may have seen him on CNN a few nights ago with newswoman Margaret Lowery. We have him on the phone, live from his home. Before the break, you were talking about some of the famous people you have known—"

The next voice Tomlinson heard was even more familiar: "Yep, I knew 'em all. Well, most of 'em that come to fish this coast of Florida. I was telling you about the fat one, the rich man from Hollywood."

Tomlinson leaned forward and whispered, "Good God, that's ... Tucker Gatrell!"

"I'll remember his name in a minute—"

"Samuel Goldwyn? Louis B. Mayer?" Larry King was always so helpful.

"That's it! He's the one! Mr. King, he says to me, he says, 'Boy, go fetch me a cup of water.' That's just what he said, Mr. Louie B.

Mayer, the moviemaking man. 'Boy'—called me that on my own boat. So I says to him, 'Boy?
Boy!
I hope to hell you said
Roy.'
Hah! Then I says, 'How'd you like to go home and tell Clark Gable some boy just whupped your fat butt to a frazzle? After that, he didn't want to use me in the movies no more."

Tomlinson began to smile ... then he began to laugh ... laughed until the tears came and he was no longer certain whether he was laughing or crying.

On the radio, Tucker was saying to Larry King, ". . . what you ought to do is come on down. Hell, I got plenty a room at my ranch. Sleep in my bed, if you want—I slept in barns before, by God, and liked her fine. See for yourself this little town of mine ain't so little no more. Fact, thanks to nice people like you, Mango's getting bigger by the minute. . . ."

THIRTEEN

When
the Captain told William Bambridge that he'd be taking him and the two Chucks back to the mainland day after tomorrow, Bambridge thought, Damn! I was going to make cevi-che. . . .

The Captain told him, "Tall 'n' Short got most my cane in. Debt's paid. And you a fair damn cook. All them dishes I never had before. But I promised a man to deliver a load of goods on the ninth. Even gave me a calendar so I'd know the days. And I ain't the sort to break a promise."

"That's the truth, Captain. No one's going to argue with you there!"

When he got the news, Bambridge was sweeping the shack with a broom he'd made with his own two hands. Cut a green bamboo handle and lashed a bundle of dried reeds to it, trimmed neat. Every morning at first light, he swept the shack. Tied open the bamboo shutters to let the air and fresh sunlight in, then went to work on the packed dirt floor. For more than two weeks, that had been paft of his routine. Truth was, he'd come to enjoy the routine; didn't realize how much until the Captain told him he'd be leaving.

I've got so much to write down. I've got to make more notes! What I really need is a couple more hours just listening to the Captain talk.

Every day, the first thing Bambridge did when he got up was get the stove going. Not a stove, really—a metal bucket with holes punched in it and openings at both sides for draft. Then he'd put coffee on and sweep the shack while the water boiled. He liked to sweep; liked the way his broom made neat swirls in the dirt, and each morning, he decorated the floor with new patterns. He'd fold the two bed pallets, both stuffed with moss and leaves, then he'd get breakfast going.

The cooking, that's what he liked best.

The first day, the Captain had told him, "Grits and mullet. That's all I got; that's what you'll cook. Boil 'em both, 'cause springwater's the onliest thing we got plenty of."

Which explained to Bambridge why he hadn't been able to eat much, the food was so bad. So that first afternoon, with the Captain down overseeing the two Chucks, Bambridge decided to scout out the place. He took one of the machetes and cut his way through the jungle that canopied the island's low mounds. Escape had been on his mind, but he got too hot and tired, so he sat down to rest—and there, by his feet, saw that the ground was littered with little yellow limes.

"Spanish limes," the Captain would tell him later, though Bambridge guessed they were really called key limes.

The limes smelled wonderful—like sweet flowers—and so did the leaves of the tree that bore them. Bambridge had collected the limes in a pile, then set off to explore some more.

Two hours later, he returned to the shack using his shirt as a makeshift bag. He had the limes, plus ten ripe avocado pears, a bunch of guavas, a green papaya, several big knobby oranges that were too sour to eat (but would be fine for making drinks), lime leaves for seasoning, and a half dozen eggs from the nest of some kind of bird—pelicans, maybe. Bambridge didn't know.

The old man had eyed him narrowly as Bambridge came into the clearing. "Thought yew'd hightailed it."

"No sir, Captain." Bambridge had smiled, trying to ingratiate himself—God, he'd die if he had to go back to the pit! "I was out doing some shopping."

The old man had studied the fruit and eggs, shrugged, and said, "I knowed such truck was out there, just seemed too fancy to spend time huntin' it. You don't mind pickaninny work, he'p yourself."

Cooking became fun after that.

Now, for breakfast, they might have an egg or two with grits cakes soaked in cane syrup. For dinner, they might have mullet baked beneath orange peels, guava sauce, and avocado slices marinated in lime juice.

Every day, Bambridge tried to come up with something different.

After the first week, Bambridge had said to the old man, "Captain, what we could really use is a different kind of fish."

"Mullet's the onliest kinda fish I catch in my throw net. Mullet and a sand bream sometimes."

"Yes, I know, and the men love it—I think I can speak for them. But I want to do a poached fish dish, use the lime leaves and this kind of peppery plant I've found. And mullet is just a little too greasy and strong for the sort of thing I have in mind."

The old man had a way scrunching his face, an expression of sour bemusement. Without a word, he had dropped a coiled fishing line into Bambridge's lap, then walked off.

So that gave Bambridge freedom of the whole island, not just the thick interior. Not that there was a beach. Nothing like it. Mangroves grew right down to the water; trees so dense that the old man had had to carve out a little tunnel beneath the limbs just to have a place to keep the boats. But Bambridge could still wade out and collect oysters and clams; even found a couple of big mahogany-colored shells he thought might be conchs. Beneath the rocks, at low tide, there were all kinds of crabs. A few small shrimp, too.

That night, the old man had sniffed the steaming pot. "Fish soup?" he asked.

"Bouillabaisse," Bambridge corrected, feeling pretty good about himself. "Perhaps the finest I've ever made. And that, sir, is saying something."

Foraging
for food became Bambridge's passion. When breakfast was made and the shack was neat, he headed out. The mosquitoes didn't bother him so much anymore. His body had been covered with welts, but the welts disappeared, though the damn bugs continued to bite. So he walked and swatted, waded and gathered and swatted some more.

Surprising, but Bambridge had to admit it: He had even come to like the old man. The Captain kept his distance; couldn't easily be drawn into conversation. But sometimes, after a good dinner, he'd start telling stories, extraordinary stories of Florida's pioneer days. Of the things he'd done, of what it took to survive. And Bambridge would sit making careful mental notes, not saying a word for fear that to speak would remind the old man that someone was there listening.

The old man didn't like to be interrupted, and he didn't like to answer questions.

Early on, while cleaning the shack, Bambridge had found a pretty flower-print dress folded in the comer. Without thinking, he had held it up and said, "Captain? Do you have a daughter?" The old man had given him a surly look and said, "Man's got time fer questions ain't got enough work to do. Maybe you need to get back at that cane."

Bambridge didn't ask any more questions after that, just listened.