The Man Who Ivented Florida (35 page)

Something else he didn't do anymore was go down and visit the two Chucks—not socially, anyway. Just to carry food, if the Captain made him. Or to dip them a bucket of water from the spring. Even then, Bambridge didn't take the trouble to offer them advice. Not after the way they'd acted those first few times when he'd tried to share what he'd heard from the old man. "I'll tell you what makes the Captain mad," he had told them. "The way you two stand around in the shade and he has to remind you the break's over, time to get back to cutting. He says grown men shouldn't have to be reminded—and I agree. Remember, the quicker you two get done, the quicker we all get to go home."

Just a little pep talk, that's all it was. But Chuck Fleet had stood to freeze him with a chilly look, and Charles Herbott had screamed and thrown a big whelk shell at him. "You fat son of a bitch, you used to cry like a baby when you had to work in the field! You big fat-assed son of a bitch! You ever hear of a thing called the Stockholm syndrome? You're no better than him now!"

Well, if that's the way they wanted to behave, he'd leave them alone. Calling him fat! When he wasn't. Not now. He had to tie his pants up with a rope after nearly a month on the island; had lost forty, maybe fifty pounds, and he felt great! And that business about the Stockholm syndrome—suggesting that he, Bambridge, had begun to sympathize with his kidnapper. That was almost laughable, but what could you expect from a cretin like Herbott? The Captain wasn't a kidnapper; he was just a lonely old man with turn-of-the-century principles. They were in the Captain's debt, and the old man's sense of fairness required that the debt be paid. What was wrong with that?

Herbott—environmentalist indeed! The man was a gutter-mouthed savage who belonged in a pit. Why, Herbott himself had proven it just a few days ago.

Bambridge had heard the old man calling him: "Fat 'un! Fat'un! Get yo-self down here—and bring a rope!"

And there, by the cane press, had stood Charles Herbott, as still as a feral dog, his eyes wild, his whole body trembling, threatening the old man with his machete.

But the Captain had his shotgun up, the two men facing one another. Later, Bambridge would remember an odd stink in the air, a strange, musky acidity that, forever after, he would associate with human rage.

In the silence, the Captain spoke softly. "This scattergun knows her work, boy. She's done it before. Now yew drop that'er knife. Let Fat'un tie your arms till you cool off."

Herbott had dropped the machete ... but then threw himself on the ground, pounding his own face with his fists while he screamed and cursed. Over the noise, Chuck Fleet had yelled, "His brain's snapped, Captain! Couldn't you take him back to the mainland before he hurts himself—or one of us? I'll finish the damn cane by myself!"

But the old man wouldn't do that. He had to keep Herbott tied now, when he wasn't in the pit; it was the principle of the thing. And the old man was right. Bambridge had told him so later. "Captain, you give Short One an inch, he'll try to take a mile. I know his type."

On
the morning the old man came in and told him, "I'll be takin' you three back to the mainland day after tomorrow," William Bambridge finished his sweeping, poured the Captain's coffee, then walked down to the pit to tell the two Chucks.

On the way back, he decided he'd stop at a tamarind tree he'd found. The pulp inside the tamarind's seedpods made a wonderfully sweet drink, and its red-striped flowers were delicious, perfect in a hearts-of-palm salad.

Get a really good meal into the old man, and maybe he'd tell a few more stories before they had to go. Use the pencil he'd found to make more notes on the grocery bags he used for paper.

Bambridge stopped at the screened opening of the pit and kicked the roof frame. "Hey, you two awake yet? The sun's almost up!"

Looking down into the gloom was like peering into a cave, and he could see the two dim figures getting slowly to their feet. "What the hell you want, lard ass? Go away!"

Herbott: not so wild now, but still crazy with meanness.

"I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to Chuck. And if you don't stop being so profane, I might not tell either one of you the news."

"What news is that, Bambridge?" At least Chuck Fleet could be civil.

"This news: We're going home."

"We're going—"

Bambridge repeated, "We're going home."

"What!"

"That's right. Just like he said he would. The Captain's taking us back to the mainland. He told me not ten minutes ago."

"Jesus Christ, you mean it! He's really—"

"If you get your work done! You finish up with the syrup, do a good job, he'll take us back day after tomorrow. But if you don't, no deal."

Bambridge just threw that in; knew you had to use leverage on men like this.

"I'll be damned. . . . You really think he means it?"

"He means it. He has to deliver a load of syrup and stuff to a man who lives in Mango, and he's going to take us back with him. I told him he could tow our boats in later. He gave his word."

"His word, my ass!" Herbott mouthing off again. "Here or back on the mainland, it doesn't matter a bit! You tell that skinny old nigger it's too late!"

"Don't you call him that!"

"And I'll take care of you, too!"

"He's got a name! Use it!"

Bambridge had told them both the Captain's name. It was Henry Short.

FOURTEEN

Tuck
told Joseph, "Looky how things is working out. You don't think God's dropped everything else to sign on for this drive? Got us free food, free beds, 'bout twenty secretaries, and my own command post. The marines messed up when they made me a private, Joe. That's what I'm telling you. I was naturally meant to be an admiral or a major. Something like that."

The two of them were leading the horses around, letting them graze on the green sod pastures of Palm Valley Ranch. They'd been there three days, and the horses and Millie had to eat something besides the bran muffins and apples the women kept sneaking them.

Driving range was what it was. Golf balls all over the place. Only Tuck called it the north pasture—he still wouldn't let go of the idea the place was a real ranch. A long, open field the maintenance crew didn't keep mowed, so there was grass for the horses, and a little bulldozed pond, too, only Tuck wouldn't let the horses drink there.

To Joseph, he had explained, "If you knew what I know about water, you wouldn't stick your pinkie in that mess. The way they squirt around their fertilizer and their bug dope. Nope, we pour them a jug of spring-water back at the command post, like always."

Meaning the red aluminum building shaped like a barn, where there was a phone so he could do interviews, and a little podium so he could stand and give speeches to the four or five journalists who'd hunted him down. Acting like he was talking to a big crowd, even if there was just one in the room.

When one of the journalists would ask, "You got a phone number, if I need to get back in touch with you, Mr. Gatrell?" Tuck would say, "Check with one of my secretaries. They know my schedule." Just so the women—Mrs. Butler or Jenny or Thelma or one of the others—would smile at him, feeling important.

Not that he ignored the men. That first night, Tuck had talked up Mango so much that a couple of them, John and Bill and Lloyd, decided they couldn't wait to see the place, so Tuck volunteered Ervin T.'s truck and drove them there. Mango was a long day on horseback, but only forty minutes by car, yet they didn't make it back until after midnight, smelling of beer and the three men raving about what they called "The most beautiful little place in Florida."

It irked Ervin T., being left out like that. "Hell's fire, the old fart leaves me here with nothing to-drink but tea and buttermilk, and stays gone in my truck! And they don't got no satellite dish here, neither."

But it didn't bother Joseph at all. Anyplace that Tuck wasn't seemed quiet in comparison, and it was a relief after so many days with him on the road. Besides, that nice woman, Thelma, had invited him back to her trailer for dinner, saying, "I'm a very good cook." Which may have been true, though Joseph never found out. But she sure did have smooth skin.

The next day, John and Lloyd and Bill, along with a few others, wanted another look at Mango. So many they had to take a couple of cars, and Ervin decided he'd just go along and not come back. Let Tuck and Joe finish the ride on their own, while he remained in Mango to keep an eye on things. That night, Jenny said she felt sorry for Joseph, him left at Palm Valley all alone, so she invited him to her trailer for dinner. Same thing happened—Jenny never got around to cooking, and Joseph got out just in time to listen to all the beery men tell him what a nice place Mango was.

Now, leading the horses back toward the aluminum barn, Tucker said to Joseph, "The trailer park men want to have a meeting with me this morning." He let Joseph see his sly smile. "Wonder what it could be about. Yes indeedy ... I just wonder."

Joseph said nothing, just walked along, feeling Buster's warm muzzle rubbing at his arm, his back.

Tuck said, "Should be able to pull out right after lunch, if things go right. At the meeting, I mean. Ride back to Mango."

Joseph said, "None too soon for me. If we didn't, I'd have to eat dinner with Miz Butler tonight. Edith? I think that's her name."

"I know, I know"—Tuck was making a conciliatory gesture with his hands—"you're kinda pissed off about me leaving you alone so much. But you have to admit, these here are nice people.

The way the women keep taking you in, stuffing you full of food. Hell, I musta had four women come up to me at breakfast, ask me if you was free for dinner. Couple more days of this, you'd be too fat to move."

Joseph nodded his head soberly. "Another couple of days, I'd have trouble moving. That much is true. You know"—he looked over at Tuck—"I think them women are gossips."

Tuck started to say something, but then he jerked up on his horse's lead rope and wagged his finger at him. "Gawldamn it, Roscoe! You eat one more of them golf balls, you'll be shittin' rubber bands for a week!" He pursed his lips at Joseph. "And they call this place a ranch."

A
whole group of the trailer park people were waiting for them in the barn, sitting around a table that had coasters for the glasses of iced tea and little doily place mats probably made in one of the craft classes. Tucker picked up one of the place mats and said, "Hoo-ee, now ain't these pretty?" as he swung himself into a chair, moving his head around so he could beam at everybody at once. "You keep this place neat as a preacher's sock drawer. No wonder you love it, folks."

Sitting at the far end of the table, John Dunn cleared his throat. "We appreciate that, Mr. Gatrell—"

"Tuck! You got to learn not to be so formal. You folks ain't livin' up north no more."

Dunn chuckled along with the others. "Exactly right—Tuck." He glanced around the table as if to say, "See? He's gone right to the point of the matter." "In a way," he added, "that's what we want to talk to you about. Where we live. Where we want to live. That's why we wanted to meet with you."

"No place nicer than this," Tuck said. He turned to Joseph and gave a little wink. "Three days here makes me ashamed of that old shack of mine."

"See, that's where we disagree, Tuck. We've been talking about it—" Dunn took another look around the table, gathering support. "Everyone you see here, we've visited Mango. You took us around, then we went back on our own. Hope you don't mind, but we did. Just walked around looking and thinking and talking. This morning, we went back again just to be sure."

"Be sure of what?" Tuck asked.

"To be sure, well..." Dunn hesitated. "This is awkward for me, and if you're not interested, just come right out and say it. There'll be no hard feelings. But we've been talking about it, and everyone here feels the same. We'd like to try and work out a deal with you—"

"About buying Everglades Springwater? No problem. You can have all you want." Tuck thought for a moment before adding, "At a discount, too."

"It's not the water," one of the other men said. "It's those little houses of yours you said you used to rent. Down by the bay? That's what we're talking about. Tell him, John."

Dunn said, "That's exactly right. We're offering to rent those houses. Or perhaps buy them, if you're willing. We want to live in Mango."

Joseph watched Tuck take his hat off; saw the familiar look of stage surprise on the man's face. Thought to himself, They can't see through this flim-flam old fool? as Tuck said, "Them old shacks of mine? That's what you're talking about? Why hell, folks, they ain't fit for animals to live in."

"We'd fix them up," said one of the women. "It would give us something to do besides sitting around here playing shuffleboard, listening to our veins harden."

The man named Bill said, "I spent forty years in the construction business, Tuck. John put in about the same amount of time as an engineer."

"Electrical engineer," Dunn said. "That's what I was getting around to. If you would rent those places to us at a reasonable fee, we'd do the work, take the cost of the materials out of the rent, and within a year we'd have Mango looking like a postcard. Here—" He reached out to hand Tuck a rolled sheet of bluish-looking paper. "We sat around last night, Bill and I, and drew up these designs. The way the houses would look once we were done. They're just quick sketches, of course. If there's anything you don't like ..."