The Man Who Ivented Florida (38 page)

Sally showed him a big smile. "Why aren't you up at the party, Joseph?"

"There's too many people there for me, Miz Sally. Ever'body asking me questions, wanting to talk. Figured it was a good time to ask you. What I need is a nice sack. A pillowcase, maybe. Some-thin' real plain."

Behind Joseph, from the shadows, the voice of a mature woman called, "I told him I had pillowcases, but he insisted on coming to you."

She could see the shadowed form of a woman there, and Sally's smile broadened. "Why, Joseph! You shouldn't leave your new friend standing out there in the dark."

The big man sighed, his face forlorn. "If I asked all my new friends to come in, there wouldn't be no room for us. Besides"— his soft voice became even softer—"their pillowcases all got little flowers and stuff on 'em. What I need is something a man wouldn't mind."

Sally found a pillowcase for him—refused money for it when he took out a soggy roll of bills, then watched him ramble away, the smaller outline of the woman trailing after him.

Remembering about the public hearing, Sally called to him, "Oh, Joseph? Could you please tell Tuck that I won't be at the meeting tomorrow? I have to go out of town on business. I'm really sorry."

Heard Joseph's reply: "Don't blame you. I ain't going to be there, either."

Then the woman's voice: "Oh yes he will be there!"

Closing the screen door, Sally thought, That's the way it is. The way it is and always will be, men and women at odds. Out of synch on a mutual path. The only question was, who would lead and who would follow?

Sally thought of her mother—Loretta Carmel was no follower! She had been a damn smart, tough, and independent woman. And if it was good enough for her mother . . .

Sally worked around the house, packing, doing bills, getting ready for the drive to Miami, telling herself that she didn't care one way or another whether Ford called, but thinking that he probably would, any minute.

He never did.

By
midnight, Ford had repeated the procedure a half-dozen times. It was always the same. Take murky bay water, drop in the strings of sponges and tunicates, and within fifteen minutes, the water was transformed.

Ford noted on a yellow legal: "Turbidity zero."

According to anecdotal accounts, the bays of southwest Florida had been tannin-stained but clear up until the turn of the century, when a powerful consortium—the Army Corps of Engineers and the state government, plus land-boom developers—began its assault on the swamps, dredging, filling, building roads, straightening rivers. It was generally accepted that the wholesale loss of root structure had murked the water system. Erosion. It was also generally accepted that, because most of the dredging had been stopped in the 1970s, the bays would gradually heal themselves.

On the notepad, Ford wrote: "The initial loss of root structure undoubtedly created a sudden increase in turbidity. Did that tur-pidity interrupt the life cycle and range of filtering species?"

The question implied a startling concept, and Ford was pleased with himself.

If murk caused by the early dredging had killed a significant area of grass habitat, then the filtering species may never have had a chance to reestablish themselves. To remain clear, water required filtering species. Sea-grass meadows required clear water. Filtering species required sea-grass meadows. One was constantly dependent on the other. Remove one symbiotic element from the system—even if for only a few years—and the whole system was sentenced to gradual, inevitable doom.

That was the premise.

Halt the dredging, replant all the thousands of acres of lost mangroves, but if the estuaries continued to be fouled by fresh water carrying nitrates and phosphates, it wouldn't make much difference.

The bays would never heal themselves unless a way was found to provide surrogate bases for a massive reintroduction of filtering animals.

Sea mobiles . . .

Ford stepped away from the dissecting table, excited. He had the blood and bones of the paper he wanted to write. But there was so much more research he wanted to do.

He leaned to jot something on the legal pad: "Do filtering animals also remove invisible contaminants? Contact labs; get price for long-term test series."

That caused him to think of Tuck, the tests he'd had done. Ford had the brief mental picture of dropping a sea mobile into the old man's artesian well, instantly decontaminating the thing—which was absurd. Exactly the kind of idea Tuck would come up with. But tunicates and sponges couldn't survive in fresh water. Particularly Tuck's springwater, judging from the long list of pollutants it contained.

Ford returned his attention to the legal pad, made a few more notes, then hurried across the roofed walkway to get a chart that included Dinkin's Bay. He wanted to calculate the approximate amount of water in the bay so he could get a rough estimate of how many biofouling units it would take to effect the turbidity. Perhaps it wasn't practical. Obviously, water flushed in and out with the tides, but he still wanted to try and set up some kind of proportional model'.

He set to work converting the bay's circumference into rectangles, keeping careful track on the chart as he did the math.

From the other room, he heard the phone ring. He ignored it at first, then carried the chart across the roofed walk, still calculating as he went.

A bay roughly 10,250 feet long by 4,400 feet wide . . . with a median depth of, say, four feet. But the average depth would be more because of the channel, all the potholes. . ..

He picked up the phone and said, "Sanibel Biological Supply."

He heard Sally Carmel's voice but didn't hear all of what she said.

Hunched over the chart, he said, "Sally? Hey look, I'm right in the middle of something here. Can I call you back in an hour?"

Ford heard Sally say, "That's what you said three hours ago. I was worried. . . ." as he wrote, "Average depth, 5 feet+-.," and then began to do the math.

Sally said, "I'm leaving for Miami in the morning, and I don't know which hotel I'll be staying in, so—"

"First thing, then. I'll call you when I get up." Ford was writing: "10,250 x 4,400 x 5 = 225,500,000.

More than 200 million cubic feet of water! Or perhaps he should set up the model in pounds: pounds of water to pounds of filtering animals it would take to have an impact on the bay's turbidity. Base the model on that.

"I thought we ought to at least say good-bye!"

"You're absolutely right," Ford said. "Oh—wait until you see what I've been doing here. It's amazing. That's what I want to tell you about."

"If you can find the time."

"First thing in the morning."

"Good-bye, then!"

Ford said, "Thanks for understanding," then hung up the phone, still writing as he walked back to the lab.

Four
A.M., and Ford thought, Well, I ought to try and get a little sleep before I do any more. I'm starting to make mistakes.

The lab was a litter of papers and books lying open, places marked with clips. Everything Ford had on water, salt and fresh; everything he could find in his own little library. Scientific journals, university bulletins, government publications on water ac-cessment and environmental law—by guessing lag time, scientific interest in water pollution could be traced through legislation passed to protect it. Plus, he would certainly have to apply for special permits to plant sea mobiles on any expanded bases. The regulations were something he would have to know about.

So he had spent the night reading and making notes. Took time out to do the tank procedure one more time—the precision of it, the inexorable efficiency, delighted him.

Tomlinson would appreciate this. When the hell's he getting back!

In one of the journals, Ford had read: "In the South Florida acquifer, from which water streams sometimes percolate upward, under pressure, to create artesian wells, groundwater attains ages of hundreds to thousands of years. Research by Hanshaw and Back suggest that an armoring of the limestone surface by inorganic ionic species, or by organic substances, may produce a state of pseudoequilibrium between crystal surfaces and solution."

Which was of no interest in his own work, but it was exactly that kind of datum bit that Tomlinson could take and weave into a whole monologue on the timelessness of time, the elemental symmetry of life. Water held in the veins of the earth, existing through eons in its own dark space, until sumped skyward by nature or the ingenuity of man.

And what about the man-made additions, such as benzene and pesticides?

Tomlinson would probably make that fit neatly into his own example of the unceasing harmony of existence. Ford could just hear him: "We manufacture, then cast off emotional pollutants every day, man! That doesn't mean we're flawed!"

Ford smiled, then considered his lab one last time before flicking off the lights. He hated to leave the place in such a mess—but he'd get back to work right after his morning run, so it was almost the same as working right through. Even so, the disorderliness of the lab created an uneasiness in him, which he stood taking in for long seconds ... then he decided that it was less trouble to neaten up than to worry about it, so it was nearly 5:00 A.M. when he finally lay down on his cot.

More than four hours later, Ford awoke with a start, aware that on some level of dream or consciousness, his brain had arrived at a solution to something . . . what?

He sat up groggily and threw the sheet back.

Sunlight glared through the windows. Overhead, the ceiling fan labored, making a whispered
whap-whap-whap.

What the hell had he been dreaming about? Something to do with his work . . . something about water. His subconscious had been wrestling with some problem, exploring ways to best some obstacle ... and finally had succeeded. Nothing else could account for the sense of triumph that had awakened him. But a solution to what?

Ford stood, preoccupied, scanning the memory tracers, willing the data to return. He made the cot up military fashion, stretching the gray-and-blue-banded navy-issue blanket tight enough to bounce a quarter on.

"Something to do with water," he said aloud.

Beside the cot was the brass alarm clock. He checked the time against his own watch, startled that he had slept so late. Which caused him to think of his promise to Sally Carmel, and he immediately went to the phone and dialed.

No answer.

"She's probably already left for Miami. The job interview." Talking to himself.

So she'd be back late that night. No . . . she had mentioned a hotel, so she'd be back the next day, Tuesday. Or would she? Had she said?

Ford thought, Well, she'll call. Or I can leave a note at her house when I go to Mango for the public hearing. . . .

Which was when he remembered that it was now Monday; the meeting would start in—what?—less than two hours.

Christ!

Ford began to hustle around, making coffee, collecting his papers . . . then stopped, transfixed. It was all coming back to him, the dreamy workings of his own subconscious. It had nothing to do with his own work, but it was about water. Fresh water. Artesian wells. Contaminants. And the solution . . .

It was both a revelation and a disappointment. In that instant, Ford knew how to prevent the state from taking Tucker Gatrell's property.

SIXTEEN

Monday
just before noon, Tuck gave the three representatives of the Florida Park Acquisitions Board their choice. "I got your table and chairs out there, all set up. But you want to sit in the sun? Or the shade of that big mango tree?"

Tuck stood on his porch and let them make their own decision, smiling at the two women and the man, but talking to the man because he was the one acting as if he was running the show. Introduced himself as "Mr. Londecker," as if he and Tuck would never be on a first-name basis, so there was no reason for Tuck to know any more. Snooty-acting kid, maybe thirty years old, already looking hot and put out in his blue suit and black shoes when he stepped out of the van that had probably brought them from the airport. White state-owned van with yellow plates and the Great Seal of Florida stenciled on the door.

The kid said, "In the shade, of course. As long as we have to be outside." Businesslike, but with a tone to his voice probably meant to put Tuck right in his place.

Tuck said, "The shade. You sure?"

"Sit in the heat, or sit in the shade—that's not much of a decision for most people. What I don't understand is, why is everything here so sandy?"

Meaning the film of cinnamon-colored dust that, in just the last day, had settled upon trees, trucks, houses, and boats, as if it had descended, like rain, from the sky. It reminded Tuck of back in the early 1960s when, for the first time, they got what the Glades farmers called yellow rain. Killed the crops and burned the feet off insects, it was that potent.

But all Tuck said was, "Must be all the traffic, people coming to buy water. You ever seen so many outta state license plates?"

Londecker gave the woman beside him a look; rolled his eyes a little, but made sure Tuck saw it, too. What Tuck mostly noticed was that he had been wrong about Londecker. Londecker wasn't the one in charge; the oldest of the two women was. The kid's kissy-butt attitude told him that, and the way the woman remained expressionless, showing she was important, letting everything come to her, then judging it.