Wakulla Springs (3 page)

“Ain’t neither. I seen his picture in a movie magazine at my auntie’s house, over to Jacksonville. That’s Tarzan hisself, standing
right over there.”

Mayola watched the man get into a long, shiny car and drive away, fast. Whoever he was, he was about the handsomest white fella she’d ever seen. When the dust had settled back down, she said, “I’m gonna go home. You coming with me?”

“Maybe. Odell don’t get off work till six, but it must be close that. Let’s go see if he’s done, then he can go a piece of the way with us.”

Mayola made a face, but since Odell working here was the only reason she had a job, and Vergie
had
come all this way, it would be rude not to return the favor.

He was down on the dock, leaning casual against a post, wearing his brown uniform shirt with a wide, short tie. His boat-captain hat sat on top of the post. There was a little breeze coming off the water, and the air smelled green with
moss and reeds and fish.

“Well, now,” Odell said when he saw Vergie. “Hey there.” He was most twenty, with a slow, soft way of talking and conked hair that had started to kink up again after the heat of the day. A trickle of oil shone on his neck.

Vergie walked so that her front self stuck out at him, and he was noticing every bit of it. “Hey, O-dell.” She tiptoed over, baby steps like her shoes
pinched, and he was just about to put his arm around her waist in a way he hadn’t ought to when he saw Mayola and put his hands in his pockets instead.

“Evenin’, Mayola.”

“Odell.”

No one said a word then, until a frog jumped off the weedy bank with a splash and made enough noise to shoo away the silence.

“You done here?” Vergie asked. “If you is, you can walk me home.”

“Not tonight, darlin’.”
Odell tossed a flat coil of rope into the boat. “I got to take movie folks out for a sunset cruise, every night this week.” He pulled a rag out of his pocket and polished an invisible speck of dust from the shiny brim of his cap.

“When you gonna take
me
out for a boat ride?” Vergie pushed out her lip in a little-girl pout.

“Next week, sometime. I promise. Purty as any picture out there in the
moonlight.” He smiled, showing all his teeth, and started to give her part of the speech he made for visitors. “WAH-kulla springs. One’a nature’s paradise…”

Mayola let him go on for a minute, then said, “I got chores at home, Vergie.”

“I reckon it’s ’bout time.” She flounced her skirt a little, so Odell could see her bare knees, then turned and walked off the dock, the soles of her Keds flap-flapping
on the damp wood. She hooked her elbow through Mayola’s. “Nothing more to do
here
.”

*   *   *

Mayola left her house at seven every morning, walking from the Shadeville Road through the cut to Wakulla Springs. The air was warm, but the sun was barely over the trees, so it was mostly shade, and she listened to birds waking up and starting their day. Sometimes she even whistled back. She liked
the Lodge all right. The other girls in the kitchen and the laundry were nice and showed her what to do. They sang songs from the radio when no one was around to hear and told stories about the movie people in giggled whispers.

“I was toting lunch down to them crew folk,” Annie said, “and one of the men was taping big crepe paper ears onto that elephant. I give Steve—he’s the prop boy—I give
him the picnic box, and asked him, what for he doing that? You know what he said?”

Mayola shook her head.

“He said that was a Injun elephant, and they got itty bitty ears. But Tarzan, he live in
Af
rica, and elephants there have big ol’ floppy ears. So they making it a costume. A costume for a elephant!”

Mayola like to bust up laughing. “Movie folk are plumb nuts.”

But the work wasn’t too hard.
No more than she was used to, with four brothers and sisters. It was just chores, for more people. Bennie Mae said she picked up the routine quicker any girl she’d had before, which made Mayola feel good inside. By her second week, she was cleaning rooms by herself, unfolding the crisp white sheets that smelled like flower soap, wiping off all the nice smooth sinks and commodes, and dusting the
tops of the walnut chiffoniers, careful not to move any of the hairbrushes or wristwatches, not even an inch.

The hotel maids got twenty minutes off for lunch. Most of the girls sat outside the kitchen door to smoke and flirt with boys. But Mayola had discovered a hedge on the other side of the building, where she could sit in the shade and read her book for a bit without anyone bothering her.
She looked up, now and then, and watched the movie people playing make-believe.

They had lots of fancy equipment—cameras and lights, and machines she could not imagine the names of. Some were stuck into the ground, and some were on a big raft right out in the river. The boss man sat in a folding chair under a striped umbrella and gave orders to a second boss man, who shouted through a big red
cone. “Quiet on the set!”

They had a bunch of animals she’d only seen pictures of before. The elephant, of course, and a cooter turtle the size of a truck tire, and a whole lot of bright-color birds and little brown monkeys. Her favorite was a big monkey they called Cheeta that must have been real smart. It walked upside-down on its hands, and did somersaults, making faces, screeching and hooting
like it was trying out people-talk. It liked to jump up onto Mr. Tarzan, and Mr. Tarzan would laugh and take it for a ride. One day she saw Mr. Tarzan give it a cigar to smoke, like it was one of the boys.

Seemed like every day, Mr. Tarzan was up to some kind of prank, hiding one lady’s clothes, or putting a piece of wet moss on the second boss man’s chair, then laughing his head off. He was
a grown man—a
big
grown man—but he acted just like a little kid, sometimes.

Maybe it was because he was a movie star. They had different ideas about manners, Mayola decided. Except for a handful of pretty white ladies in robes and swimming suits, the cast and crew were all men. Some of them were all dressed up like Florida was for-real Africa, in round white helmets and khaki shirts with lots
of pockets. But the rest walked around in undershirts, or no shirts at all, and didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed to be out in public like that, even in front of the ladies.

On the Wednesday of her second week at the Lodge, Mayola sat under her shrubbery, nibbling on the cornbread and syrup her mama had wrapped up in wax paper for her lunch. She heard a big splash and a lot of shouting, and
looked up from her book to see three colored boys swimming just off the dock.
Fools
, she thought. The whole hotel was Jim Crow, and they were going to be in a world of trouble, jumping in that water in broad daylight.

Then she saw Mr. Tarzan swimming with them, ducking them under water, diving down after them. She guessed it must be okay, if
he
wanted them there. Maybe they were playing at being
Africans, like the elephant. That made sense, Mayola thought. Africa was where most colored people come from, to begin with.

The boss man yelled “Cut!” and a minute later, Mr. Tarzan and the boys climbed up onto the dock. Two of them flopped down like they was bone-tired, but the third came up onto the lawn and headed for the drinking fountain next to the changing room, not fifteen feet from
where Mayola sat.

She skooched back farther under the leaves, making herself invisible, because
that
was asking for real trouble.

And sure enough, he was just bending over the fountain when one of the gardeners, a Shadeville man named Daniel, looked up from weeding a flowerbed and saw him.

“You, boy! You get away from there!” Daniel jumped up, real fast for a big man, and in two shakes he had
grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck. “What you think you’re doing, taking a drink from there?”

The boy looked up, and Mayola sucked in her breath when she saw that he wasn’t colored at all. He was one of the lifeguards from Tallahassee who liked to tease the kitchen girls, all done up in greasepaint like a minstrel show.

He pushed Daniel’s hands away. “Get your dirty paws off me,
boy
,”
the lifeguard said, louder than he needed to.

Daniel backed up a step and, after a moment, took his felt hat off. His bald head was dark and shiny with sweat. “Sorry, suh. I didn’ mean nothin’ by it.” Daniel had gone to the A&M for two years, studying to be a teacher until his daddy lost their farm, but he could sure talk field-hand mushmouth when he had to, Mayola thought. The big man continued.
“I thought you was, well, suh, I—” He faltered, and wrung his hat in his hands.

The manager of the hotel, Mr. Perry, walked up just then. “Is there a problem?”

The boy’s mouth was tight and angry, but before he could say anything, Daniel did.

“My mistake, Mist’ Perry. I didn’ recognize the young gen’l’man in that makeup.”

“Thought he was one of
your
boys, drinking where he shouldn’t?”

“Yessuh.
’Zactly that. I’se just about to give him what-for when I seen he was in the right place after all.”

“Hmm.” Mayola watched Mr. Perry think on that a bit, then turn to the boy. “Get back to the set, Joe. They’re ready for the next shot. I’ll have someone bring you a Coke.”

The boy hesitated, giving Daniel the hairy eyeball, then shrugged and walked off with a swagger, like he had more important
things to do.

Daniel worried his hat between his hands, sweat beaded on his forehead.

“There’s four young men in costume today,” Mr. Perry said. “You’d best be careful.” He turned to go back to the dock, but stopped in mid-turn and pointed a finger at the drinking fountain. The faucet was smeared with what looked like shoe polish, one side of the porcelain bowl blotched with an inky handprint.

“And clean that mess up, Danny, before one of the guests sees it.”

Daniel replaced his hat and, after a pause, pulled a red rag from the pocket of his bib overalls. “Yes, sir,” he told Mr. Perry’s retreating back, saying it clearly as two words. A bit more clearly than strictly needed, Mayola noticed.

She waited until the boss was back on the dock before she stood up from behind the bush.

“You been there the whole time, Miss Mayola?”

She nodded. “Eating my lunch.” She looked down at the water. They were all swimming again. “I don’t get it. They want colored people, why they have to go and paint up white boys? Ain’t like we short on colored folk round here. And most looking for work, too.”

“I don’t know for certain,” he said, scrubbing away, “but what I hear is Mr. Ball won’t let
them.”

“How come? It ain’t his movie.”

“Nope. But it’s his water, and, movie or not—” He gave the porcelain fountain one last flick of his rag. “—he doesn’t want folks like
us
swimming in it.” He touched the brim of his hat to Mayola, and returned to his flowers.

*   *   *

“Shit, Newt. I don’t want to go on any boat tour. I spent all day in that goddamn river.” Johnny Weissmuller said. He’d
worked with Perry on three pictures, and knew he didn’t have to put on his company manners.

“I know. But it’s the Tallahassee Ladies Club, and they are the lovely wives of the Pork Chop Gang.”

“Mr. Ball’s friends?”

“Indeed. The stalwart men of commerce and politics who are bringing purity and prosperity to the great state of Florida.”

“I get it.” Weissmuller sighed. “Smile and look manly.”
He struck a Tarzan pose.

“That’s the ticket.” Perry slapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, and by the way, Mr. Ball said I should tell you that he recognizes how valuable your time is, so once the tour is over, you’ll find a bottle of Jim Beam waiting in your room.”

Weissmuller smiled. “For that, first crocodile we see, I’ll even give them the Tarzan yell.” “The nearest croc is almost five hundred
miles away, down in the Everglades. They’re all alligators, here.”

“Same thing.” Weissmuller looked down at his slacks. “I don’t have to jump in and wrassle one, do I?”

“No, Johnny.
These
animals aren’t rubber.”

The Jungle Cruise boat was a long, shallow box, open to the air, with five rows of wooden benches. That afternoon it was full of tittering ladies, all hats and gloves and floral cologne.
A few of them weren’t bad looking. Johnny sat at the back with the boatman, a genial, fixed grin on his face.

The outboard motor started up with a roar and a belch of blue smoke, which dissipated, along with the reek of gasoline, when they were away from the dock. The roar settled into a purr, and Johnny felt the breeze ruffle the ends of his hair. He’d left it loose, Tarzan-style, for the occasion.

“Good after-noon, ladies,” boomed the boatman. “My name is Odell Watkins, and I will be your chauffeur on this fine, fine Florida day.”

He had a big voice, and Weissmuller could tell he was starting a speech he’d practiced many times.

“WAH-kulla Springs. One’a nature’s paradise. Now the crystal clear waters’a this springs flow out of the grawn at more’n a million gallons ever single day, a-formin
the Wah-kulla River you now a-floating on. Look there! Over on the right, you see a bird with spread-out wings. That there’s the anhinga, also known as the snake bird, or water turkey. An-hinga!”

The ladies turned, but were watching Tarzan as much as the wildlife, so Weissmuller kept the smile on his face and let his gaze wander. It really was a stunning bit of landscape. He could see why Thorpe
wanted to film the location shots here. No sign of modern civilization. The sky was a deep clear blue, and the vegetation was wild, even primitive. It would look African enough on film, even in black-and-white. He wondered if they’d shoot the next picture in color. After
The
Wizard of Oz
came out, two years ago, it was all anyone talked about. Would they have to remix his makeup? He’d ask one
of the—

“Now there’s a sight!” Odell said, pulling Johnny back from his reverie. “Four cooter turtles, all a-sitting on the same log like they was waiting for a bus. They got no idea Wah-kulla means waters’a mystery in the language’a the Injuns used to live here. They was here when Mr. Poncey de Leon come up this river four hunnert years ago, a-lookin for the fountain’a youth. He kept a-going,
but they’s some folks think he done found it right here in these pure waters, and died ’fore he could come back to claim it. Now ever’one, keep you hands
in
-side the boat, cause over there is a big old gator. American alligator, born and raised right here in Florida.”