Saving Tuna Street

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

  “The Miccosukee are a nomadic mix of southern Native American tribes who fled to the southern tip of Florida after the Spanish invaded Florida in the mid-sixteenth century. The natives were a handsome, talented lot and masters of living off the land and inventing ways to survive. They fled to the Everglades ahead of the Spanish and disappeared onto the hummocks—those tiny islands you see today where the white pelicans roost. The Spanish struggled in the chase, but they could not catch up. Most of those hummocks in the River of Grass are barely more than mounds of sand. Nothing grows on them but scrub, and they are great hiding places, unsuitable to foreign invaders.

  “The tribes were able to divide and conquer, something that Caesar and Alexander the Great and later Napoleon mastered. The practice was cultivated among the Miccosukee who were survivors. And conquerors. The Spanish were never able to subdue them.

  “The Indians vanished into the Everglades and other parts of Florida, living off the fish, alligator, snakes, and fruit. And they used everything they caught or harvested—skins for clothing, coconut shells for bowls, fish bones for utensils, shells and shark teeth for arrow heads, palm for shelter. Because the diet was so fresh and healthy, they grew strong and lived long lives, that is, if they could stay away from the Spanish who carried the insidious weapon of disease.”

  Blanche knew some the Native American history, but Cappy filled in the blanks. “What about Gull Egg?”

  “I’m getting to that.” Cappy’s clock was set on island time; he didn’t know the definition of hurry. Blanche sipped her beer.

  “The Miccosukee worked and rested on Gull Egg. Half the year the heavy rain and hurricanes stayed away, so in the late fall and into early spring they planted and the harvest ripened fast. The small island had oaks and palms, kumquats and temples, and hibiscus for tea. The natives had taken care to insulate themselves in small huts and even plant gardens of flowers and keep pets of rabbits, lizards, and cats. They made clothing from woven plant fiber. They were among the first to grow oranges and lemons on the barrier islands after the Spanish brought citrus plants to Florida around 1500.

  “And, so. It’s hard to keep a good thing a secret, and the Spanish and English settlers who had moved to Tampa and were developing the area came upon Gull Egg Key.

  “One morning, the Miccosukee chief was paddling along in the Gulf, and a small ship of Tampa Bay buccaneers, of sorts, followed him. He must have known they were tracking him and to throw them off, he didn’t return to Gull Egg; he went instead to the northern point of Santa Maria Island. That’s probably how the island first came to be settled. The whole area was overlooked for a time. Until the chief ventured off in his canoe.

  “One cloudy night, he returned to Gull Egg and moved his tribe off the key, hoping to avoid discovery. They didn’t get far. A terrible storm blew up and the canoes got caught in the current where the Gulf and bay meet. Most of the tribe capsized and perished, including his son, but the chief managed to save his wife and two of his children and some of the other natives. He took the survivors back to Gull Egg, and they recovered amid the oaks and palms.

  “The trees, especially the mangrove, were particularly holy to the natives because they afforded protection, shade, fire wood, and beauty. After the disaster, when the growth was scarce, it became even more sacred. The chief carved the names of the lost natives on the trunks of the trees. With time, the names grew into the bark, the shapes curving and widening, the edges smoothing, as they became part of the trees. The chief and the other natives believed the lost members of the tribe talked and sang to them when the wind blew through the treetops. They would sit for hours and listen, and they learned chants to answer the singing in the trees. They had come to feel together again with those sisters and brothers they’d lost but now found in the comfort of the trees.

  “Then one time near hurricane season, the chief led the tribe off the island for safer parts inland. They boarded canoes and headed south on a hunt toward the Everglades for food. They didn’t stay long; the weather was hot and the hurricanes had been silent, so the journey was calm and rewarding. They pulled rafts of alligator and croc skins and fruit with them. They were content.

  “Until they arrived back at Gull Egg. Something was different. The island looked barren, open. That was it. Many of the trees were gone! They could hear the chopping. They crept closer to the devastating sound, and there they found men cutting down their trees.

  “The chief and the others ran at them, trying to knock them off with blows and weapons, but the chopping continued. The chief could not communicate to the destroyers to stop, he could only cry out loud in anguish at the destruction and the monuments that had stood in honor of the tribe. Then he walked slowly up to the tallest tree, the one that had his son’s name carved deeply into the bark. He stood next to the tree and raised his hand to the invader. He stopped hacking at the bark, then waved the chief out of the way. The chief would not leave. He reached toward the high limbs of the trees. He sang again, and in that moment, a gale blew out of the Gulf. The wind was so powerful it caught all of them by surprise. It shook one of the tallest trees that had been chopped but not felled. Suddenly, the tree swung back and forth. The chief did not move. He chanted, and watched as the tree hesitated then toppled over on top of the invaders, killing two of them instantly.

  “The chief dropped his arms and lowered his head. The members of the tribe gathered around him. The invaders cried out, threw down their axes, and fled. The chief raised his voice as they climbed into their boats and sailed away. They understood the message of the trees. It happened without warning, the perpetrators caught by surprise. They had devastated a holy place and the home of the tribe, and they came to realize the awful consequences. Punishment was swift.

  “It’s an old story, Blanche, but the message is new all over again, that nothing good comes of the bad. It’s truer today than ever before.”

  “And the girl on the beach? What do you think?”

  “A warning? A harbinger.”

  Twenty-Six —

  The Pounding Wave

  It was the second meeting at the town hall to discuss the development on the island, and this time Blanche was not going to let Langstrom get away with all the preening and dancing, and his posters and what not. She sprinted up the steps. The crowd was bigger this time. And their voices were loud.

  Good.

  Mayor Pat stood inside the door. “Blanche, I read your stories in the Times. You sure let ‘em have it.” She hobbled away before Blanche could say a word.

  She supposed Pat was referring to the land development. Whose side was she on? She didn’t put up with nonsense and lies, but Langstrom might have gotten to her all the same. It was hard to tell.

  Blanche had followed up on a new study that claimed further development on the barrier keys would decimate migrating birds and their nests, leave barren stretches of over-populated beach where sea turtles had hatched, lay waste to sea grape, mangroves, and acres of trees and scrub palm that held the islands together. In one of her stories, she quoted Sara Fox of the Turtle Brigade: “We might as well cross turtles off our map if we don’t get after it. They’re (tourists, surveyors, seekers of property) tramping over buried eggs, despite the police tape we put up around the nests. And the extra lighting in condos and houses is leading the babies to roads instead of home to the moonlit Gulf.”

  Concrete and nature teetered in the fight over preservation, and islanders, overall, preferred nature. Clearly, the plans benefited a wealthy migration of two-legged snowbirds who had no stake in the island except as a temporary getaway from the bad weather up North. They were welcome, but destruction of the island was not.

  Blanche held a copy of the newspaper, fanned herself, while she looked around the room, ever leery of Langstrom and company.

  She had put Clint up to the idea for a series, and he’d approved it.

  “Well, hi there, Miss Blanche.”

  She was so startled, she dropped the newspaper. He p
icked it up. The headline read: “Developer Plans Devastation on North End.”

  Langstrom’s mouth tightened over each word as he read the headline. “Now, do you really think that’s what we’re planning?”

  Blanche grabbed the newspaper back. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For nothing.”

  They stared at each other, and if looks could kill, they would have both been dead.

  “Mr. Langstrom!” It was the mayor. She stood over a pile of folders at a long table, waving in his direction. “We need you!”

  “Like the plague,” Blanche muttered. She stomped off, intent on finding Liza in the crowd.

  It was déjà vu all over again. Except this meeting included a greater number of residents. The buzz rose a notch. Blanche had the emails, folded into a neat package of evidence in her bag. She smoothed her fingers over the crease in the paper. This will be easy. No, this is not going to be easy.

  Liza was seated near the front row. She sparkled, as usual. Her top, a creamy lime green, said “Gin and Donuts for Breakfast” in sequins.

  They hugged. “That’s an unusual getup. Got any gin right now?”

  “You could probably use a shot. I saw you talking to Cute Boy.”

  “He made some crack about the stories I wrote for the Times. Could it be my writing style?”

  “For sure. He doesn’t want ‘devastation’ pinned on him. Blanche, you better be careful. Maybe let Wade in on the act. Have him do some of these stories.”

  “Wade? He can’t pour piss out of a boot, but he sure likes Cute Boy.”

  Liza’s expression tightened into a frown. Or was that fear? “I’m getting so I look over my shoulder.” She grabbed Blanche’s hand.

  Blanche squeezed back. “Me, too. Thanks for getting all these emails together, Liza. They’re the bomb.”

  “Hope they don’t explode in our faces.”

  The more they had looked into them, the more they saw that money had changed hands in odd ways, and supposedly there were more payouts to come. It wouldn’t flow through Bob, or his office. But it was out there. Where?

  Jack had been more evasive than ever. She couldn’t get jack out of him. He wouldn’t return her calls, except for the one: “I’m working on it, Bang. Stay out of it.”

  Same old thing. She needed to know about that flow of money. She needed an explanation, and she didn’t care how busy he was. Somehow his new business and Bob’s murder and Langstrom were all tied up together. Blanche worried about Jack all the while she wanted to shake him. Some things never change.

  The mayor banged her knuckles on the table. “It’s a pleasure to see you here tonight.” It didn’t look like it from the scowl on her face. She took in the room. Clearly, she had not expected the crowd. She looked like she was about to take an unsavory bite she did not want to chew.

  “I’d like to re-introduce Sergi Langstrom. He is representing the interests of partners of a Chicago land development firm as many of you are so well aware.” Her head popped around, searching for Langstrom, but she went on. “He has brought a draft of a plan to discuss in further detail, and he is willing to answer any questions you might have regarding the proposed development that…”

  “Hey, we didn’t ask for any development. We didn’t ask for it, and we don’t want it. That bunch of mansions will cut right through the north end and ruin our piers and beaches, not to mention all the baby turtles that’ll not find their habby-tat.” Sandy Burk sat next to Jess, who seemed to have an opposition group growing up around him. They buzzed and nodded. Sandy’s sunburned face and faded shirt spoke volumes about where he spent his time and where his heart was planted.

  Langstrom appeared, next to the mayor, and his smooth expression didn’t show a hint of sympathy nor agreement. Instead of the formerly tousled appearance, his hair was neatly combed, and tonight he wore a tie, which was a poor choice. It put him in the Chicago-developer camp and made him stand out as the outsider he was. That was good. He’d knocked himself down a notch in the eyes of the islanders. Was he that clueless? Didn’t he know he did not belong here?

  “Sir?” Langstrom feigned interest.

  “Sandy Burk, fisherman at large.” The crowd laughed. Sandy wasn’t much taller than Blanche although he was a large presence on the island, and he’d earned it. The guru of flounder fishing off the Reel ‘n Eat pier, he was a fixture as had been his father and uncles before him.

  “Mr. Burk, we are going to do everything possible not to disturb the environment of the island. You have my word.”

  At that, Sandy’s red-blond eyebrows did a dance. “Is that right? You’ve said that before, and it just don’t ring true. Sorry. Them surveyors been knockin’ around, and they’re very tight-lipped about what they be ‘surveyin’.”

  “Well, let me assure you…”

  “You can’t guarantee nothin’. Not when you’re knockin’ down trees and pouring cement. Stands to reason somethin’s gotta give here. You can’t have it two ways to Sunday.”

  The humming in the crowd got louder. Reaction was solidly negative against Langstrom, positive for Sandy. Blanche was loving this. The last meeting had had no such love at all.

  She felt for the emails. She and Liza had talked. Now was not the right time. A revelation would get lost in the melee. The islanders were having at Langstrom—pushing back hard, and she let it ride.

  He paced around the table, his hands clasped behind his back. He stopped in front of the easels loaded with drawings of The Plan. “You see here? With the restoration of these native plantings, the island will be more in tune with nature than it was before.”

  “Tell it to Mother Nature. She has taken her course, sir, and you ain’t doin’ no good by changing her direction any more than you can change the wind.”

  This time Mary Gannon stood up. Liza and Blanche shot each other a look, and smiled.

  Mary was a small force of nature herself, a whirligig of arms when she spoke, her hair a humidified cloud. “Here, here for Mother Nature! And for Sandy Burk.” She twisted around to the neighbors. They nodded. She was not about to give the island to a bunch of Chicago developers. Her family had owned the Sand Dollar gift shop for more than fifty years, and she was a founding member of the preservation association. “We need to stand together! Many thanks to Blanche Murninghan for the stories in the Times. Put it out there, Blanche! Go get ‘em!”

  They were clapping. Several hands patted Blanche on the back. She felt warm, and alone. But Liza grinned at her, and whispered. “Way to go.”

  Blanche’s face reddened under the scrutiny of hundreds of eyes, and she stole a look at Langstrom. He’d turned to stone.

  Then Butch Cally, a produce trucker with groves in east Bradenton, stood up. “I like trees. We all like trees, Mr. Langstrom, but those ain’t trees up there in that drawing. Those squares ‘present mansions. Who’s asking for those mansions? Is that Mother Nature calling? And do we have the roads and lines and whatnot to support all that construction?”

  The mayor walked around the table toward Langstrom. They were a strange pair: The large, grey-haired woman, wide as she was tall, and Langstrom, who looked like he’d stepped out of GQ. He remained silent, his expression plastered with a look of innocence.

  The mayor had the floor. “As a matter of fact, we do have the infrastructure.”

  Blanche could feel the words squash Mother Nature.

  “Butch, those aren’t mansions,” Pat said. “Those are homes for islanders just like you.”

  “That so,” Butch said. “All cheesy turquoise and pink like. Well, I’ll just call up Victoria Secret, or whatever that gal’s name is, and get me some jammies to go with. Mayor Pat, what kind of Kool-Aid you been drinkin’?”

  That drew a hearty laugh from the crowd.

  The mayor was undeterred. She puffed up like a large-breasted bird and ignored the interruption. “As for infrastructure, the town has done a number of studies and found that added tax revenue from th
e building, and the present plans in place for improvement of roads and sewers, will adequately support the project.”

  “Aw, baloney,” said Sandy. “If you pardon me saying. For one thing, them roads and water system up there can’t support all that building. You know it and I know it.”

  The mayor and Langstrom exchanged glances. They didn’t move for an uncomfortable lapse. The mayor sat down, hard, and folded her hands. She fixed a stare across the room somewhere above the door.

  Langstrom was quite ready to leap on his prey. Crafty and sleek, he walked toward the diagram, considered it, fist on chin, and moved around in front of the table so there was no barrier between him and the crowd. He smiled, and it was working.

  “I can see how you’d say that,” he said. The salesman. Calm as a sunny day. “In fact, I’ve been in the same boat, so to speak. I lived in northern Wisconsin. A beautiful little town called Wenthaven, named by the Dutch settlers who wrote back to the old country that they had ‘gone home’.” He stopped and shook his head and chuckled. Blanche was seething. Where is he going with this down-home stuff?

  “You couldn’t see the sky for those pines, the lake so blue, the snow reflecting the sun,” he said. He looked at the ceiling of the meeting room. Some in the crowd looked up, too, possibly expecting an apparition of clouds and pines.

  Langstrom strolled among them: “It was—and is—a story book kind of place. Yes, it is still as beautiful as it ever was (pause) even with the development St. Mark Company brought to Wenthaven. Now we have Swiss chalets and ski runs, five-star restaurants and B&B’s, and all of these are small businesses, no chains of any sort, and the locals have thrived. No yellow arches, blaring franchises, no, these are local people. Like you!” He pointed into the crowd, here and here, and there. “Most of my neighbors got financing through the development company. And let me tell you, Wenthaven is more beautiful than ever, with a new school and funds for paving the roads and fixing the sewers and the water lines. St. Mark—like straight out of the Bible—was the best thing that ever happened to Wenthaven. And I can say this because I was there. It’s home.”