Nature Girl

by Carl Hiaasen

  “Yes, sir, that’s what Mom told me. And I believe her.”

  Skinner nodded as if he believed it, too. “Then he’s damn lucky she didn’t crack his skull instead of his nuts.”

  Fry could tell that his father was angry.

  “Did he hurt her? Tell the truth.”

  “No, sir, I don’t believe so.”

  Skinner got up from the table and went out to his truck. He came back with a folded wad of hundreds, which he pressed into Fry’s left hand.

  “Dad, there’s something else,” the boy said.

  “How come I’m not surprised?”

  “Mom needs two plane tickets. She wondered if maybe you could cash in some of your miles.”

  Skinner was instantly suspicious. “She takin’ you somewheres on a trip?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “You’d clue me in if she was, right?”

  “For sure,” said Fry. “She didn’t say what the tickets are for, but she told me to tell you don’t worry, it’s no big deal.”

  Skinner waved the waitress over and paid the bill. “Plane tickets are too a big deal,” he said.

  “Mom said you could cash out your miles and it wouldn’t cost you anything—”

  “Son, you don’t understand. Come on, let’s go.”

  When they were outside, in the parking lot, Skinner lowered his voice and said, “I’m not worried about how much the tickets cost or don’t cost. I’m worried about what she’s up to.”

  Fry thought: If only I knew.

  But to his father he said, “So, what do I tell her?”

  “Tell her to come talk with me.”

  “Aw, Dad.”

  “What—you think that’s my idea of a good time?” Skinner snorted. “Tell her to swing by and see me if she wants the damn tickets. Tell her it won’t take but a minute.”

  He got in the truck and lowered the window. “What kind of grades are you makin’ these days?”

  “Not bad. B’s and A’s,” Fry said. “Hey, thanks for lunch.”

  “Anytime. Always great to see you, buddy.” Perry Skinner put on his sunglasses and fitted a plug of Red Man into his cheek. “I’m countin’ on you to let me know if your mom starts actin’ up again. You’ll call, promise?”

  The boy got on his bike.

  “Don’t worry. She’s all right,” he said, and pedaled away before his father could get a good look at his eyes.

  Honey Santana didn’t despise her ex-husband as much as she claimed. She felt compelled to bad-mouth Perry Skinner because it was he who had filed for divorce, beating her to the punch. By that time they’d already agreed that staying married would be lunacy, their feelings for each other having been flayed raw by one emotional upheaval after another. Honey’s attorney had been fumbling around, trying to draft a basic divorce petition, when she’d received the court papers from Perry. Her pride had been scalded, because among the women she knew, it was always the wife who divorced the husband and never the other way around.

  After the split, Skinner had been shockingly prompt with the alimony and child support. He’d also been cooperative on the numerous occasions that Honey Santana needed extra cash, mainly because these requests were passed along by Fry, whose affections Skinner prized. Honey felt lousy about sending her son on these begging missions, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Being alone with Perry still flustered her, four years after the divorce. It wasn’t his attitude that was intimidating but rather the way he’d look at her—like he still cared yet didn’t want her to know, which was, for Honey, difficult to handle.

  Sometimes she envied her divorced friends, who seemed liberated by toxic and spiteful relationships with their exes. Of course most of those husbands had been caught screwing around, which wasn’t the case with Skinner. Honey Santana had simply worn him out with her bewildering projects and antic crusades. He was feeling whipsawed and she was feeling caged, and there had seemed to be no practical solution except splitting up.

  Still, Honey couldn’t forgive Perry for filing first, which made it appear as if the whole damn thing was her fault when it wasn’t. He could have been a more patient and empathetic partner. He could have been a better listener, and not so quick to believe the doctors….

  “I’m sorry, but at the customer’s request this number is not published.”

  Oh please, Honey thought. He’s a nobody, for God’s sake.

  She tried again, spelling the name more slowly, but she got the same recording. It was unbelievable: Boyd Shreave, anonymous low-life salesman, kept an unlisted home number.

  Honey went outside and picked up a section of lead drainpipe and whacked it half a dozen times against the siding of the trailer. Feeling somewhat better, she went back inside and sat down at Fry’s computer, which he’d forgotten to disable, and Googled the name Shreave. Although only one match turned up, her spirits sailed.

  It was a story from the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, appearing under the headline JURY BOOTS SALESMAN’S LAWSUIT.

  A Tarrant County jury has awarded only $1 to a local salesman who claimed he was permanently injured while demonstrating corrective footwear to a prospective customer.

  Boyd S. Shreave had sought more than $2 million in damages from his former employer, Lone Star Glide-Boots, following the mishap in August 2002.

  According to the lawsuit, Shreave was making a sales visit to an elderly Arlington woman when he inserted a graphite orthotic device in one of his own shoes. While parading back and forth to show off “the comfort and unobtrusiveness” of the item, Shreave allegedly stumbled over the woman’s oxygen tank and ended up painfully straddling a potted cactus.

  He claimed that the accident resulted in “irreparable cervical trauma” to his neck, and that the cactus needles “grossly disfigured” his groin area, causing “inestimable mental anguish, humiliation and loss of marital intimacy.”

  Attorneys for Lone Star Glide-Boots argued that the incident was entirely Shreave’s fault because he’d mistakenly put a left-footed corrective wedge into his right shoe. They also charged that he had “flagrantly” violated company policy by attempting to sell such devices to a person who had long ago lost the use of both legs to diabetes.

  The customer, 91-year-old Shirley Lykes, testified that Shreave was “a slick talker, but clumsy as a blind mule.”

  The six-member jury deliberated less than an hour. The foreman later explained that the panel decided to give $1 to Shreave “so he could go out and buy some tweezers”—an apparent reference to the lingering cactus thorns that the salesman had complained about.

  Shreave, who now works for another company, declined comment.

  Honey Santana printed out the article. Gleefully she waved it at Fry as soon as he walked in the door after visiting Perry Skinner.

  “Check this out!” she said.

  “Don’t you even want to hear his answer?” Fry asked.

  “Your ex-father? I already know his answer.”

  Fry handed her the cash. “He wants to talk about the plane tickets.”

  “Fine, I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  “No, Mom, in person.”

  Honey frowned. “What crawled up his butt and died?”

  Fry sat down at the table and skimmed the newspaper article. After finishing, he glanced up and said, “I thought his name was Eisenhower.”

  “Nope. He lied,” Honey said, “per the usual.”

  “Sure it’s the same guy?”

  “Sweetie, how could it not be?” She took the printout and taped it to the refrigerator. “Listen, I’ve got another small favor to ask. I need you to go on the computer and do your magic.”

  Fry said, “No chance. I’m done for the day.”

  “Please? It won’t take long.”

  The boy headed down the hallway, Honey trailing behind. “He’s got an unlisted number, can you believe that?”

  “Easily,” Fry said.

  “But thank God for that stupid lawsuit,” his mother went on, �
�because it means there’s a court file somewhere in Texas with Mr. Boyd Shreave’s address and home phone number in it. If you can find it on-line, then I can…”

  Fry fell into bed and shut his eyes. “You can what? Call up this a-hole and give him a piece of your mind?”

  “Yeah. Exactly,” Honey Santana said.

  “And that’s all you’re gonna do? Promise?”

  “Well, I might have a little fun with him. Nothing he doesn’t deserve.”

  Fry sighed. “I knew it.”

  “Jesus, I’m not gonna do anything dangerous or against the law.”

  Fry opened his eyes and gave her a hard stare. “Mom, I’m not going to Texas with you.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Oh, come on. Even if you con Dad into givin’ you the plane tickets, I’m not going.”

  Honey laughed lightly. “Well, I’m not flying to Texas, either. Fry, that’s the nuttiest thing I ever heard—you honestly think I’d jump on a jetliner to go chasing after this slug? Just ’cause he called me a dried-up old whatever.”

  “Then who are the tickets for?” her son demanded.

  Honey got up and cranked open a window. “I’m starving. You want a snack?”

  Fry groaned and yanked the sheet across his face. “I told Dad you were doing okay. Please don’t make a liar out of me.”

  “Hush,” said his mother. “How about some popcorn?”

  To distance himself from an overhead air-conditioning vent, the haunted-looking Sacco had moved into the cubicle left empty by Boyd Shreave. When Eugenie Fonda passed him a playful note, Sacco swatted it away as if it were a scorpion. His skittishness hinted at a bruised and volatile soul, which naturally piqued Eugenie’s curiosity. Even the man’s telephone voice sounded spent and frayed, although he still managed to churn plenty of leads. After Eugenie slipped him a second note, casual and innocuous, Sacco scrawled a one-word response—“GAY!”—and sailed it back to her desk. By the end of the shift she found herself missing Boyd, dull lump that he was.

  When she got home at half past midnight, he was waiting at her front door.

  With more flowers.

  “Oh Lord,” said Eugenie Fonda.

  “Okay if I come in?”

  “You look terrible, sugar.”

  “Bad day,” said Shreave, following her inside.

  They began to make love on the sofa, Eugenie bouncing with her customary determination upon his lap. Within moments she found herself detached, literally, Boyd having waned to limpness.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  Eugenie climbed off and pulled on her panties. “Tell me what’s wrong,” she said.

  “It’s Lily. She’s acting really weird.”

  “You think she knows?”

  “How could she? We’ve been so careful,” Shreave said.

  “Right. Like that day in the sub shop.” Eugenie clicked her teeth.

  She went to get a vase for the flowers, Shreave calling after her, “I’m telling you, Genie, she doesn’t know about us. There’s no way.”

  What a voice, she thought. Sometimes when Boyd was talking, she’d close her eyes and imagine for a moment that he looked like Tim McGraw. That’s how good he sounded.

  By the time she returned to the living room, he’d removed his shoes and socks and was sucking loudly on a lime Jolly Rancher candy that he’d taken from a silver bowl on the end table.

  Eugenie Fonda put down the vase and got two beers from the refrigerator. “So,” she said, stationing herself beside him on the sofa, “what’d your wife do that was so weird?”

  Shreave spit the sticky chunk of candy into an ashtray and attacked the beer. Eugenie waited.

  “Just a strange vibe,” he said finally. “Things she said. The way she was looking at me.”

  Eugenie nodded. “She wanted to have sex, right?”

  “How’d you know?” Shreave was amazed.

  “Boyd, we need to talk.”

  “I didn’t bone her, Genie, I swear to God!”

  Eugenie smiled. “Sugar, she’s your wife. An occasional orgasm is part of the deal.”

  Shreave reddened and lunged for his beer once again, dark crescents blooming under his arms.

  “Boyd, I can’t do this anymore,” Eugenie told him. “And please don’t say you’re going to ask Lily for a divorce, because you aren’t. And even if you did—”

  “I haven’t told her I got fired. That means we can be together every night!”

  “How, Boyd? What about my job?”

  He set down the beer bottle and damply clasped her right hand. “Suppose you quit Relentless and started working days somewhere else. It’ll be great—I could have dinner ready when you get home and stay here till midnight, Monday through Friday. Lily won’t suspect a thing. She’ll think I’m at the call center.”

  Eugenie Fonda withdrew her hand and dried it on his shirttail.

  “Boyd, listen up,” she said. “I really don’t want to be your full-time fuck buddy. Call me a dreamer, but I still think I could wind up with a normal guy in a normal relationship, once I stop sleeping with married men.”

  Shreave sat back, ashen.

  “Now don’t you dare start to bawl,” Eugenie said.

  Shreave’s head drooped. “I can’t believe this. First I lose my job, and now you want to break up with me. Maybe tomorrow I’ll find out I’ve got cancer.”

  Eugenie led him toward the door, saying how sorry she was and what a blast they’d had together and how it was time for both of them to figure out what they truly wanted from life.

  “But I know what I want,” Shreave said. “You.”

  “Good-bye, sweetie.” She bent down to kiss him, but then he didn’t leave.

  “Boyd, I said good-bye.”

  He remained rooted and defiant in her doorway. “I’m not going anywhere till you tell me the real reason you’re dumpin’ me.”

  Seriously, Eugenie Fonda said to herself, do I need this?

  “It’s the least you can do,” Shreave said.

  In addition to the best damn hummers you ever had in your life, Eugenie thought.

  “Genie, I want the truth.”

  “Fine,” she said. With some guys, cold and cruel was the way to go.

  “Boyd, you’re boring. You’re gonna put me into a coma, you’re so fucking boring. I’m sorry, but you asked for it.”

  He looked up at her with a twisting and skeptical smile. “Boring? Nice try. What’s his name?”

  Eugenie Fonda took hold of Boyd’s shoulders. “There is no him. Now, adios, cowboy,” she said.

  He shook free. “No, wait—how’m I boring?” His strong, silky voice had shrunk to a tubercular rasp.

  “No, sugar, the question is: How are you not boring?” Eugenie Fonda felt a disquieting nibble of guilt, so she hastily unloaded both barrels. “When’s the last time you did anything interesting? Anything at all?”

  “With you?”

  “With me. To me. Anything that wasn’t totally predictable,” she rolled on.

  “But—”

  “But nuthin. I don’t care to spend the rest of my days servicing a couch potato. When’s the last time you were even out in the sunshine, for God’s sake? Michael Jackson’s got a better tan.”

  “But I told you about my accident!” Shreave interjected.

  Eugenie waved him off. “Don’t even start. You fell on a cactus, big fucking deal. Everything still works fine.” Then, letting her gaze drift below his belt, she added: “More or less.”

  That did the trick. Wordlessly Shreave plunged down the steps and reeled toward the parking lot.

  As his car screeched away, Eugenie Fonda experienced a tug of remorse. If only he’d surprised me just once, she thought.

  Flowers just don’t cut it.

  Five

  From 1835 to 1842, the United States government for the second time directed its military might against a small band of Indians settled in the wilderness of Florida. During those
years the Seminoles were pursued by almost every regiment of the regular army, and more than fifty thousand volunteers and militiamen. By the time it was over, the Second Seminole War had cost the United States an estimated thirty million dollars, a mountainous sum in that era, and more than three thousand lives.

  The toll was all the more astounding because, at the peak of its strength, the Seminole tribe had no more than a thousand warriors.

  Absurdly outnumbered, braves would lure the white infantry deep into the boggy swamps and pine barrens, then attack in lightning flurries. The strategy proved highly effective at first, but in the end the Indians were overrun. Their home camps were razed, hundreds of families were wiped out and nearly four thousand tribal members were deported to Indian Country, the bleak plains of Oklahoma. Nevertheless, the small numbers of Seminoles who remained in Florida refused to surrender, and to this day their descendants have never signed a peace treaty with Washington, D.C.

  In late 1880, the Smithsonian Institution’s Bureau of Ethnology dispatched the Rev. Clay MacCauley to Florida “to inquire into the condition and to ascertain the number of Indians commonly known as Seminole.” MacCauley spent the winter of 1881 traveling to tribal settlements at Catfish Lake, Cow Creek, Fisheating Creek, the Miami River and Big Cypress. His account, published six years later, was praised for its rich descriptions and perceptive commentary.

  Sammy Tigertail’s father bought him a copy for four dollars at a used-book sale at the big public library in downtown Fort Lauderdale. The volume became one of the boy’s most treasured belongings, and it was not exaggerating to say that it changed his life.

  “They are now strong, fearless, haughty and independent,” MacCauley wrote in summary of the Indians he met, then added:

  The moving lines of the white population are closing in upon the land of the Seminole. There is no farther retreat to which they can go. It is their impulse to resist the intruders, but some of them at last are becoming wise enough to know that they cannot contend successfully with the white man. It is possible that even their few warriors may make an effort to stay the oncoming hosts, but ultimately they will either perish in the futile attempt or they will have to submit to a civilization which, until now, they have been able to repel and whose injurious accompaniments may degrade and destroy them.