Salt River

by Randy Wayne White

  “That’s exactly why I didn’t send the damn tube in,” he responded, “so back off, boogaloo. Besides, wouldn’t have mattered anyway from what Delia told me. Doc, meeting her was the strangest hour I’ve ever spent in my life—and that’s saying something.”

  “You’ve set the bar pretty high,” I said agreeably. I was at the desk reading a research proposal, Trophic Ecology of Large Coastal Predators Along Florida’s Gulf Coast. It had to do with sharks eating bottlenose dolphins, possibly caused by reduced food sources as a result of the red tide.

  “The poor girl didn’t know whether to hug me or tell me to burn in hell for being such a thoughtless, no-good dilettante. So she did both.”

  “Dilettante?” I said. “That’s an unusual choice of words, but okay. Shows she’s smart. Most people tumble for your spiritual Zendo persona right off the bat.”

  “This is serious, bro.”

  I wasn’t joking, but eased off a tad. “Sorry. This has got to be tough on all of you. What else did she say?”

  Tomlinson straddled a chair and plopped down opposite me. “The mood swings, man. She quoted a few favorite lines from my book—a real spiritual connection. We both felt it, no doubt. Zap! Electrical, you know? But she doesn’t look much like me, I don’t think.”

  “No, thank god,” I replied.

  “Dude, don’t be mean. Her ears, some of her mannerisms, even her voice, reminds me of a classier female edition of yours truly. But, holy cripes, moody. She’d fester back on what she called the lie she has been living and get stormy cold. How could her parents do this to her? And who the hell was I to impose my genetics on her and umpteen other kids I didn’t give a damn about and, hopefully, would never meet.”

  He continued. “Those were her words, not mine. I felt so guilty, I booked her a nice room on the beach for a couple of nights. The poor thing sailed all this way to meet me, no AC on her boat, and the damn ’skeeters about ate her alive last night.”

  My friend was suddenly teary-eyed.

  “Take it easy, ol’ buddy,” I said.

  “Damn it, though, Delia’s right. I don’t know if I can handle it, Doc, meeting them one at a time like this. And what if those kids want to include their mothers? Worse, their fathers—the real ones, men who worked their asses off to raise them? Geezus frogs, who’d of thought that whacking off in a jar was more dangerous than sleeping with married women?”

  I pushed aside the paper I’d been reading. “Geographically, the other six siblings, where are they from? Wait—start at the beginning. If you didn’t do the DNA test, how the hell did they find out their biological father was a sperm donor?”

  Tomlinson settled back and explained how things had been when he was a younger man. After getting a Ph.D., he’d bummed around California, refusing to accept money from his estranged East Hampton family. Drugs—cocaine, heroin, LSD—he’d tried them all and ended up in a Berkeley psych facility. Nearby was Mensal Cryonics, a Boston-based firm with sperm bank clinics in California, Miami, and Atlanta. They targeted an upscale clientele. Donors were carefully screened with an emphasis on high IQs and success in both scholastics and athletics. Thoroughbred genetics, is what the company was selling.

  “At the clinic, I had to document everything,” he went on, “from my varsity letters in high school to my college curriculum vitae. Did I mention the nurse took a shine to me? So she definitely cut me some slack regarding my past, but that was a wise business decision, she claimed. Us tall Scandinavian types with Ivy League degrees were their bestselling models. Like picking out a car, you know? Couples who couldn’t get pregnant got a list of options—eye color, hair type, ethnic background. Did they prefer a chess champion or a baseball star? It was a small clinic, and you know what a drag it can be to be cooped up in an office all day. The nurse—maybe just a clinician, I don’t know—she was forty-five going on eighteen, so we played around and enjoyed ourselves, but still got the job done.”

  I asked, “How many times did you, uhh . . . More than forty, you told me.”

  Tomlinson was unsure. “Hydration became an issue, I remember that much. The nurse said I was the equivalent of a Cadillac Coupe de Ville, fully loaded. And that’s how I was listed in the clinic’s catalog—as Deville—along with a sort of bio. Donors were assigned a single fake name—sort of like pro wrestlers. So I assumed it would stay that way because of how the procedure worked.”

  “Because it was just you and the nurse, alone in a room,” I suggested.

  “No. It’s the way female clients were inseminated. The procedure was called”—he had to search his memory—“complex insemination? No, it was called confused insemination. That was the term. Confused because the clinics intentionally murked the outcome. Here’s how.”

  He explained that Mensal Cryonics had a strict protocol. Clients were instructed to have intercourse the day before the insemination procedure and the day after. To increase the odds of the male partner actually impregnating the female, he, too, contributed a sperm sample. It was then mixed with the anonymous donor’s sperm.

  A similar protocol was used if the eggs were fertilized outside the female’s body prior to being injected into the uterus.

  “Geezus,” I said. “I had no idea. In a way, it’s kind of creepy, but statistically, I guess, it makes sense.”

  “Creepy, even when you think it through,” Tomlinson said. “There was a real chance that the father actually was the father. A psychological boost, you know? And if the guy was shooting blanks, the happy couple got the deluxe model instead. Not that I gave it much thought at the time. It paid more than selling blood and was a heck of a lot more fun.”

  I asked the obvious: How did Delia and the others track him down?

  Tomlinson’s reaction suggested self-contempt. “’Cause I was a thoughtless idiot who didn’t bother to read the fine print. Mensal Cryonics was one of the first to require that donors allow their personal information to be released—upon request, of course—when the children they’d sired turned twenty-one. But hell, back then what were the chances? I didn’t have a clue until a month ago when I got what I thought was a crank email from a guy—my son, turns out. Online, he’d already made contact with three of his DNA siblings. They have this sort of chat page thing. But he was the first to contact the clinic and demand my personal information. There are a ton of Tomlinsons in the world, but only one adult male, apparently, named Sighurdhr Mantle Tomlinson. After that, finding me wasn’t too hard.”

  “The guy—what do you know about him?” I asked.

  “My son, you mean? A nice kid, seems like. Well . . . he’s in his mid-twenties and has a divinity degree from Carolina Christian. The Right Reverend Chester Pickett—a freakin’ Baptist via the U.S. Marine Corps. Isn’t that a kick in the pants? Chester’s acted sort of as spokesman for the group. Before he found out my name, he and the others referred to me as Johnny. Get it? As in Johnny Appleseed? Or Capt. Monkey Spanker. That still hurts my feelings for some reason.”

  “This was a month ago? You didn’t mention it to me. Have you heard from all six? Or is it seven?”

  Tomlinson replied, “I guess I thought it would blow over—which proves I was in denial. At first anyway. Then I got more emails while you were gone. Man, what a stunner. So I started to rethink the situation.” He made a fluttering noise, overwhelmed. “So far, seven. But maybe seventeen or more, for all I know. Geographically, most of the kids still live in states where there are Mensal clinics—one in California, one near Boston, and two from Florida. Delia was born in San Diego, but her folks moved to Tampa when she was a girl.”

  “Had she emailed you?”

  “Nope. I didn’t know about her until today, but I’ve heard from a son in Gainesville, and another outside Boston. The only one who seems happy about the big surprise is a daughter who lives in Arizona . . .” My friend managed a smile. “She’s a real pisser, that one. Imogen, ag
e twenty-four. Just graduated from Sedona College of Holistic Medicine. Cool, huh? I got my third email from her yesterday. Lots of emoji kisses. And an idea I tried to bounce off you last night, but you split.”

  “Bounce away,” I said.

  “You ready for this? Imogen, the Arizona girl? She wants to have a reunion. All seven of us—or anyone who wants to come.”

  “You’ve never met these people. How can you have a reunion?”

  “We’ve got to call it something. Conclave? That doesn’t sound right. And meet and greet is definitely out. That’s a homograph just begging for an ugly twist.”

  It took me second. “Oh yeah . . . meat and greet.”

  Tomlinson winced. “Yep. Imogen suggested Florida since three of the kids live here already. I’d have to pay her way, of course. They—the six or seven of them—they’ve been discussing it back and forth over the chat page they use. A couple of the kids, though, want no part of it. Imogen’s the only one who’s really stoked. She’s never been to Florida.”

  He got up, began to pace again, and referenced a daughter he hadn’t seen since his acrimonious divorce fifteen years ago. “Let’s face it, pal, I haven’t been much of a father to Nichola and I knew she was my kid from the get-go. The girl still won’t talk to me, and I don’t think that’ll change. So, I’m trying to view this as a chance to redeem myself. God knows, if anyone needs redemption, it’s me.” For an instant, he made eye contact. The inclusion You, too seemed implied.

  “Doc,” he added, “I’d like you to talk to her as a favor to me. It was her idea.”

  “Who, Nichola?”

  “No, coconut head. Spend some time with Delia. This morning, I tried to win her over to the idea of a reunion. She balked. So, as a sort of character reference, I used you. Even gave her a couple of your research papers to read. She called from the hotel. Maybe you could take her fishing or something.”

  “No thanks,” I said. “It’s ninety in the shade out there. Besides, I don’t want to get in the middle of this mess.”

  “Come on, Marion. Delia was impressed by your research work. Says you’re a dispassionate clinical thinker. I told her, ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ which at least got a laugh. You know me better than anyone, man. She just wants to . . . Well, I’m not sure why Delia wants to talk, but she does.”

  I said, “In other words, she doesn’t trust you.”

  “Bingo,” Tomlinson replied. “Would you mind?”

  * * *

  —

  I gave it some thought during my noon workout session. Noon in July because I’d found my endurance lacking in the jungles of Guyana, and that’s the way it starts. We lose a step over months of modern living. We indulge in carbs, desserts, too many beers, and our caveman brain records the data as a season of plenty. Time to hibernate, pile on the pounds. In fact, that lost step is the first concession to decay.

  It’s inevitable, of course, the aging process. But the caveman brain, if ignored, also interprets sloth as symptomatic of surrender. The body is mindless machinery. It always prefers the laziest path of resistance before the final stop, which is the grave.

  Not today, I told myself.

  It is a one-point-four-mile straightaway from the Dinkin’s Bay gate to the end of Tarpon Bay Road. I did it in a respectable twelve minutes. There, the beach curves east and west. I chose the deepest sand, of course. Alternately, I jogged and sprinted west another mile until I damn near collapsed in the heat. This was near the West Wind Inn. A turquoise pool and umbrellas at the tiki bar beaconed. I stumbled up the bank, over putting-green-groomed grass toward restrooms located beneath the pool bar deck. I almost made it. Almost. Midway, I stopped, turned, and upchucked in the bushes.

  Fortunately, the few people lounging around the pool didn’t notice. But above me, from the bar, a woman’s voice beckoned, saying, “Are you okay, mister? Want me to call nine-one-one?”

  My glasses were fogged. I removed them and looked up at the blurry figure. “Huh? No. Just need a couple bottles of water. I’ve got money. Is the bartender up there?”

  In my confused state, the voice, weirdly familiar, funneled down as if through a tunnel. “Oh my god . . . You’re Dr. Ford. I thought you had more sense.”

  It was Tomlinson’s daughter, I realized. “Nope, not me. No sense at all,” I replied, and attempted a smile. My hands were on my knees in what military types call the leaning rest.

  There was the clatter of a chair. “You’re so pale . . . white as a sheet,” Delia called. “Hang on. I’ll bring you some ice before you pass out.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I insisted. That’s when the ground rushed up to meet me and I damn near did.

  * * *

  —

  On my way back to the lab, Tomlinson exited the parking lot on his fat-tire bike. Decorations included peace signs on the fenders and a basket on the handlebars stamped Fausto’s, Key West.

  “Geezus, you look like hell, bro,” he said. “Don’t tell me you went for a run at this time of day. You out of your freakin’ mind?”

  I had already been lectured on the dangers of heat exhaustion by Delia. The girl turned out to be a twenty-five-year-old Eckerd College grad who’d majored in chemistry with a minor in marine science. She had also pampered me with ice and Gatorade while scolding, “The trouble with biologists your age is, you guys spend all your time indoors at a computer or a microscope. No I-R-L experience—in, like, real life, you know? Pilates or yoga, that’s what I’d recommend. Start slow, and work your way up to jogging.”

  To Tomlinson, I said, “I’m taking your daughter out in the net boat around sunset. How do you want me to handle it?”

  “You talked to her?”

  “At the West Wind. I went to the pool to cool off and there she was. It’s up to you. How honest do you want me to be? I’m not going to lie to her, but I can try to avoid the rough patches.”

  “Hell, tell her the truth and let the facts fall where they may,” Tomlinson said, then decided, “No . . . wait.” He walked his bike into the shade while he reconsidered. “What rough patches?”

  I said, “Do you really need a list?”

  He scratched at his temple where there was a scar that resembled a figure eight. “Well . . . I see no need to mention that I’ve been busted for drugs, and sold my share of weed. That would set a bad example. I don’t want a child of mine thinking it’s okay to smoke. Bad for the lungs, man. Even I know that.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Anything else?”

  “Well, these days the whole drug scene is risky. LSD tabs—you can’t trust that crap. It’s cooked by methheads and skanks—amateurs, not true cortex explorers. Drugs, totally out. That’s a definite no-fly zone for kids Delia’s age. Don’t you think?”

  I said, “Gotcha,” and started away.

  “Oh—” Tomlinson snapped his fingers. “One more thing. I wouldn’t mention that murder charge. We both know it was totally bogus.”

  I turned. “Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

  “Good. Then you’d have to get into the whole jealous husband thing. Infidelity, screwing around, and jumping out of windows at midnight. That kinda crazy shit. I’d just tell the girl, sure, your birth father hasn’t lived a perfect life, but he’s the sort of man who strives for the wisdom to learn from his mistakes.”

  He took another second to ponder. “In fact, I’m on my way to the West Wind now. Maybe I’ll just tell her myself.”

  “Good idea,” I said.

  “Doc?” Again, I pulled up. “Did you two hit it off? Not romantically, of course—at least, I hope not.” Tomlinson scowled at me for a moment. “Dude, that would be breaking the rules. Same with the other yahoos who were ogling Delia at the marina today. Hands off, understand?”

  I said, “Dude—if the world played by your rules, there would be fighting in the streets. We met by accident. I pushed
myself a little too hard, and she thought I was suffering heatstroke. Which I wasn’t, of course. She’s a nice girl but, frankly, sort of condescending and with an attitude. She brought me a bag of ice and made me cool off in the pool. That was it.”

  The scowl vanished. “What do you expect of a girl who has genetics from the à la carte menu? Does she seem to trust you?”

  “She thinks I’m a bumbling nerd,” I said, “with no real-life experience. She used some dumb acronym—I-R-something. Doubt she thinks I’m smart enough to be tricky. But at least she doesn’t say ‘like’ every three or four words.”

  “Perfect.” My friend, nodding, smiled as if satisfied. “When you come right down to it, Doc, I think the less our kids know about us, the better.”

  * * *

  —

  In the afternoon, I walked to the marina. It was near closing time. Mack, the owner, was behind the counter chewing on a cigar. He is a large, squat man, balding, who claims he migrated from New Zealand to the goldfields of Australia, then invested his profits in Sanibel. Along with owning the marina, he’d recently purchased a cluster of fifties-era beach cottages, formerly a nudist colony.

  “Damn idiots,” Mack muttered, his accent muted by many years in the States. He was focused on a laptop near the register.

  I got a quart of beer from the cooler and placed it on the counter. “Still problems getting building permits?” I asked. He’d been trying to remodel the cottages and wanted to change the signage out front from Grin-N-Bare-It Resort to something more tropical.

  “Always problems when you deal with the city,” Mack growled. “But what really pisses me off is, there are idiots among us who won’t let that damn red tide go away. Business was down twenty percent all summer. And now, when it should be getting better, our local so-called experts posted this.”