“Baby!” he says, and Kermit hands him Pudding.
Pork Chop proceeds to roll the baby up like a little sausage. He tucks the blanket tight around him, muffling his cries. We’ve barely walked a few steps when the baby abruptly stops crying, screwing his eyes shut against the sun. He’s fast asleep.
“Works every time,” Beans says in a satisfied voice.
“Can he breathe?” I ask.
“Ain’t lost a baby yet.”
“Why’s he called Pudding?”
“Mrs. Lowe thought she was getting fat from eating too much banana pudding, but it turned out it was a baby,” Kermit explains.
A white-haired old man comes running down the street. He looks around and then darts down an alleyway. A moment later, a lady comes walking toward us fast. She’s got a streak of flour on her cheek as if she was baking and got interrupted.
“He went that way, Mrs. Alvarez,” Beans says, pointing.
“Thank you, Beans,” she says in a weary voice. “Second time this morning it’s happened.” She smiles at me. “You must be Turtle. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” I say, and she walks quickly off.
Kermit taps his skull. “Old Mr. Alvarez ain’t right in the head anymore. Poor Mrs. Alvarez spends her life chasing after him.”
“One time he ran naked down Duval Street!” Buddy exclaims. “You should’ve seen it!”
“I don’t think I would’ve wanted to see that,” I say.
An iceman is making his deliveries, and Beans calls out, “You got any spare chips, Mr. Roberts?”
“Sure thing, Beans,” the man says, handing out slivers of ice.
“Don’t forget me!” Buddy says.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Buddy,” Mr. Roberts says, giving the little boy a chip, and one to me, too. “You must be Turtle. My, I do believe you’re as pretty as your mother.”
I suck on the ice until all that’s left is a cold memory.
“How come everyone knows who I am?” I ask.
“Conch Telegraph,” Pork Chop says.
“What?”
“Conchs like to talk. Everyone knew you were here five minutes after you showed up yesterday,” Kermit says. “Besides, you’re related to most of them.”
Mama told me that Conchs are what folks in Key West call themselves. A lot of them originally came from the Bahamas, where they fished for conch. When I asked Mama about my Conch relatives, she said her parents had been dead for a long time, but that I had a lot of Conch cousins.
Too bad she didn’t tell me that they were all snotty boys.
Beans leads us to the waterfront. It’s a hive of activity, bustling with boats. There’s a fella selling live flopping fish right on the dock and another one who’s unloading some scary-looking cargo: dead sharks.
Buddy climbs on a railing and stares down at the water.
“I sure do love watching them,” he says, and I look, too.
The biggest turtle imaginable breaks the surface of the water like a lazy cow. Another pops up and then another. There’s a whole crowd of them.
“What are they all doing down there?” I ask.
“It’s the turtle kraals,” Kermit says. “It’s where they keep the sea turtles until they’re butchered.”
“Don’t fall over!” Pork Chop says to me, snapping his teeth. “You’ll end up as supper!”
“Hi, Slow Poke!” Beans calls out to a man working on the deck of a boat.
The man turns. He’s tan, with sunburned patches around his neck and hair the color of caramel. He’s wearing a wide straw hat.
“Hey there, Beans,” he says. “I stopped in at Matecumbe and saw your dad. He said to say hi.”
“Thanks,” Beans says. “I hear you lost your first mate. Why don’t you hire me? You know what a good sailor I am!”
“I know,” Slow Poke says. “But I already hired Ollie. I’ll be sure to keep you in mind for next time.” The man’s cool gray eyes flick over to me and go still. “Who’s your friend here?”
“That’s Turtle! She’s a cousin!” Buddy says. “And she’s got a cat named Smokey!”
“Turtle, huh?” he says, studying me. “You wouldn’t happen to be related to Sadiebelle Gifford, would you?”
“That’s my mama,” I say.
“Really,” Slow Poke says. “Is she here with you?”
“She’s in New Jersey.”
“I see,” he says.
“Say, Slow Poke, you get any loggerheads?” Beans asks.
“Not this time,” he says. “But I did all right.” He waves his thumb at the deck of the boat. It’s piled high with black blobs.
“What’re those?” I ask.
“That’s gold you’re looking at,” Slow Poke says.
“They’re sponges,” Kermit says.
“Sure don’t look like any sponge I’ve ever seen,” I say.
“Gotta clean ’em yet. Then they’ll be fine enough for a lady’s face,” Slow Poke says.
Pudding fusses in the wagon and Beans frowns. “We gotta keep moving, Slow Poke, or Pudding will wake up. He’s teething bad.”
Slow Poke looks at the baby. “You should try a little whiskey on his gums.”
“We did once,” Beans says. “Didn’t work.”
Slow Poke winks. “Then you didn’t give him enough.”
5
Can You Spare a Nickel, Pal?
Kids in the funny pages sure lead thrilling lives. Little Orphan Annie and her dog, Sandy, are always having all sorts of adventures, and then there’s Terry Lee from Terry and the Pirates. He sails to the Far East with his pal Pat, looking for a lost gold mine.
There’s nothing thrilling happening on Curry Lane as far as I can tell. And the only thing that’s lost in this house is Buddy’s pants. I can hear Aunt Minnie hollering at the little boy.
“Buddy,” she’s saying, “come on, now. Where did you put those pants?”
“I don’t remember!” he says.
“Put your shirt on, at least,” she says.
“I want you to do it for me,” he whines. “My arms are too tired!”
“Too tired? You’re four years old! What’ve you got to be tired about?”
Kermit walks in without knocking, cleaning his glasses on his shirt.
“What are you doing?” Kermit asks.
“Nothing.”
“The gang’s got babies today,” Kermit says. “You want to come along?”
“Uh—” I start to say.
“Buddy!” Aunt Minnie yells. “You did not just have an accident!”
Kermit gives a knowing look. “You hang around here and you’re gonna end up watching Buddy. Believe me, he’s worse than all those babies put together.”
Pork Chop and Beans already have the wagon in the lane when we step onto the porch. It’s so hot I wouldn’t be surprised if the hens were laying hard-boiled eggs.
“How many we got today?” Beans asks Pork Chop.
Pork Chop pulls a scrap of paper out of his back pocket.
“Three,” Pork Chop says.
“Who said she could come?” Beans asks, looking at me.
“Just let her come already,” Kermit says.
Beans shoves his hat over his eyes. “You can’t change diapers, got it?”
“Fine by me,” I say.
“Which means you can’t get candy, neither,” Pork Chop says.
In short order, the wagon is packed tight with babies, like cigars in a box. There’s Pudding again, and two other babies—one named Carlos and one named Essie.
As we walk along, barefoot boys shout out to Beans.
“Hey, Beans! How’re the babies today?” a grubby kid calls. “You need me, you just ask!”
“You want any help, Beans?” another one offers.
“Say, Beans, you want me to fill in until Ira gets back?”
I guess it’s the same all over: everyone just wants a job.
“Where’s your father?” I ask Kermit.
“How come you didn’t go with him?”
“Mama didn’t want to move. She said it’s a wilderness up there. Poppy comes home every few weeks.”
“Least he’s got a job,” I say.
That’s the good thing about Archie. He’s always had work, not like some of Mama’s other fellas. Before I left home, he took me aside.
“Here, princess,” he said, handing me a five-dollar bill. “For emergencies.”
“Thanks,” I said.
He knelt down and looked me in the eye.
“Everything’s going to work out,” he said. “I promise.”
The wagon hits a bump, and the front-right wheel falls off, making the wagon tip. The babies wake up bawling.
“This bum wagon,” Beans says.
Pork Chop picks up the loose wheel and bangs it back on.
Kermit sniffs. “I think Pudding’s got a bad diaper.”
“What are you waiting for, then?” Beans says.
Kermit takes the baby out of the wagon, lays him on the ground, and undoes the soiled diaper. Then he pulls a clean rag out of his pocket and wipes the bare bottom. It’s red as can be.
“Look at his bungy! No wonder the kid’s crying,” Kermit says.
“Bungy?” I say.
“What? Kids in New Jersey don’t have bungys?” Pork Chop says.
“Use the formula,” Beans orders.
Pork Chop digs around in the wagon, pulls out a small cloth sack, and hands it to Kermit, who sprinkles Pudding’s bottom liberally with white powder. Then he pins on a fresh diaper and plops the baby back in the wagon.
“That’s the secret diaper formula?” I ask, unimpressed.
“Yep,” Beans says.
“What’s in it?”
Beans makes a face. “It’s secret. You got to be in the Diaper Gang.”
“Speaking of wanting to be in the Diaper Gang,” Pork Chop says, “look who’s coming.”
The big-eared boy who was skulking around Curry Lane my first day comes running up to us.
“Hey, Beans!” the boy says, panting.
“Too Bad,” Beans says coolly.
“I went to the lane but your ma said you’d left already,” he says.
“We got babies,” Beans says.
“See, I was wondering if I could have another try?” the boy asks, swallowing hard.
“We’ve given you three tries already, Too Bad,” Beans says.
Too Bad starts talking fast. “But I been practicing! Honest, I have!”
Pork Chop and Beans share a look.
“Give him a baby,” Beans says.
Kermit pulls baby Carlos out of the blankets and hands him to Too Bad, who looks nervous.
Beans crosses his arms in front of him. “Go on now. Let’s see what you can do.”
Too Bad lays the baby on the ground and unpins the diaper. He tugs a rag out of his back pocket and gives the baby a wipe. Before he can grab a fresh diaper, a stream of liquid hits him right in the face.
“Aww,” Too Bad says.
Pork Chop and Beans burst out laughing.
“Rule number three,” Pork Chop says, wagging his finger at Too Bad. “Always duck.”
“’Specially with baby boys,” Kermit adds.
Too Bad shuffles off, a disappointed look on his face.
“See ya later, Too Bad!” Beans calls.
“Yeah, too bad you’ll never be in the Diaper Gang!” Pork Chop shouts.
The afternoon air is steamy as a wet wool sock on a hot radiator when the Diaper Gang return the babies to their loving mothers. The boys sit on the front porch of the house on Curry Lane eating their sweet pay while I watch.
“Why don’t you work for money?” I ask.
“Who’d pay us?” Beans says. “Most of the island’s on relief.”
“Here, you can have some of mine,” Kermit says, holding out a piece of homemade papaya candy.
“Thanks,” I say, but Beans snatches it right out of my hand.
“That’s Diaper Gang candy,” Beans says. “Don’t be giving it to her.”
Termite barks and Beans tosses the candy at the dog.
A bell starts ringing and Kermit exclaims, “Jimmy!”
Out on Francis Street, a throng of kids jostles around a man selling ice cream from the back of a horse-drawn wagon. Each kid takes an empty tin can and a spoon from the back of the wagon, and then waits in line.
“I want some ice cream,” Beans declares.
“We ain’t got no nickels,” Pork Chop points out.
“Don’t need nickels,” Beans says, bragging. “I got charm. You watch.”
Beans saunters right to the front of the line, holding out his empty can. The other kids don’t seem to mind; it’s like he’s king.
“What flavor, Beans?” the ice cream man asks.
“Sour sop, Jimmy,” Beans says, and the man deposits a scoop of ice cream in his empty can.
“That’s a nickel, Beans,” Jimmy says, holding out his hand.
“Can you spare me a nickel, Jimmy?” Beans asks.
“Can’t do it, Beans,” the man says, and takes the ice cream out of Beans’s hand. “You still haven’t paid me back from last time.”
“But you know I’m good for it, Jimmy,” Beans says, an edge of whine to his voice.
“Sorry, Beans. Business is business.”
I could’ve told Beans that charm only gets you so far. You gotta have smarts, too. And I got smarts aplenty.
The boys slink off back to the house. I pick up a can and wait my turn in line. When I reach the front, Jimmy smiles.
“You must be the cousin from New Jersey,” he says.
“I’m Turtle,” I say.
“I’m Jimmy. What can I get you?”
“Do you have strawberry?” I ask.
He reels off the flavors. “I got tamarind, mango, coconut, sour sop, and sugar apple.”
“I’ll try the sugar apple,” I say, and Jimmy puts a big scoop in my can. I’m walking away when Jimmy says, “That’s a nickel, young lady.”
I hold out my ice cream. “The nickel was in the bottom of the can, mister.”
“In the bottom of the can, you say?” Jimmy asks skeptically.
“I’m gonna have to eat my way to it,” I say. “Might take a while.”
“Oh, go on,” Jimmy says. “You can only get away with that once, though.”
The boys are sitting glumly on the front porch when I come walking up the lane with the ice cream.
“How’d you get that?” Pork Chop asks in an unbelieving voice.
I stick my spoon in and take a bite. “Used my charm,” I say.
Beans watches the ice cream drip down my chin and licks his lips.
“Say, you ain’t gonna eat the whole thing by yourself, are you?” he asks.
I hold my spoon out to the side, and Smokey walks up and gives it a lick.
“Sorry. Can’t share with you,” I say with a smile. “After all, I’m not in the Diaper Gang.”
6
The Truth of the Matter
Kids lie. We have to or we’d never get anything. But grown-ups lie, too—they just do it differently. They leave things out; they don’t give you the whole story.
I’m sitting on the porch with Buddy playing with my paper dolls. They’re Kewpie dolls—baby girls wearing diapers, with big wide eyes. Mama gave them to me for my last birthday.
“These were mine when I was your age,” she told me.
Buddy’s not very interested in the dolls.
“Don’t you want to play marbles?” he asks.
Aunt Minnie pokes her head out the front door, saying, “Buddy, don’t you get to playing and forget to go—I’m tired of washing your pants,” and then lets out a shriek. Smokey’s so startled she leaps off the porch and runs under the house.
“Where did you get those dolls?” Aunt Minnie demands.
I hesitate and then sa
y, “Mama gave them to me for my birthday.”
“Those are my dolls!”
“She said they were hers,” I say.
“Well, she must have forgotten about stealing them from me,” Aunt Minnie says with emphasis.
I look down at the dolls and back up at Aunt Minnie.
“Are you sure they’re the same dolls?”
“You think I don’t know my own dolls?” my aunt asks, and holds out her hand.
“You want them back?”
“Of course I want them back! They’re mine, aren’t they?”
I pile the dolls up and hand them to her. She snatches them and gives a satisfied smile.
“Do I want my dolls back? Pfff!”
After she walks inside, Buddy turns to me and asks, “You want to play marbles now?”
The next morning, I’m watching the boys run around the lane like a bunch of wild animals. They’re playing a game they call klee-klee, which looks just like tag from where I’m sitting. Kermit’s the fastest of them all—tearing headlong across the lane, dodging this boy and that. For a kid with a bad heart, he sure can run.
I shouldn’t have been so surprised about Aunt Minnie and the paper dolls. Mama’s always been a little funny with the truth. Sure, she’s told me lots of things about Key West—how poinciana trees look like they’re on fire when they’re blooming and that the old Conch houses were built by shipwrights to sway in storms like boats—but she left out the important parts. Like about my father.
All she’s ever told me is that he was a fisherman, and that he said he loved her. When she told him she was expecting his baby, she waited a whole week but he didn’t ask her to marry him. A week’s a long time when you’re waiting on a man, I guess. Mama left Key West and hasn’t been back since. My father could have three eyes or be a murderer, for all I know.
Still, I miss Mama so much I hardly know what to do. We’ve never been apart. I worry about her being by herself. I’ve been here for two weeks now, and I’ve only talked to her once. I called from Mrs. Lowe’s house, Pudding’s mother’s, because Aunt Minnie doesn’t have a telephone. Not that we got to say more than two words.
“It’s me, Mama!” I said when she answered. “I made it!”
“Oh, baby,” Mama said, and she sounded so far away. “I was so worried.”
Just hearing her voice made me feel like I was wrapped in a soft blanket.
Turtle in Paradise Page 3