The Bellbottom Incident

by Neve Maslakovic

  “On the gulf side of the state, roughly halfway between Tampa and Miami.” I was keeping my fingers crossed that we would arrive at eight o’clock tonight, which would give us seventeen hours, and not after Udo’s fatal accident had already happened.

  Just as I’d thought, Dr. Little didn’t bother double-checking the coordinates. “Ready,” he said, getting to his feet.

  Soft sand lay under my feet, and a warm, marine-scented breeze tickled my nose. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the new circumstances, helped by the light of the almost-full moon. I glanced around, trying to get my bearings. Dr. Little and Abigail were doing the same. Where had Dr. B sent us? And, more importantly, to what day? In one direction, silver sand met the pitch-black ocean; moonlight reflected off the waves crashing on the shore. In the other direction stood a line of beachfront motels and cottages with well-lit parking lots. Here and there, beachgoers sat intertwined on blankets or clustered around small bonfires, enjoying beer, cigarettes, and good company.

  “Well, Julia?” Dr. Little demanded. “Where are we?”

  “Couldn’t tell you,” I admitted.

  “Nice beach,” Abigail said, “wherever it is.”

  “Let’s check for another note,” Dr. Little suggested, ever practical.

  We found one a few steps away by the expedient of me stubbing my toe on it. “Ow.”

  I picked up the rock and we huddled around it as Dr. Little turned on a pencil flashlight. This time there was a rubber band around the rock instead of tape, presumably in anticipation of the wet conditions on the beach. I took off the rubber band and removed the Ziploc bag that it had been securing. Several sheets of paper had been stuffed inside to keep them dry. I unfolded them. There was a printout of a newspaper story and also a year-appropriate grid map of the Fort Myers area.

  “Ah,” said Dr. Little, pouncing on the map. “That will simplify things. Pity we don’t know exactly where we are.”

  “Is there an X on the map?” The rubber band, Ziploc bag, and the new rock joined the one already in my coat pocket.

  Dr. Little pored over the map with his flashlight. “Nothing.”

  He turned his flashlight onto the news article next, and all of us gathered around to read it. It looked like it was from a small-town paper—I recognized the writing style, a mix of professionalism and gossip. Details jumped out at me: a freak accident…excessive speed or blown tire suspected…Ford Mustang flew over causeway guardrail…divers still searching for vehicle and its driver. There was a grainy stock picture of the bridge. The accident had happened near the mainland, on the first of the three segments that formed the bridge, with the vehicle headed toward Sanibel Island.

  Body recovered two days later, Nate had written in the margin. He had added underneath, Nothing to report on the other matter, which I took to mean that he had found nothing out of the ordinary in Dr. Little’s office.

  The newspaper article included a short biographical bit about the missing driver. Udo’s family was local and owned property both in Florida and the Midwest, the article said. His parents, Judith and Robert Leland, resided on Sanibel Island. Fort Myers was his place of birth.

  “Poor Udo,” Abigail said.

  “At least he was alone in the Mustang,” Dr. Little said. “There’s no mention of any of the other students—or Sabina—being in the car. I’d say it was lucky for you, Julia, that neither of your parents was in the Mustang with Udo when he went over.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” I didn’t even want to think about it.

  “The article does give us one important fact,” Dr. Little added, as if further emotionally detaching himself from the details, unhappy as they were. Or perhaps he thought nothing could be gained from dwelling on what was going to happen. History could not be changed. But we had to try. I would have to make sure the others agreed with me on that.

  “What fact?” I asked.

  “Didn’t you see it, Julia? There, near the end.” Abigail pointed over my arm.

  My eyes skipped to the last paragraph. Focused as I was on the specifics of the accident, I had skimmed over it quickly.

  The reporter had, somewhat judgmentally, written:

  One of the students admitted that the group had driven straight down from their school, St. Sunniva University of Thornberg, Minnesota, on what she called a midterm break. Rather than paying for a hotel here in Ft. Myers, the students spent the night at the beach, further adding to their sleep deficit. We will never know for sure if this contributed to the fatal accident, but can there be any doubt that it did?

  The article writer finished with a call on the mayor to look into the problem of seasonal incursions of students as swiftly as possible.

  They spent the night at the beach. This one? The article had said that Udo’s parents owned a house on Sanibel Island, so perhaps that’s where we were. In any case, the book club had to be here—it was the only reason for Dr. B and Nate to have sent us to this particular beach. We just needed to find the students, even if it took all night. The sandy shore stretched north and south of us, seemingly endless. It was impossible to make out the shadowy faces around even the nearest of the bonfires.

  “Let’s split up and head in opposite directions,” I proposed. “Abigail and I’ll go up the beach. Dr. Little, you go the other—”

  He interrupted. “It might be faster to check the parking lots for the vehicles. There can’t be that many cars with Minnesota license plates. And the art bus should be easy to recognize.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” I said, irritated that I hadn’t thought of it myself. “All right, let’s walk over to the motel lot that’s nearest, that one. We can check there first, then split up and head from parking lot to parking—”

  “I know where they are,” a husky voice said in the dark.

  21

  My first, wild reaction was that Xave had somehow followed us to Florida, but that wasn’t the case, of course. An old man, older even than Dr. Mooney was in the present, stepped into the thin cylinder of light that Dr. Little’s pencil flashlight projected onto the soft sand. Bare feet and bony knees stuck out from under ratty cutoff jeans; bony elbows jutted out of a tattered short-sleeve shirt that had been white once. There was a well-worn Havana hat on the man’s head. In 1976 (and perhaps today) he probably would have been called a beach bum, the effect completed by the pungent odor of whatever he was carrying wrapped in an old newspaper.

  I saw Dr. Little take a step back and fought off the impulse myself. Whatever was in the newspaper didn’t mask the alcohol reeking from deep within an unruly beard.

  “Can you tell us where we are, sir?” I asked.

  “Of course I can. Don’t you know where you are?”

  “To be honest, no.”

  “Well, then. You’re on Estero Island.”

  Not Sanibel Island, then, but nearby. It was good to have a point of reference. It had been disconcerting to land on a nameless dark beach. The Edison Estate was about twenty or thirty minutes by car over the bridge and inland; Sanibel Island was about the same, up the coast and across the causeway. Somewhere in between, the site that would one day house my parents’ retirement community was probably still wetland.

  Dr. Little grunted. “You’ve seen the people we’re looking for?”

  The man was staring at Dr. Little’s shoes. “Most of them are very pale, yes? No tans. And Minnesota license plates.”

  “Yeah, that would be them,” I said. “You know where they are?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Either you do or you don’t,” Dr. Little said. “How can it be maybe?”

  Abigail took a step forward and offered her hand for a shake. “I’m Abigail. What’s your name, sir?”

  He smiled a toothless smile at her. “Marlin.”

  She shook his hand. “Like the wizard?”

  “Not Merlin. Marlin, like the fish. I used to fish—before.”

  “Got it. Pleased to meet you, Marlin. My friends’ names are Julia
and Dr. Little.”

  I shook his hand next—it felt leathery, as if he were wearing a glove. Dr. Little merely waved a short greeting in his direction.

  “You can help us find the students, Marlin?” Abigail asked. “Ten of them who came here in two vehicles.” That was the headcount she and Dr. Little had come up with by asking around St. Olaf’s—nine members of the inner circle of the book club plus Sabina.

  “Like I said, maybe…Let’s just say that if they were here, they wouldn’t be far.”

  “In which direction?” Dr. Little asked impatiently.

  “Ah, that will cost you. A man’s gotta acquire…things.”

  I hoped he didn’t mean alcohol or drugs. Also that he had actually seen the book club and wasn’t putting us on in the hopes of a handout.

  I saw Dr. Little, who was the only one of us who had 1976 coins and bills, reach into his back pocket.

  Marlin stopped him. “I don’t want your money, man. Just…those.”

  I couldn’t tell in the dark what Marlin was indicating.

  Dr. Little looked down at his feet. “My shoes?”

  “They seem mighty comfortable. And just about my size.”

  I heard Dr. Little heave a sigh. He bent down to unstrap his lightweight five-toed shoes, which were probably very expensive…and also very twenty-first century. “Don’t know if it will work,” he mumbled, as if Marlin had any clue about History and its constraints.

  “Oh, they’ll work,” Marlin said. He handed his newspaper bundle to Abigail, who took it without even flinching. Dr. Little passed the shoes over with a resigned shrug. Marlin admired them for a bit, then slipped them on. “See, they fit just right. Like they was meant for good old Marlin. Do I tighten here?”

  Abigail crouched down to help him with the shoes.

  “Do you have a backup pair?” I whispered to Dr. Little.

  “I have a backup of pretty much everything else, but not of shoes, no.”

  “Where to, Marlin?” Abigail asked once she helped the old man to his feet and handed him his paper parcel.

  “This way.”

  Marlin, shuffling his feet experimentally in Dr. Little’s shoes, set a leisurely course up the beach. We followed, and I watched his back, bent from age and a hardscrabble existence, bob up and down with his slightly uneven walk in the new shoes. Dr. Little shone his flashlight ahead so we could avoid stepping on rocks or intertwined couples.

  “How well do you know Estero Island?” I called out to Marlin.

  “I’ve lived here for twenty years now. Never seen you three before, though. Newcomers?”

  “I’ve visited once or twice,” I said.

  “My first time here,” Abigail said. “It smells lovely.”

  This was true, except for whatever was in the paper parcel with which Marlin seemed reluctant to part.

  We walked about ten minutes up the beach, which was seven miles from tip to tip of the island, according to Marlin. He occasionally pointed out a good place to sleep, or an outdoor motel shower meant for rinsing sand off guests’ feet but which came in handy for those like him who called the beach home. He certainly knew a lot about Estero Island and kept referring to it as “we,” as if he and the beach were one. “We’re part of the Gulf Barrier Island chain. A skinny, long island—that’s us…Like I said, just under seven miles long, six feet above sea level, one and a half mile wide in the middle…Can’t see it now, but that sand you’re walking on is the whitest of white. Come morning when that sun comes up, keep an eye out for Fred.”

  “Who’s Fred?” I asked, expecting to hear that he was a former fishing buddy.

  “She’s a bottlenose dolphin.”

  “You’ve lived here for twenty years, Marlin?” Abigail asked with just a shade of envy in her voice.

  “Yes ma’am, from before they built the condos at the south end of the island. Now they’re talking about replacing the swing bridge. I hope they don’t—I like my bridge and my island just fine as it is.”

  There was no swing bridge in the present, its place having been taken up by a four-lane sky bridge, though I had no idea when the change would happen, except that it would and that more condos and hotels would go up, too. Marlin’s island was destined for change, as was much of Florida. It’s the way of things.

  We had just passed a favored sand dune of Marlin’s when he stopped and pointed. “The hippie bus and the other car are over in that lot. And that’s them by that bonfire.”

  Dr. Little turned off his flashlight to let our eyes adjust to the dark. A wooden fishing pier jutted out into the water. Just beyond, a group of young people, merry and raucous, sat congregated around a bonfire, but it was impossible to tell if they were our students or not without going over and taking a closer peek. But I believed they were. Marlin had said so, and Marlin knew his island.

  “You never did tell me why you’re searching for them,” Marlin said.

  “To bring a girl home,” Abigail replied simply.

  “You do that. And tell them they shouldn’t be lighting bonfires, not outside a proper fire pit.”

  “We’ll try,” I said.

  “You’re sure you don’t need any money?” Dr. Little offered.

  “The shoes will do.”

  And with that he was gone. I opened my mouth to call after him—I hadn’t had the chance to ask him what was in that smelly parcel or what color Fred was, or to thank him for helping us. I settled on sending a silent good-luck wish to his retreating back.

  All of a sudden everything clicked into place around me. Restaurants and small tourist shops began where the pier met concrete. This was the main hangout place on the island, where I had often stopped to grab lunch or pick up extra suntan lotion while visiting my parents. Of course, I didn’t spend much time lying on the sand when I came to Florida—my week in Fort Myers tended to be spent on helping with mall and beach outings, volleyball tournaments, or whatever else happened to be going on in the retirement community, with its four buildings and sixty retirees. My parents were not much younger than their charges, but they kept themselves fit by staying active. The fishing pier was a great place to end a busy day with an ice cream while watching the sunset and the birds.

  It was all completely recognizable, though it looked even more quaint than it did in the present.

  “Let’s go see if it’s them,” Abigail said.

  We passed under the pier. Dr. Little swore under his breath as he stepped on a shell fragment or a rough patch of rock, and I felt something squishy underfoot and hoped it was just seaweed, but we kept the flashlight off. We stopped a stone’s throw from the bonfire. Merrily crackling in the night, the fire sent sparks into the air like tiny Fourth of July fireworks.

  I had a sudden doubt that it was them, a worry that we were wasting valuable time. Then a voice rose up, distinguishing itself from the general chatter flying around the bonfire.

  “No, Vonnegut’s best book is not Cat’s Cradle—I completely disagree.”

  We had found Udo and his book club.

  22

  There was only one problem. How to get Sabina’s attention? For she was there, her back to us, curled up between a couple of students. Simply approaching the bonfire did not work. We didn’t even get close.

  We regrouped back under the pier and took stock of the situation. Remembering what had worked in similar circumstances at St. Olaf’s Hall, I suggested we try walking over individually and not as a group. Dr. Little waved a hand as if to say, Be my guest. He had lowered himself down to the sand to cradle one of his feet. I volunteered to go first.

  Remembering my lesson from the book club meeting—Blend in—I discarded my coat, loosened my hair so it lay free on my shoulders, and took off my shoes. The sand still felt warm from the day’s heat. I was just here for a leisurely stroll down the beach, that was all. My only goal was to inhale the scent of the ocean and feel the sand under my toes, letting those sensations wash my cares away.

  I made an effort to believe it,
all the better to blend in. I rolled up the bellbottoms above my ankles and set a course up the beach along the waterline, letting the larger of the waves wash over my feet. The water was cool and felt pleasant on my sore feet after all the walking we’d done. I paused to look out over the water, taking a moment to study the miniature lights of an offshore boat bobbing in the distance.

  I was a traveler. We all were, in fact—every single person I had met or would meet. We were all moving forward in time, but that wasn’t all. The ground under my toes—the very planet on which I was standing—was traveling, too, coolly circling our star, the sun, without any visible push or likelihood of stopping. And the moon grazing the horizon…Well, it was circling us in its own eternal dance.

  I bent down to pick up a shell, whose curved contours my foot had encountered as I dug my toes into the sand. The warm gulf waters had carried the shell onto the shore, perhaps from as far away as the Caribbean. There was a bit of light further up the beach—a bonfire. Maybe it would be easier to examine the shell there. Yes. I should move to where the bonfire is.

  I hit a wall again at about the same place as before: a stone’s throw from the bonfire. The soft, wet sand had turned angry, abruptly becoming feet-grabbing quicksand instead.

  I counted heads from where I was standing, immobilized next to an upright beach umbrella shuttered for the night. There were nine of them in a tight group around the fire, not ten as I had expected, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames of the driftwood and the cigarettes in their hands. I spotted Udo at once because of his lanky frame. He was flanked by two female students, one the woman who always seemed to wear saris and the other my mother. In a weird impulse, I almost waved to her, as if she was an old friend I had accidentally run into on vacation.