Alligator Park

by R. J. Blacks

Will hesitates, stares out at the lake for a moment, then turns to face me.

  “No, of course not. Just let me break it to him slow, that’s all.”

  I stand there wounded, like a dog left at a kennel while the owner goes on vacation.

  “Oh what the heck, come on,” he says.

  We descend the stairs and then stroll down a path to the dock. Will’s brother spots us, puts down the tool, wipes the grease off his hands, and then stares as we approach him. He’s exactly as Will described him; about six-three, well built, with long shiny black hair to the middle of his back. He’s got that squared-off jaw, protruding ever so slightly, and those glistening white teeth, that air of masculinity which induces women to impropriety. Wrapped around his forehead, like a sweatband, is a rolled up scarf, decorated with Native American designs. He hops out of the airboat and onto the dock. His khakis are dripping wet held up by a snake-skin belt and his deeply tanned chest is magnificent in its well-defined proportions.

  “Hey bro,” Will says, and gives his brother a hug.

  His brother fixes his eyes on me, with a worried look.

  “Who’s that?” he says.

  “That’s my ride.”

  Will’s brother gazes at the horizon for what seems like an eternity, then turns to me.

  “Excuse us for a moment Miss,” he says, and takes Will out of earshot. I can’t make out what they are saying, but Will’s brother starts raising his voice dropping an occasional phrase like, “there’s no room” and “I don’t have time for distractions” and “you never told me about this.” And then I clearly hear the words, “white trash.” I’m overcome with dismay. What made me think I could somehow fit into this lifestyle? It was a stupid idea and I regret ever doing it. I quietly shuffle away and head back to the PT Cruiser.

  “Miss, miss,” I hear.

  I stop, turn, and see Will’s brother approaching. He stands in front of me, looks around, scratches his head, avoids eye contact. It’s apparent he wants to say something, but is uncomfortable with the situation. Then he looks right at me.

  “I appreciate you bringing Will down here, but I don’t have room for both of you. You do understand, don’t you?”

  “It’s quite all right. I’ll find something back at the Interstate,” I say, then continue walking back to the Cruiser. He catches up to me, and then stands in front blocking my path.

  “I think you better stay here tonight.”

  “No, I’ll manage. It’s not the first time I’ve been alone.” I open my handbag and search for the car keys.

  “I feel really bad about what I said. Please, I apologize.”

  “It’s okay!” I insist.

  “Look, it’s dangerous driving through the swamp at night. The roads are dark, and poorly marked, and... Well, people get lost all the time. I’d feel better if you’d stay here tonight.”

  We stand there awkwardly staring at each other, for several minutes, with absolutely nothing to say. Will rushes between us, rescues the moment.

  “This is my brother, Fargo,” he says. “And this is Indigo.”

  I nod, acknowledging his presence.

  His brother ekes out a smile. A few more seconds pass and still no one says a word. I notice him gazing at my hair. Living out here, in the middle of nowhere, he probably doesn’t see many women with blue hair. Then Will cuts in, drawing Fargo’s gaze away from me.

  “Hey, got anything to eat?”

  “Yeah, hold on, I’ll get ‘em.”

  Fargo dashes over to the airboat, reaches into a cooler, and then takes out a half-dozen fish. He comes back, and then presents them to me, like a peace offering.

  “I caught ‘em tonight,” he says.

  I hesitate, not knowing quite what to make of it.

  “Of course, if you don’t like fish...”

  “I love fish,” I say, reaching out to receive them. Fargo places the fish in my hands, but they’re wet and slimy and some are still wiggling and I almost drop them. I press them against my tee-shirt to prevent them from slipping through my hands. My tee-shirt is getting soaked, but I pretend not to notice. I don’t want Fargo to think I’m ungrateful for his hospitality.

  Will makes his way back to the cabin and I follow close behind, struggling to keep the writhing fish from escaping. We climb the stairs and approach the front door. Will attempts to open it, but it won’t budge. Fargo sees him pushing on the doorknob and shouts out: “The key’s under the mat.”

  Will reaches under the mat, retrieves the key and unlocks the front door.

  The cabin is dark, but I manage to find my way to the kitchen and then drop the fish onto the counter. Will switches on the light and I join him in the living room. The place is clearly a man’s domain. The walls are paneled in pine, the furniture is worn, and the floor is bare wood with no carpets. The windows have blinds but no curtains. On the back wall hangs an attractive blanket decorated with Native American art. And on another wall are a wooden bow and a quiver filled with arrows. They appear to be several hundred years old. Scattered between the artifacts are pictures of tribal chieftains.

  I wander over to get a better look and come across a picture of a woman about sixty in a small frame on a shelf. She’s wearing a Native American dress, a necklace of sea shells, and has two feathers in her long hair which reaches down to the middle of her back and is almost completely black except for a few strands of grey. I pick up the picture to study it; her eyes have a tired look to them.

  “That was my mother,” Will says.

  “She was very beautiful,” I say.

  “It was taken a few months before she died. No one expected it.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, putting the picture back on the shelf.

  I stroll past the rest of the artifacts as Will unpacks his gear, and then, head back to the kitchen. I switch on the light revealing a sink half-filled with dishes. Will and I are really hungry, and I’m pretty sure Fargo hasn’t eaten yet, so I decide to whip up a quick dinner. I make a mental inventory of what I have to work with; there are vegetables in Fargo’s refrigerator, I have rolls and fruit in the PT Cruiser, and of course there’s the fresh fish. I pick up a cast-iron frying pan that looks like it hasn’t been scrubbed in a month. I approach Will with the pan and some steel wool.

  “Hey Will, how’d you like to clean this and I’ll make you a dinner you’ll never forget?” I ask.

  “Sure,” he says, and takes the pan.

  “And you might as well do the rest of the dishes while you’re at it,” I add, peering over the stack of dishes in the sink.

  Will winces, but grudgingly does what I ask.

  I step outside and scour the PT Cruiser for anything that looks appetizing. I come across a half-gallon bottle of Muscadine wine we picked up at a farmer’s market in North Carolina. The Carolinas produce over 1200 tons of Muscadine grapes each year and much of it goes into the production of wine. It looked so tempting in the store we couldn’t resist buying it. I gaze at the bottle, contemplating whether to use it tonight. We were saving this for a special occasion, but what the heck, we made it to Florida and that’s special enough. I gather up the ingredients and take them back to the kitchen. Will has finished washing the dishes and they’re all neatly stacked on the countertop, by the sink.

  “Does Fargo have any spices?” I ask.

  Will retrieves an ornate wooden box with small jars neatly organized in it.

  “This was my mother’s. It’s been five years since it was last used, but the jars are sealed and I’m pretty sure the contents are still good.”

  I open the bottle of Dill and take a whiff. It hasn’t lost its aroma so I conclude it’s still usable. I place the vegetables on the stove since they take the longest then begin preparing the fish. I decide to sauté the fish in butter because it’s easy, fast, and in my opinion, makes the best tasting fish around.

  “Does Fargo have any candles, long ones, with holders?”

  Will rummages through a closet and produces some.
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br />   “How about a table cloth?” I ask.

  Will rolls his eyes but retreats to the bedroom without argument. He comes back with a white table cloth.

  “This also was my mother’s.”

  He places it on the dining room table, sets a candle at each end, then places the bottle of Muscadine in the middle. The place is starting to look like a fine restaurant except something is missing.

  “Will, I noticed some wildflowers on the edge of the parking lot. Could you get them for me?”

  Will scowls, gives me one of those looks like: You’ve got to be kidding. But I’m determined to get this right so I ignore his complaining and add: “And find out when Fargo will be done so I can start the fish.”

  Will shuffles out the door mumbling his displeasure and I go back to my cooking. A few minutes later he’s back and hands me the flowers. I look them over and am surprised by what I see.

  “These are Ghost Orchids,” I say.

  Will shrugs.

  “Ghost Orchids are unique to Florida.”

  “Whatever,” he says.

  “Picking them is against the law.”

  “For you, maybe. Not for me.”

  I stare at him confused.

  “This is Indian land, and I’m Indian,” he tells me.

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “It means the U.S. government can’t tell Indians what to do on their own land.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Fargo, I think.”

  The door opens and Fargo walks in. Will approaches him before he gets a chance to put his backpack down.

  “What was that case you told me about a while back? The one about Indians on their own land.”

  “You mean, ‘The State of Florida vs. James E. Billie,’” Fargo says.

  “Yeah, that one.”

  “Billie was a Seminole Chief. He was arrested in 1987 for killing a panther on an Indian Reservation. Panthers are rare, and a protected species. I personally don’t support the idea of killing one. But Billie argued he had a right to hunt and fish on Indian land, without U.S. Government interference, and most of the Seminoles supported him. He claimed his rights come from treaties between the U.S. government and the Seminole nation. The State of Florida argued against it, but was unable to prosecute.”

  “You seem to know a lot about the law,” I say.

  “The whole Seminole nation followed this case. We have a long history of broken treaties.”

  “So you prevailed,” I say.

  “Not really. They just failed to prosecute. They left the door open for next time. But most Indian folk believe the state won’t bother us, as long as we keep low key, and stick to our established traditions.”

  Fargo notices the flowers in my hand.

  “Where did you get those?” he asks.

  “By the parking lot,” I say.

  “They’re Ghost Orchids. Very rare. You can get arrested for that.”

  I feel my face getting warm from embarrassment. I glance at Will, hoping he can save me. But he just shrugs.

  “They grow mostly in and around the Everglades, but I managed to transplant a few. Took years of hard work. Everyone said it couldn’t be done. But you can see the result.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” I say, desperately hoping for mercy.

  “My mistake,” Will says. “What do I know? They look like weeds to me.”

  “My guests like them,” Fargo says. “Can’t believe they grow this far north.”

  “Can I replace them?” I ask.

  “Forget it. These ones grew actually on their own. Anyway, there’s more out there, in the swamp.”

  Fargo redirects his gaze to the dining room table. He stares at the candles, the tablecloth, and the wine, and then glares at me.

  “What is this?”

  “I thought we should celebrate,” I say.

  “Celebrate what?”

  “Maybe just the fact we got here safely.”

  Fargo peers at Will, waiting for him to comment. Will shrugs again. We stand there, staring at each other, waiting for someone to say something. But for a good ten seconds no one says a word.

  Then Fargo announces: “Give me a couple of minutes,” and makes his way to the bathroom. I hear the shower and take the opportunity to place the Orchids in a vase, add some water, then set them on the dining room table.

  Ten minutes later Fargo wanders into the dining room wearing a buckskin shirt with matching pants and has his hair tied into a pony tail. If he were carrying a Kentucky long-rifle, I would have to conclude he’s an Early American frontiersman brought back to life.

  “Sit anywhere,” I say.

  Fargo takes a seat at the head of the table. I brace for some disconcerting comments, but he’s as quiet as a puppy. Will lights the candles then turns off the room light. I bring out the vegetables and serve the fish. It’s obvious Will and Fargo are hungry because they waste no time digging in. Will opens the wine and fills everyone’s glass. I finally get a chance to sit down. I pick up my wine glass, and offer a toast.

  “To the future,” I say.

  “To the future,” Will repeats, but Fargo is silent.

  We all click glasses and take a gulp. Fargo’s silence unnerves me a little, but the wine helps me relax. How good it tastes. The perfect thing to wrap up a hectic day.

  We all finish our meal and I surprise them with a dessert made with apples, yogurt, blueberries, raisins and saltine crackers. It was another one of those concoctions I put together hastily from whatever I could find. You wouldn’t think those ingredients would complement each other, but everyone went back for seconds.

  Fargo gets up, motions Will to follow him to the back of the house. I glance at the clock and see it’s almost ten o’clock. I hear some whispering and wonder what they are up to. A few minutes later they return.

  “We put clean sheets on the bed in the spare room,” Fargo says. “Will’s okay with sleeping in here tonight.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “You’ll have to excuse me. I have a big day tomorrow. A scout troop from Atlanta is coming down for a nature tour and I need to prepare.

  “I was hoping we’d have some time to talk,” I say.

  “I’ll be done at noon. We should have a couple of hours before you leave.”

  ‘Before you leave’, those dreaded words. I was hoping he would have a change of heart and let me stay a couple more days. But it was not to be. Even three glasses of wine was not enough to soften his resolve.

  Fargo closes the latch on the front door securely locking it, then retreats to his bedroom. I sit there staring at Will hoping he has something reassuring to say, but he makes no comment. In desperation, I pick up the bottle of Muscadine and see there’s a small amount left.

  “It’ll go bad if we don’t finish it,” I say.

  Will nods in agreement so I divide it equally between our glasses and then we finish off the remaining wine.

  Cleaning up is the last thing I want to do right now, but I don’t want Fargo to think I left a mess so I start carrying the dirty dishes back to the kitchen.

  “I guess you want me to help,” Will says.

  “If you like.”

  Will cheerfully washes the dishes then stacks them by the sink while I put the remaining food in the refrigerator.

  “Nice meal,” he says, trying to make conversation.

  “Do you think Fargo liked it?”

  Will stops for a minute, contemplates.

  “Yes, I think he did.”

  After that neither one of us says a word. We’re both exhausted so we just go about our tasks in silence.

  My mind wanders to my meeting with Dr. Parker. It’s only two days away, and I’m getting nervous. My future depends on this meeting and I have to get it right. I think about my blue hair. Should I dye it back to my natural color, black? Maybe I should cut it. It’s a couple of inches past my shoulders, but I want to grow it longer. The problem is: it’s been almost two mo
nths since I last dyed it and the dark roots are becoming noticeable. I’m worried this could be a put-off to Dr. Parker. But I still have another whole day, no reason to concern myself now. I’ll just sleep on it, and then, decide tomorrow.

  Will finishes the dishes and then begins drying them, placing them into neat stacks on the counter. One by one, I pick up the stacks and place them back into the cabinet, exactly where they came from. Finally, I get to the last stack, place it into the cabinet, and close the door. Thank goodness; we’re done!

  I bid Will a good night and retreat to the bedroom. I plop on the bed without even changing into my night clothes. I’m too tired to care, and my head is spinning from the wine. I pull up the covers and fade off into a deep sleep.

  CHAPTER 13

  I awaken to the sound of an annoyingly loud engine, like a truck with a bad muffler. Peeking out the window, I see the source of the noise, a yellow school bus entering the parking lot. The driver pulls the bus close to the dock and stops. The doors fly open and about thirty scouts file onto the parking lot.

  Fargo strolls over and greets them. The scoutmaster orders the boys to line up and begins counting them. Fargo sprints back to his cabin.

  I hastily comb my hair, wipe the sleep out of my eyes, then race to the kitchen pretending to be working on breakfast. Fargo walks in, glances at Will sound asleep on the floor. He turns towards me.

  “I guess the trip wore him out,” he says.

  “Can I fix you breakfast?” I say.

  “We’ll be eating on the trail, but thanks anyway.”

  He reaches into a closet and removes a backpack then swings it over his shoulder. “Is there anything you need while I’m away?” he asks.

  “Would you mind if I used your phone?”

  “Isn’t your cell working?”

  “I turned it off. There’s no service out here.”

  “Try it again.”

  I retrieve the phone from my purse and turn it on. It springs to life showing four bars.

  “Amazing. It was stone dead just a few miles from here.”

  “It’s the booster,” he says.

  “Booster?”

  “I had to get a booster for those out-of-state tourists that can’t live without a phone. But it only works near the cabin. A hundred feet in any direction and you will lose service.”