"I've met my biological uncle, and I'd like to have him assassinated."
"All right. Do you prefer poison, knives, guns or a nice car bomb?"
"Hmmm, so many delicious choices. Oh, all right. I just wanted to hear you list the possibilities."
"Even I, flinty old Svengali that I am, would not advise murder. Tell me, what has the uncle done?"
I described the day. "Sedge, he has legal guardianship over Mac. He threatened to take him away from the ranch, and from Lily. He's an intimidating bully. I have to do something to protect my ... Mac. And Lily."
"Haven't you said that Ben Thocco is quite capable of standing up for their interests?"
"Yes, but a court won't side with him against Mac's own brother."
"My dear, there's no solution for that circumstance."
"Yes, there is. No court will side with Glen Tolbert against Mac's daughter."
"Now, now. We have an agreement."
"Yes, but it includes discreetly taking care of Mac and Lily."
"The key word is `discreetly."'
"Then advise me. What can I do to control Glen Tolbert?"
"Think of this as a duel."
"Sedge, I was horrible at dueling. I had no patience for it. The instructor at boarding school gave up on me. She said I was all thrust and no parry."
"Then here is an opportunity for you to mature. To refine your skills. Learn patience. Just see what Mr. Tolbert does next, and then you will make a move to counter him."
I agreed reluctantly, said my goodnights, and lay on my daisy bed in the dark, steaming. If Uncle Glen parried, I would thrust.
I wondered how he'd look as a human shish kabob.
Chapter 11
Ben
I shoulda known Glen would get his pound of flesh.
Usually, I liked driving over to Fountain Springs. Always nice to go to town for awhile, stroll some coquina-stone sidewalks, and tip my hat to the admirin' ladies, old and young. But not when I got a call from the loan officer to come in for a meeting at Sun Farm Bank and Trust.
Bank meetings were bad news. I'd been late on the loan payment for the new cattle barn more than once, including this month's installment, but my loan lady knew I always made good. So it worried me when she said, `Come in. We gotta talk, Ben.' I tried not to think about it on the way over that June morning.
I was sweatil'. And not just from the weather. Weather, I'm used to. Bank foreclosures, I'm not.
I drove slow.
Inland Florida is muggy, even in springtime, semi-tropical and steamy despite leftover Christmas poinsettias blooming in pots on patios and lawns. In the summertime we get a hundred degrees and hundred percent humidity every day from June to October. Before air conditioning, Florida wasn't lazy from the heat. It was in a coma.
Yankees don't understand that the slow southern way of life grew out of surviving the sun; old timers spent afternoons sippin' iced tea and sleeping in the shade of trees just to stay alive. You look anywhere in the world where the heat still runs the show. People living in those places move like turtles, and success is valued in sweat. I grew up swinging Joey in a front porch hammock every hot summer afternoon. Without a breeze, he couldn't breathe good.
You try keeping a loved one alive with the wind off a hammock. It gives you a grim kinda respect for Mother Nature.
Yeah, my thoughts were morbid. I felt put-upon even before I got to the bank. I drove slower, trying to enjoy the view. State Route 108 leads to Fountain Springs through handsome forest and broad pastures, over pretty creeks and past marshes rimmed in stubby palmetto shrubs and cabbage palms. The sides are lined by flowers between the saw palmetto. Florida blooms even where it hurts to try.
At night the road to Fountain Springs was like a trip back in time. Frogs sang loud enough to drown out a hellfire preacher yelling about salvation on the radio and the occasional low grunt of an alligator sounding from the woods. This was the wild, quiet backbone of old Florida. The land of black-eyed peas, corn fritters, fried trout, and Jesus Saves.
I once found a tent-revival preacher who'd lay his palm on Joey's head and pronounce him heeee-aled.
It didn't work.
I passed a few little orange groves. Leftovers from orchards that froze to their roots during a cold snap in the late 1800s. Mama Nature was patient in northern Florida. She'd lull fruit trees with decades of mild winters, then kill a generation of citrus harvests in a single frosty night. Still, a few orange trees hung on. They sprang from the forgotten roots; they sprouted from the ruined stumps.
Citrus, like us Crackers, just plain refuses to give up.
I pressed the brake as the road to town narrowed to a rattling, onelane wooden bridge. The old macadam was flecked with crushed oyster shells. The heat off the road mixed with the burnt-tar scent of creosote from telephone poles. To me the smell of creosote was a comforting memory.
When Joey and me were kids we helped Mama and Pa creosote many a barn and fence post. He cussed the stink and she moaned over the oily stain, but it was fun, anyhow. Joey would sit on the ground dabbing creosote on the low spots, I'd do the middle, and Mama and Pa painted the tall places. We made a team.
The two-lane narrowed and got curvier, following the route of the first wagon path into the blue shade of live oaks planted a hundred years earlier by the Fountain Springs Garden Club.
PONCE DE LEON'S TRAIL, bragged a curlicued historical marker. The road's surface took on more age. Glimpses of smooth-worn red brick peeked out here and there, evidence of a turn-of-the-century roadbed. Sidewalks sprouted. This was where the Cracker road ended and Main Street started.
Houses bellied up to the street. Victorian gingerbreads, mostly. They sat on prettily fenced lots big enough for shade trees and sunny backyards, for storage sheds and narrow garages and flower gardens in manure-fed beds in the sandy soil. Big and fancy and fine.
I slowed for the crosswalk at the elementary school, again at a crosswalk for the library, then drove into a shady town square lined with old buildings with awnings and benches, including the general hardware and feed and the drug store, where I could stall for awhile over a handmade milkshake at the soda fountain's marble counter.
Sun Farm Bank was right next door. I parked between the milkshake and the loan officer and sat in my truck for a good five minutes, debating. Now I know what the waitin' room in hell feels like.
Finally I got out, but I took the long way around. Like I just had to pay my respects to the Saginaw County Courthouse. The courthouse sits in the center of the square, under a canopy of oaks. In all of northern Florida there's nothing else like it for sheer, small-town splendor. The walls are gray coquina stone. The arched windows and doors are rimmed in colorful tiles. The roof is red Spanish tile, and on top is a bell tower.
Best of all, on the front lawn, on a pedestal in a fountain, is a life-sized bronze statue of Bob Hope dressed like a conquistador with a goatee. Well, okay, it's supposed to be Juan Ponce de Leon. A brass plaque on the fountain's round base said it all:
City of Fountain Springs Established 1892 Spanish explorer Ponce de Leon searched for the fountain of youth in 1515 and decided this beautiful spring must be it.
Ponce de Leon didn't travel this far west during his Florida visits, but that hadn't stopped the founding fathers and mothers from declaring that he had. So now he gazed at his upheld right hand as if blessing the town. Water trickled from all four of his fingertips and his thumb, too.
Ponce de Leon didn't seem to be saying grace over Fountain Springs so much as wondering why his hand had sprung a leak.
I stood at the fountain, hat in hand, looking at him for a minute. "Well, Juan, is it going to be bad news at the bank?" I asked in Spanish.
No answer. Not a good sign.
Awright.
I took a deep breath and headed to Sun Farm.
Kara
I knew Ben had made an unexpected weekday trip to tomi that morning. But I had no idea why.
You belong to me,
Patsy Cline sang in my ear that night, courtesy of the earphones of Joey's iPod. Patsy was stored under "Ben's Playlist," which included the best of hardcore, manly southern rock as played by Lynyrd Skynyrd and the Allman Brothers. But the playlist also included the sensitive-cowboy works of Toby Keith, Garth Brooks and, of course, the smoky sexuality of Patsy Cline. Ben allowed a girl in his clubhouse. And Toby and Garth.
Ben Thocco was a metrosexual Cracker cowboy.
I meant that in a good way.
Didn't he realize I believed music to be the intuitive mirror of the human soul? That entire civilizations, from the smallest tribe to the mightiest kingdom, spoke in the unique rhythms of their songs? And that to listen to the music of Ben's choosing would give me secret and viable insights into his psyche? I had borrowed the iPod while I finished up in the kitchen, preparing muffin dough and fruit for the next morning. I admit I lingered in the kitchen some nights to be near Ben, who lingered with me, finding excuses to comment on my menu.
But on this unnerving night he had been extremely quiet through dinner and afterwards had sent Lily, Mac and the others off to the communal TV room above the cattle barn. Then he secluded himself in his office and shut the door.
Grub the cat lay beside the office door, prodding the strip of light at the bottom with one paw. Cats do not like the mystery of closed doors. Neither did I.
I procrastinated at the chores. A single light in an aging tin hood cast soft shadows on the counter by the sink.. Fragrant air came through the screen over the sink. The Little Hatchawatchee chuckled over low rocks. Mr. Darcy cackled from Joey's bedroom, watching a DVD ofAmenican Idol highlights with Joey, Miriam and Rhubarb. Paula Abdul's voice enthralled my macaw beyond all reason, and each time she spoke to a contestant Mr. Darcy made a happy noise.
Love sees no boundaries, nor does it hear any.
Travel to the pyramids. Visit Algiers. See the rainy jungle. But come home to me, no matter what. Patsy Cl'ine's message made my heart ache for the camaraderie of family times with Mother and Dad, and somehow that sensation merged with a growing sense of urgent melancholy regarding my feelings for Mac, Lily and Ben.
I wanted my birth parents to love me. I wanted them to want me. I wanted Ben to be a hero in the classic mode, yet he persisted in being realistic. His pragmatic tolerance of Glen Tolbert hurt my feelings, to put it simply. At the same time, I cringed at my privileged idealism. I never worried about paying bills. I never had to make choices.
Patsy sang on. She had been doomed to die in a small plane crash, like Mother and Dad. Just remember, darling ...
I wiped my eyes as I poured dough into a crockery bowl and covered it with tin foil. Life is fleeting. Life is precious. Relish the sensation of each moment. The sensuality of breathing, feeling, wanting. Wanting to take care of Lily and Mac. Wanting to please Ben, though I rarely let him know it.
Wanting Ben.
"Karen," Miriam hissed. I jumped. She had sidled out of Joey's room without me noticing.
I pulled my earphones off "What's wrong?"
She waved her cell phone, decorated with tiny mermaid decals. "I got friends in to am. I get information I ain't supposed to have. I found out what happened when Ben went to the bank today."
Ethics warred with stark curiosity. I renamed it righteous concern. "Tell me."
"He was more than thirty days late with his last payment on the new cattle barn. Bank says that gives `em the right to call in the loan. He's been late before but hell, half the ranchers around here are late on loans from time to time. Bank always cuts `em plenty of slack. They know Ben's good for the money. But not this time. And you know why?" Her eyes flashed. "Cause Glen Tolbert's on the board of Sun Farm and he's puttin' the nut screws to Ben."
A chill went through my skirt. "Because of me."
"Yep! Glen figures Ben'll come crawlin'. Glen'll put in a good word and the loan people won't say another word about the late payment."
I sank into a chair. "But only if Ben agrees to get rid of me. And Estrela."
"You bet."
We heard Ben's door. Then his footsteps. Soft ones, on bare feet. At night he changed into a t-shirt and soft gray jogging pants worn thin at the thighs and speckled with Lily's bleach accidents. His legs, inside those thin cotton joggers, were a fiesta of interesting muscle.
"Damn," Miriam grunted. "He does walk like an Indian. We're caught."
His dark eyes raked us as he stepped into the kitchen. One arched brow gave some hope of forgiveness. "Let me guess," he said grimly, staring at Miriam.
"I only tell what I need to tell." Miriam stomped back into Joey's room.
Ben looked down at me. "You're not going anywhere. Neither is the mare. Don't even talk to me about it. Nobody twists my arm this way. Not even a Tolbert."
"I'll go to Glen in person. I'll apologize."
"The hell you will." He softened. "I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at him. Don't say a word to Mac or Lily."
"Of course not. How much do you owe on the cattle barn?"
"Don't worry about it. I'll get the money. Sell some breeding stock. What good's a cattle barn if it's too plumb full of cattle?"
"How much?"
"Thirty thousand."
"Oh, Ben."
"I got two weeks. I'll take care of it. This ain't your fight."
I stood. "Of course it is. I'll leave. I will. I'll move to the motel-"
"You'd break Lily and Mac's heart. And Joey's. And ... everybody's. And I'd ... I'd just come haul you back here." He frowned. "Not by force. You know what I mean. Just ... don't go."
"If that's your request." My voice choked.
He looked heavenward. "Godawmighty. Look. For once, she's doing something I tell her to do. Jesus? Has Dale been talkie' to you on my behalf? Good." He looked at me, again. "I gotta go work some numbers. G'night."
He strode back to his office and shut the door.
I sat back down. My legs shook.
In many tribes of the world, men offer livestock in payment for women. Ben had determined my value in the currency of Cow.
I did not mind. Indeed, it pleased me to be worth such a great many heifers.
And I would never think of Ben as an unromantic realist, again.
"Sedge," I said grimly. "I've made my decision regarding Glen Tolbert. I'd like to have him poisoned, then stabbed and blown up."
"I take it he's made a move."
"Yes." I told Sedge about the barn mortgage. My voice shivered with anger. Mr. Darcy, peering at me worriedly, paced the daisy coverlet. My bedroom was dark except for the window light from a half-moon over the marsh.
"Is that the only problem he's giving Ben, my dear?" Sedge laughed. "I'll handle it. All it takes is money."
"You're sure?"
"Oh, yes. If this is the best thrust dear Glen can come up with, not to worry."
"All right. I'll try to relax."
"Good. Problems that involve money are easily solved by money."
"Sedge, just out of curiosity, what is my net worth?"
"A little over a billion."
"Dear God. I'm not just rich. I'm filthy rich."
"Afraid so. Sorry."
"I know it's tawdry and petty to use the Whittenbrook fortune as a weapon; Mother and Dad never did."
"Oh? Of course they did. They strong-armed government officials in their quest to rescue a small portion of the rainforest, they greased the machinery of bureaucracy, and they bought off countless troublemakers. The use of a great fortune as a weapon for idealistic means is one of the hallmarks of civilization. How do you think Rome conquered the known world?"
"By murdering or enslaving the indigenous peoples."
"Yes, but-"
"I now realize something that's very obvious to most people on this earth. That the most courageous souls are those who stand up for a cause without the cushion of cold, hard cash. Sedge. This is the place. These are the people. What I said at the memorial service. I want to make a difference. Here. I have to try."
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"My dear," he said, "your parents would be proud."
Chapter 12
Ben
I'd offered up some breeding cows to the bank, but my loan officer still hadn't called me back on the deal. I felt sick with worry. Hiding your worry is harder than the worry, itself.
We were at breakfast, and Mac told everybody how Karen was now coaching him with his stutter. "I w-watch my f-fingertip," he explained, holding up a forefinger. "One ... two ... three." He moved his finger as if outlining a triangle in the air over his whole wheat biscuits and low-fat gravy with f a k e soy sausage. " W h e n ... I ... watch ... my ... finger ... while ... I ... talk ... I ... don't ... stutter."
Everyone gasped and applauded.
"It's like ET," Joey said. "You got a magic finger."
Lily's eyes glowed. "Karen's got magic."
"Rhythm centers the mind," Karen said.
"So does beer," I countered. I just liked to tease her.
She smiled at me. She was trying to cheer me up.
"How do you know so much about stutterin'?" Miriam asked her.
Karen got real quiet. Prickles went up my spine.
She met Mac's curious eyes. "Because, as a child, I stuttered."
His mouth popped open. "You did?"
"Far worse than you do, Mac. It took several years of professional therapy for me to overcome it."
That news pretty much silenced the whole table. "She's like us," Joey whispered to me. "That's why she's special."
Everybody heard. He whispered like a foghorn.
"Thank you," she said tearfully.
Lily teared up. "We love you, just the way you are."
Mac nodded. His eyes welled up.
Sniffles rose from Roy, Dale, the others.
Me.
Aw, hell.
Change the subject. Quick.
Then it dawned on me. "Triangles," I said loudly. "Focus. Barrel racing. Give Estrela some barrels to run, and maybe she'll stop snapping at everybody."
The whole table launched into a discussion over barrel racing.
Karen looked at me with a kiss in her eyes.
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