I found it impressive that she differentiated between the sheriff's department and the federal Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms officers.
Tomlinson said, "We're not cops and we're not reporters. Civilians, that's us. Just concerned human beings. I'm telling you the truth."
"Jimmy told you something before he died."
"He spoke to me. Yes."
"What about your friend?" She turned and gave me her full attention for the first time. For a moment, just a moment, I thought I saw her react: a mild flash of recognition, as if she had seen me before, so was scanning the memory files, searching for confirmation.
I said, "A few words. Not much."
She was still staring at me, pondering, when from inside the house came a man's voice: "Anything wrong, Hannah?" Looking through the doorway, I could see a man walking toward us through what appeared to be a sparsely furnished living room. He wore a desert-gray safari-style shirt and matching shorts; a big man in his mid-thirties who took his appearance seriously; the contemporary backpacker and kayaker look— which seemed out of place on Sulphur Wells. He wasn't quite as tall as Hannah, but he had the tight muscularity that I associate with collegiate sports—soccer, lacrosse, tennis, that sort of thing. He had to poke his head over the woman's shoulder to speak to us. "Can we help you fellows?"
"They're here to talk to me, Raymond, not you. You stop by tomorrow, we'll finish our business. 'Bout four or five, before I go to work."
"Do you know these men?"
She gave him a warning look. "Tomorrow, Raymond."
Raymond reached around and placed his hand on the woman's arm, a territorial gesture. "Hannah's had a terrible shock today, fellas, so I think it would be best if—"
That quick, the woman had Raymond by the elbow and was hustling him past us down the steps, off the porch, and into the shell driveway where some kind of utility vehicle sat in the shadows, a Ford Explorer maybe. Heard her say, "Damn it, Raymond, if I want a guardian I'll have you fill out an application. Not that you'd be high on the list. You want to talk business, come tomorrow. You don't, that's fine too."
Raymond mumbled something, mumbled something else, then started his car.
Striding back to the porch, Hannah said to Tomlinson, "You get those clothes off. Yeah—right where you stand. Nobody comes down that road much, but I'll turn off the porch light if you're modest. You"—she was speaking to me—"take your muddy shoes off and get inside out of the mosquitoes while I find your friend a towel and some of Jimmy's dry things. . . ." She was still staring at me. "What did you say your name was?"
I told her . . . and watched her expression soften slightly. "I know who you are; I've seen you. At the Conservation Board meeting at Tallahassee. You were 'bout the only one that had anything good to say about us commercial people."
Which wasn't true, but Hannah Smith had the politician's knack of making people eager to please.
I said, "I told them what I believed, that's all."
"But you had a good way about you. You talked soft. All those facts and numbers—but not too many. People listened. When you got done, -I thought maybe, just maybe, we had a chance."
"I'm surprised I didn't notice you."
"Oh, I was in an' out of the room, carryin' papers, makin' sure our men were where they were supposed to be. Tryin' to organize fishermen is like trying to organize a bunch of snakes. I had my hands full. I was there— one of the green hats. I just blended in."
"No, I think I would have remembered."
Which earned me a quick smile . . . and then she was done with me, her attention back on Tomlinson. "Hurry up now! I don't care a thing about seeing your skinny little butt. Hand me your wet stuff." She grabbed the ball of clothes out of Tomlinson's hands. Tomlinson, naked, gave me a wan look, shrugged, then followed her into the house. Heard her say, "Well, you got hair like a woman, but that's 'bout as far as she goes. Towel off in the bathroom. Jimmy's stuff may be a little big around the shoulders, but it'll do. Might as well just keep it. Lord knows, Jimmy, he won't need it no more."
"Raymond Tullock is like most men. His balls tell him he should be in charge, but his brain's just not big enough to steer the load. You want ice tea? I had some Co-Colas but I handed them out to the cops."
I was sitting in the small living room on a rattan couch waiting for Tomlinson to come out of the bathroom. He was showering. The water had just started. Hannah was puttering around in the kitchen. She had the clothes dryer thumping on the back porch; something was simmering on the stove: smelled like black beans, a cumin and bay leaf smell.
"Raymond used to work for the marine extension agency, a government job. Worked with the oystermen, the netters, tellin' us how we could do our business better. A liaison—you know what I mean?"
I said, "Sure."
"Now we've got a woman. She was down here . . . Tuesday? No, Monday. Brought another woman with her to tell us how to make low-cost meals, where to go for food stamps. Getting us ready for welfare handouts because of the net ban. Had a meeting at the Community Center, all these island women sitting around in their print dresses. What they did was treat us like a bunch of snot-nosed kids who'd starve if they weren't there to show us how things're done. Know what the government woman said? Wendy something. Wendy graduated Duke, knows everything there is to know. Wendy says, 'I strongly recommend you try to limit fats in your families' diets. Too expensive and bad for the heart.' She says, 'Seafood is a good low-cost substitute, the cheaper grades of fish.' "
Hannah poked her head out from the kitchen to see how I'd reacted to the punch line. "Get it? This bossy college woman, teeth like ice, tellin' us to eat fish now that we can't net them. Jesus! She says, 'I recommencl broiled fish as opposed to frying. Peanut oil is so expensive.' That's exactly what she said. I grew up cookin' for my daddy and brothers up in the Panhandle, Cedar Key, down here. Knowin' how to cook. But there's Wendy, an easy government job and all the gall in the world, telling us about fish."
I said, "I can see why you find that offensive."
"Damn right we were offended. After the meeting, this little old lady,
Miz Hamilton—she's some relation of mine, way, way back; little bitty thing—Miz Hamilton totters up to Wendy, and she says, 'Missy, if the gov'ment paid you a dollah to come heah' "—Hannah had thickened her own accent, making it sound real—" 'the gov'ment paid you a dollah too much. I think them micra-waves done boiled your brain!' "
I sat there listening, smiling. The woman seemed to be on a talking jag, and I wondered if it was because she was trying to avoid the subject of her husband's death. Denial is the first stage of mourning. So far, the talking jag was the only slim sign of bereavement that Hannah Smith had displayed.
"That's what he did up till about three years ago. Then he went into the private sector." She was back on the subject of Raymond Tullock. "I guess he got tired of the bad pay, carryin' a clipboard around. Driving those white state cars everywhere he went. You know they got to keep track of every single mile? With all the connections he had, Raymond got himself appointed to the state Fisheries Conservation Board—'bout the only one on it who talked against the net ban. And he set himself up as a kind of wholesale seafood agent. A restaurant needs softshell crab up on the Chesapeake? They call Raymond and he works it out, top price. He's the one that found our Japanese buyers for mullet roe. Some other place, too— Indianesia? He goes to those places, scouts around. So instead of Arlis Futch sellin' to the big fish wholesalers, we sell direct to the buyers from over there. A better deal for them, a lot better price for us, and Raymond takes his piece off the top. Does it all over the phone and fax, doesn't even own a boat. Pretty smart, huh? For a man like Raymond."
She appeared long enough to hand me a mason jar of iced tea, wedge of lime, then carried a second glass into the bathroom. Heard her say, "Don't be leaving hair in the tub, neither!" Heard Tomlinson make some enthusiastic reply; couldn't understand the words.
The tea was made with local water. Had
a heavy, sulfuric musk to it that she had tried to cover by making it very sweet and strong. Tasted as if she had mixed in some New Age herb for spice. Boil any dried leaf, they call it tea.
It was different, but good. So I sat there with tea, feeling the house shake beneath me. Whenever Hannah walked—whenever anyone walked—the whole house vibrated. It was one of those old Florida cottages built of heart pine on foot-high shell-mortar blocks, raw shell beneath. The living room had a varnished oak floor and a brick fireplace. On the mantel were arrangements of dried flowers in wicker baskets, a feminine touch. There were also four or five small glass spheres, dark green in color. The spheres were smaller than a tennis ball; reminded me of old glass net floats. Hanging from the ceiling were mobiles made of seashells, and on the walls, a couple of strange paintings: dark backgrounds with fluorescent loops and whirls. The furnishings were inexpensive, simple. Wood frames and bright cushions, beanbag chairs, a rocker, a Lay-Z-Boy, and a Sony television mounted on an orange crate in the corner. A small foyer with jalousie windows faced the bay. There was a breakfast table there covered with baskets of food, cakes, a roast chicken. The kind of gifts that country people bring when there has been a death in the family.
I tried to picture the charred creature I had held in my arms sitting at that table, eating a meal, sipping coffee after a hard night on the water. Tried to picture him walking to the refrigerator for a beer, plopping down on the couch to watch a ball game . . . pictured him taking Hannah into the bedroom.
But the imagery didn't work because the props wouldn't fall into place. There was no man-spore around the house. No heavy boots on the stoop, no tangle of clothes in the corner, no sports page folded beside the Lay-Z-Boy, no tools scattered around the porch. It had been only, what? sixteen hours since Jimmy Darroux had come tumbling out of the flames. My eyes drifted up to the mantel: no wedding picture. Married couples who are childless (I saw no sign of children in the house) usually keep a wedding picture prominently displayed—a gesture I have always found touching. It is as if they are reminding themselves that they are, indeed, a family.
"Sounds like your friend's enjoying his shower. But he surefire can't sing worth a flip. What's his name again?" She was still in the kitchen, but didn't have to talk loud to be heard, The place was so small.
"Tomlinson," I said.
"He always so happy?"
"Always." Why tell her that Tomlinson also had a dark side? Twice since I had known him, he'd descended into a depression so emphatic that he did not eat; would barely speak.
She said, "He's kind'a different. No offense."
"None taken."
"I didn't mean it bad, because I like people who are different. I really do. The poet types, people who paint. That sort. See, because I'm kind of like that myself. Different. Since I was a little girl, always sort of, you know—weird. Even my daddy said so. I think I scared him."
Because I could think of no other reply, I said, "You seem normal enough to me."
She poked her head out of the kitchen just long enough to smile and say, "That's because you don't know me very well yet," then vanished again, still talking. "Part of it's I'm a Gemini born on the cusp. But with Leo rising. Like two people in one body, both of us bossy." Her chuckle was a series of soft bell tones. "Women aren't supposed to speak their minds, do whatever they please. Know why? Because it reminds men how much spunk they lack. Scares 'em, makes them feel sheepish. What about you, your sign?"
I wasn't even sure I knew. When I took a guess, she said, "Gad! We're complete opposites. You're the real logical type, everything real orderly. I bet you think astrology's a bunch of crap. Well . . . how about this? You know what a birth veil is? Mama said I was born with a veil over my face. This flap of skin or something, the placenta, I guess, connected when I came out. Like I didn't have eyes or a mouth or nothing. The midwife about fainted—that's what Mama said—because a baby born with a veil is supposed to have the power of second sight. That's what the midwife believed. She was my mama's closest friend, Miz Budd. A colored woman."
All nonsense. But I liked the sound of her voice, the vitality of it. I said, "Tomlinson's the one you should be telling. He's interested in folklore."
"There. I knew he was different. What's he do?"
"Tomlinson? He lives on a sailboat and . . . well, that's what he does. He pulls up anchor occasionally, cruises around, then comes back."
"To make a living, I mean. For money."
I'd wondered about that myself. "I think he has a small income from his family. He does research projects for organizations. Scholarly things. He's written some books—"
"Books!" She was suddenly very interested. She stood in the doorway for a moment, a wooden spoon in her hand. "What kind of books? You mean that he wrote himself?"
"Well. . . yeah. I haven't read them . . . not clear through, anyway." I'd given Tomlinson's most recent volume, Variations of the Yavapai Apache Sweat Lodge Ceremony, a determined effort, but failed.
She paused for a moment, thoughtful. "I'm writing a book myself, but don't know nothing about how to get it published. Hell, truth is, I don't know nothing about how to write it. It's about the fishermen. We're the last of about ten generations—if the bastards get their way. And about my great-grandmother and my great-aunt, too, Sarah and Hannah Smith. You ever hear of them?"
I told Hannah that I hadn't, then listened as she told me that, back in 1911, Sarah Smith had driven a two-wheeled oxcart across the Everglades—the only person to ever do it, man or woman.
"Just her alone, doin' what she wanted to do," Hannah said. "Some of the history books, they've got a picture of her. All the Crackers called her the Ox Woman. Because of what she did, and because she was so big. Made her money chopping firewood. Swing an ax like that, you've got to be stro-o-o-ng. Sarah had a sister named Hannah—my great-aunt—and she was big too. Like six two, six three. My size, so the old-timers called Hannah Big Six. Because she was more than six feet tall? Sometimes I think I'm Hannah come back. You know . . . like another life?"
I told Hannah, "When Tomlinson gets out of the shower, you two will have a lot to talk about."
I could hear a blow-dryer in the bathroom. Tomlinson was getting himself spruced up—a measure of Hannah Smith's effect on him.
"I almost telephoned you after that meeting." She was still making noises in the kitchen: the clank of a steel lid, the clatter of dishes being washed. I wondered if she expected us to stay for dinner—and why she would want us to. She said, "The meeting in Tallahassee? You impressed me, that's the truth. No fancy talking. Just the facts. The sportfishing guys, they didn't like it, neither. Didn't want to hear nothin' but their own lies."
Which wasn't true. Most sportfishermen wanted what was best for the fishery. They were willing to listen. I opened my mouth to correct her, but hesitated, allowing the opportunity to pass—and realized that I, too, was oddly eager to please her. A powerful woman.
She came into living room, wiping her hands on a towel, adding, "You didn't have an ax to grind, just told it out straight," then dropped down into a beanbag chair near the fireplace, one stork leg folded over another. "Truth is . . . that wasn't the first time I seen you." The expression on her face intermingled amusement and challenge. She waited for a reply; proof that she had my full attention.
I said, "Is that so?"
"Yep. It was maybe a year ago. I was down fishing in Dinkin's Bay, just me. 'Bout sunset, just after. Still some light but not a lot. I was pushing along the bushes looking for a mess of mullet to strike, when I see this big blond hairy man come waltzing out on the porch. Stripped his clothes off and started washing himself from the water cistern. Brushing his teeth, scrubbing all the shady spots. I banged my paddle a couple times, figuring it was the polite thing to do. Let you know you had an audience. But you never heard. Like you was a million miles away. I found out your name after that. Some people on the island knew. Then I saw you at that meeting."
I remained indifferent—but
it took some effort. "I must have had a lot on my mind."
"I'm not complaining. Quite a show you gave me." Her frankness seemed an innocent conceit; a friendly affectation. She added, "The Punta Gorda Fish Company built that shack where you live. My daddy, when he was a boy, he and his daddy used to stay there sometimes. Fished for the company. That was before they moved to Cedar Key." Then she lifted her knees above the vinyl bag, pirouetted on her buttocks, and tossed the towel she had been holding into the kitchen. It landed—still folded—on the counter.
She was graceful for a big woman; had a lazy fluidity of movement that you only see in good athletes or very young children. I found myself looking at her, staring, and when I tried to look away, my eyes drifted back to her again. Hannah Smith was one of those rare women who, the longer you're around them, the more attractive they become. At first glance, she was just a tall, gawky girl with big hands and a blank, unremarkable face. Then gradually, very gradually, the unnoticed details revealed themselves and soon dominated. It wasn't that she was beautiful. It had nothing to do with beauty. It was in the cat flex of thighs when she moved, the taut, countersync jounce of breasts when she walked. Beneath the blousey shirt and jeans had to be an extraordinary body. Her skin, which initially appeared sun-blotched and salt-dried, was also a peculiar, lustrous shade of gold. I had seen beaches in California with that same sun-burnished coloring. Her hair, her nails, her muscle tone, all exuded the body gloss of a healthy young female, a prime example of her species, who was in the ripest years of her fertile life. It took a while, but Hannah projected that kind of sexuality. A ruddy, musky, robust sexuality. Projected it, at first, on a noncognizant sensory level that was very slow in alerting the conscious. Which was probably why Tomlinson was in the bathroom blow-drying his hair.
"You still listening? Or just thinking with your eyes?" Hannah was sitting there grinning at me, her stare burrowing into me, as if she knew where my mind had been, letting me know it, enjoying my discomfort.
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