"Not what you would call easy reading," I agreed. "It has to do with the concept of infinity ... I think. Something about all motion and change being an illusion. That reality is actually static and immutable."
Hannah had an index finger to her lip, trying to follow along. Said, "That's why I like you two guys. You're smart, both of you—not that I'm not. I'm probably just as smart, only sometimes I wished I'd gone to college."
"With Tomlinson, a college education is no help. I'm just repeating what he told me. It's like . . . if you drop a rock, the rock has to fall half the distance to the ground before it can fall the remaining half. Right? But then the rock must fall half the distance of that. So on and so on. Logically, the rock should never reach the ground. What his book does is question the existence of distance and motion."
She closed the book and looked at the dust jacket. The title was: No End in Sight.
"How many copies you think it sold?"
"I think Tomlinson probably gave away more copies than he sold."
She thought that over. "Well, my book is going to sell. I want people to know about the kind of people we are. And the mullet fishermen, what's being taken away from us. So I don't want any of that falling-rock bullshit in my book. I'll remind him when I get back. Oh yeah, I almost forgot—" She reached down into her Farmer Johns and handed me a folded sheaf of papers. "It's the first chapter. Tommy's already working on the sixth or maybe the seventh. He wants to know what you think. He said you'd be a good . . . what'd he call it? ... a good barometer for the average reader."
I took the sheaf of papers. Said, "What a nice thing for Tommy to say."
I opened the papers and looked at the cover page. It read: People of the Same Fire.
Hannah was watching over my shoulder. "That's Tommy's title idea. He says the Indians up in the Carolinas and Georgia—the ones who moved down to Florida and net-fished?—that's what they called people from . . . not exactly the same tribe, but who were related. Yeah, related. The Creeks, I think he said."
I started to fold the page over, but she stopped me. "I was thinking maybe just call it 'The Hannah Smith Story.' Real simple, you know?"
Turning the page, I said, "You may want to trust Tomlinson's judgment on this one," and I began to read:
"I am the direct descendant of Sarah Smith, one of four incredible giant Smith sisters who did as much to settle this Florida wilderness as any eight men half their size. They may have not been net fishermen, but they had fishermen's blood in their veins.
"Sarah was my great-grandmother, and was known as the Ox Woman throughout the Everglades. My great-aunt, Hannah Smith, was my namesake. Hannah was called Big Six because of her height. She made her own way in the world until some bad men down on the Chatham River murdered her and, it is said, used a knife to cut the unborn baby from her stomach before they tossed her carcass into the river. But Hannah was stubborn. She still wouldn't sink.
"I am the spiritual sister of both women. But between the two, I probably favor Hannah. So I am well named . . ."
I refolded the chapter, placed it on my writing desk. "Tomlinson wrote this?"
"I wrote it, then he changed it, then I changed what he wrote. That's the way we're doing it," she said. "It's my book. He's just helping."
"Pretty gruesome story about your great-aunt—"
"Gruesome or not, it's the truth. That's what I mean to do, tell the truth. Sarah and Hannah woulda both wanted it that way. Believe me, I know because—"
"Because you were born with a veil over your face?"
She fixed me with a sly look of appraisal. "That's right. I know all kinds of things because of that. The gift of second sight—that's what my mama called it. What I'm askin' you is, do you think it'll sell? The book, I mean. From what you read."
"With your picture on the cover, I think it'll sell a lot better than No End in Sight."
"Is that like a compliment? Or just a tricky way of sayin' you don't like it?"
"It's a compliment. I'll read more later, but I liked the first page just fine."
She thought about that. Then: "So what you're sayin' is you think I'm pretty." Talking about the cover I had suggested.
"Pretty's not quite the word. Attractive. Very attractive."
"Dressed the way I am, soaked from fishin'?"
"That's part of your appeal."
Hannah had a wide, full mouth with sun-chapped lips that didn't seem to hurt her when she smiled. She was smiling now, a kind of sleepy, lazy, amused smile. She put the book down and walked toward me until her bare feet were nearly touching my toes. "I like you, Ford. You're big enough to look me right in the eyes, only"—-she made her bell-tone chuckling sound—"only you don't spend a lot of time looking at my eyes."
Which, of course, caused me to stare directly into her eyes: dark, dark eyes; irises flecked with gold beneath the glittering windows of cornea.
Heard her say, "Is it true?"
"Is what true?"
"What the guys around the docks tell me? They say my nipples show their shape even through a rain jacket."
I was just starting to reply to that when Hannah touched her fingers to the back of my head, pulled my face to hers. Kissed me very softly . . . then used her tongue to wet my lips . . . kissed me again, harder—until I took her by the shoulders, swung her around, and held her fast against the wall. Smiled at her, and said, "Hannah, I'm at your service. But before we go any farther, I want to know just what the hell it is you want from me."
"See? No bullshit." She was laughing—enjoying it. "That's just what I told you, Ford; just what I like about you. The way you go right for that little soft part of the throat."
"With Tomlinson, it was the book. What do you want from me? That's all I'm asking."
She levered her arms up over mine and freed herself. "Oh-h-h ... I see what you're gettin' at. You think I screw guys just to get something." She wagged her index finger at me: Naughty, naughty, naughty. "That's where you're headed. Well, you're wrong. How many men you think I've taken to bed in my life?"
"That's none of my—"
"Come on, now admit it. Damn right you want to know. You're thinkin', Yeah, I'd like to, but you're not the type to just hop in the sack with any ol' slut."
"Wait a minute, Hannah, I never—"
"Hell, I don't blame you. The way some women go around jumpin' on any pecker that can stand up and smile. Me? I've had five men, counting Jimmy, which I wish I didn't have to. That don't include the playin' around, touchy-feely make-somebody-happy business. The just-for-fun stuff. Five." Now she clamped her hands on my shoulders. I was shaking my head—a tough woman to deal with—as I allowed her to pivot me around and press me against the same wall. She pursed her lips, like a teacher questioning a rowdy student. "Now what about you? More than five?"
"Well, I'm older than you—"
"More than a dozen?"
"I used to travel a lot; never been married—"
"More than twenty?" She saw my expression and hooted, "So who's the slut, Ford? Men, they're the sluts, and boy oh boy, you don't like it when the tables get turned!" She released me, found the back of my neck with her hand. "You want to know what I want from you, Ford? Yeah, pick your brain about fish farming. That's what I want. I'll do that, 'cause fish farming's about the only thing left when they ban the nets, and that's the business I'm starting. I can see you up there at Gumbo Limbo, giving me advice on where to dig ponds, what kind'a pumps to use. That'd make me happy, sure. But from me? If banks accepted blow jobs, you'd never have a nickel to your name."
"So why the strong come-on?"
"Goddamn, Ford! You got to have everything spelled out?"
"Let's just say I'm the shy type."
"Sure. Like I'm the queen of Paris, France."
"I want to know what the rules are, that's all—"
"No rules. Not for you, not for me. No rules ever—"
"Then I want to know why!'
She cupped my face in her hands, and leaned
forward until our noses were nearly touching. "I like you. Is that so hard to believe? I like the way you look, the way you move. I like the way your brain works. It's because I saw you, and I knew, that's why. That evening I saw you outside, taking your shower. Took one look and I thought, yep, we'll get our chance one day. You think I go round asking the name of every man I meet? Then up to Tallahassee, I heard you at that meeting. Same thing: It came right into my mind, the picture of you and me. You didn't strike me as the crazy jealous type. The type to yammer at my heels like most of 'em." She moved her hands on my face; paused to straighten my glasses. "Ifyou knew how many men I got tailing after me, half sick with tryin' to get me in bed. . . . Well, you wouldn't be standing there talking, 'cause I can change my mind anytime I want."
I stared into her eyes, and said, "Nope. No you can't. Time's up." Pulled her to me, kissed her . . . felt her mouth open and kissed her harder. Found the suspender straps, nudged them from off her shoulders . . . and the rubber rain pants dropped to her ankles. She lifted her knees and kicked them away.
Nothing on beneath but cheap white cotton panties.
I had my hands cupped over her skinny little rump, still kissing her . . . let my hand drift up over the washboard convexity of ribs. . . felt her sharp intake of breath as my fingers found the heavy underside of her breast, then traced that soft curvature to the length and heat of nipple.
Hannah pulled away abruptly, stripped the T-shirt up over her head, and shook her hair free of its red ribbon. Stood there naked but for the drooping panties, and I released a long, slow breath, staring at her: Whew. . .
Which caused Hannah to smile—See what you would have missed?—and then she said in a husky, sleepy voice, "You can jump out of'em now, or I'll yank 'em off for you."
Meaning my pants.
Moments later she had her long fingers curled around me, leading me toward my single bed as if steering a cart. "Big Six," she was saying. "Big Six . . ."
Wondered: As in number six?—as I listened to her make her bell note sound; a woman living her vision, enjoying it.
Chapter 13
Hannah insisted on fishing. Said, "I've got house payments to make, and no money comin' in as ofjuly." Also insisted that I go with her. "When you're feeling up to it again, I want somethin' between us besides distance." Bawdy, hungry tone to her voice.
So I went mullet fishing with Hannah. The logistics were tricky. I didn't want to get on her boat and have to spend the night in Gumbo Limbo. I didn't know if Tomlinson could be counted among Hannah's six lovers or not—she was so damn touchy about her independence I was afraid to ask. Whether he was or whether he wasn't, it would have been too weird, all three of us in the same house together, because Hannah was not a subdued and noiseless bed partner. She had whooped and moaned and made my small bed crash like a tambourine. Later, on the floor, she had thumped the walls with her heels. Same thing, later still, out on the deck.
Those are not sounds to be shared through thin walls with a friend.
Also ... I wasn't entirely sure that I had the energy to help her produce those sounds again. Hannah made love without a hint of self-consciousness. She had one of the most spectacular bodies I had ever seen. But we all have our limits. Hannah had pushed me to mine—then helped baby me along until I had exceeded them.
So, what we decided was, Hannah had access to a little fish house off the southern point of Sulphur Wells, not far from the village of Curlew. Arlis Futch owned the house, though he had all but given it to her. By boat, Curlew was about halfway to Gumbo Limbo, only thirty minutes. I would lash Tomlinson's Zodiac onto my Hewes, then follow her to the fish house and tie my boat there. When we were done fishing, she would take the Zodiac in tow, and I would return to Dinkin's Bay.
She kept saying, "I don't know why you don't just come up and stay with me for a few days. Tommy, he wouldn't mind a bit."
I said, "Tommy will understand," wondering if he would—hoping he wouldn't.
Now it was after ten p.m., and we were in Hannah's boat. She stood forward of the engine well, using the PVC pipe to steer. I stood just behind her, right leg braced against the well for balance. When Hannah was at the controls, balance was required because of the way she veered in and out of islands. When we were behind a lee shore, out of the wind, she would twist the throttle open, and the little skiff would seem to gather buoyancy as it flew us across the mud banks. No moon, no running lights, no spotlight. She ran everything from memory. Said she loved speed, the force of the wind on her face.
"You get scared, just grab my shoulder!"
She had to holler above the engine noise to make herself heard.
I put my chin next to her ear. "If I grab your shoulder, it won't be because I'm scared."
Every now and then, she'd lean against my chest so that I could support the weight of her. Let her hair flap in my face, then reach back and squeeze my thigh. Mostly, though, she concentrated on finding fish.
When we were off Pine Island, just southeast on Mondongo Island, she slowed the boat abruptly. We were in slightly more than two feet of water, and I could see the green bioluminescent tracer-streaks of mullet flushing ahead of us. I had already squatted to grab the gunwale when she yelled, "Hang on!" then gunned the engine while, at the same instant, tossing out an anchor that was connected to the gill net.
The net began to peel out behind us as Hannah made a high-speed circle around the fish. She circled them a second time, then a third, using the bailing can to bang on the deck. The noise would spook the fish into the mesh. Finally, she killed the engine, and switched on a bare twelve-volt light bulb that was suspended from a wooden arm above the icebox. Felt our own wake catch us, rolling the boat, as Hannah said, "That's the fun part. Now I'll put you to work."
Hannah called it picking mullet. It wasn't too bad with both of us aboard. But one person alone? No wonder the woman's body was stripped bare of fat, corded with muscle. The hardest part was wrestling the net over the transom. We stood on opposite sides of the stern, pulling the net hand over hand, piling it in the well. When a mullet came thrashing into the boat, she would twist the fish free of the net and lob it into the icebox. I did the same, trying to mimic her smooth motion. It took a while to get the hang of it.
"You still pooped out, Ford?"
"Me? Fresh as a daisy."
With Hannah, facial expressions were a second language. Clearly, she was dubious. "I'll tell you somethin' I've never told nobody. Running this boat by myself at night makes me horny as hell. The way the engine vibrates? It runs through the wood right up my legs. When we get going again, I wouldn't mind you bending me right over the engine well. While I'm still steering, I mean. Never done that in my life, and I would purely love to. In my mind—when I had the vision of you and me being lovers?— that's what I saw you doing to me."
"Jesus, Hannah, I thought you were talking about fishing. Was I too tired to fish—that's what I thought you meant."
Wild whoop of laughter. "I embarrass you? Well. . . get used to it. I'll never say nothing in front of anybody else, but you—you, I'll tell just how I feel." She was untangling a gaffsail catfish that had spun itself in the net. I watched her rotate the fish's lateral barb, remove the fish cleanly, and toss it overboard. "When I was a little girl," she said, "I used to love to ride on a train, only I almost never got the chance. Now that I'm grown, turns out it's the same with men. If a woman's fussy, if she waits till her body and her mind both tell her it's okay, then not very many trains come along. But when one does . . ." More bawdy laughter.
"A train, huh? I guess I'm flattered."
"Damn straight you should be flattered. Your problem is, you lose your sense of humor when you lose your energy. Not that it didn't take a while. Here—" She reached into the icebox and brought out ajar of her tea. "You drink some of this. It'll fix you right up."
I drank her tea—felt the caffeine jolt. I picked fish and nudged the conversation toward safer topics. A few minutes later, she was telling me,
"The way it used to work was, we'd take our mullet in and sell them to Arlis. Sell them in what we call the round, meaning the whole fish. Anytime but December and January—the roe season—he'd pay us maybe forty cents a pound. Not much, and Arlis didn't make much either. But roe season, like now, he'd pay us maybe two bucks a pound, then sell them for maybe two-forty to the big wholesale fish plants in Tampa or Cortez. Freezer trucks would come around and pick them up.
"Up there," she said, "the fish go on a conveyor belt. They got women who cut the roe out of them—they use these ball-pointed knives so they won't nick the sacs—and they grade the roe by color and weight. The big plants, like Sigma and Bell, they'll sell the best roe for maybe twenty-two dollars a pound to exporters. The exporters ship it to the Philippines, or Hong Kong—places like that—where they sell it to wholesalers for maybe eighty or a hundred bucks a pound. You can imagine what it sells for on the street."
Hannah twisted a mullet from the net, held it out and squeezed the flesh around the anal fin. Tiny yellow globules began to ooze out: fish eggs. "We call it red roe, but it's really more like gold. Get it? Not just the color, but what it's worth."
I said, "But now you have a better deal because of Raymond Tullock. Didn't you tell me that?"
She was nodding; collected the mullet roe on her index finger before she tossed the fish into the box. Held the gooey finger out to me. "It's not bad. In Asia, they dry it into little cakes and give it as gifts. During the Chinese New Year, it's like the best gift you can give, 'cause it's supposed to be an aphrodisiac. Puts lead in their pencils. Couldn't hurt you to take a taste."
I thought it would surprise her when I licked some off her finger—the tiny eggs burst between my teeth, gelatinous and rich—but she only looked blankly at the roe that remained before putting the finger in her own mouth and slurping it clean.
She said, "Raymond went to Asia—this was a couple of years ago— and hunted around until he made his own contacts. I know he got some Japanese backers for money. But the importer he made friends with is in Indonesia, only sometimes he calls it something else. Where he goes, I mean."
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