Recessional: A Novel

by James A. Michener

  When Taggart arrived, he apologized for being late, and introduced the two strangers as a distinguished architect and an equally well-known builder: ‘Satisfied with what you see, gentlemen?’

  When they nodded emphatically, he turned to Zorn and said: ‘Exciting news, Doctor. These men, with the enthusiastic support of two of our leading banks who will lend us the money, are prepared to move immediately into this big spread of open land, which we already own, clean it, dig a series of four interlocking lakes, lay down a complete road system, and build for the Palms a collection of—how many at last count?—forty-eight spacious duplex apartments—that is, two side by side on the same concrete slab—for the occupancy of those older people who are ready for a kind of retirement, but who do not want to surrender their right to an individual home.

  ‘In this way we get nearly a hundred well-to-do people, members of the Palms family, who will later move into Gateways, then into Assisted Living and ultimately into Extended Care. It’s the wave of the future. We see it wherever we look, and we’re planning six other such extensions in our better operations. You, Zorn, are to be the groundbreaker, and if this partnership can plan and build what amounts to a new community, from the ground up, they can assure themselves of many similar commissions.’

  Zorn was astounded. If the land contiguous to the present buildings was to be cleared to make way for the duplexes, it would mean the loss of that part of the savanna used by the residents of Gateways and probably the loss of the Emerald Pool, too. He felt that he must protest in defense of his clients who had bought into the Palms with every right to believe that the ground to the south would remain open. How many residents were there like Ambassador St. Près and Reverend Quade, Laura Oliphant and Judge Noble, who loved the African mix of trees, shrubs, pampas grass and hidden pools?

  ‘Mr. Taggart, do you think that the present residents of Gateways will feel that they joined us with the expectation that the savanna at their doorstep would remain open land? Was there any promise in the contract, or one that was implied?’

  ‘None. They bought into the Palms with our assurance that the river would remain on the north, the channel on the west, and there they are. What happens to the east has already been decided by the community, a big mall, and we decide what happens on our land to the south. Private duplexes for the new wave of patrons.’

  Now the builder spoke for the first time: ‘We won’t slash and burn, or ignore sensible spacing standards, or fail to keep enough open spaces. We’re bound by very meticulous zoning codes. Everything we do is subject to inspection to see that we live up to those codes.’

  ‘Andy,’ Taggart broke in, ‘do you think we’d build something on your doorstep that would in any way depreciate the value of the Palms—a value you’ve reestablished? This addition is going to be far more state-of-the-art than what you have already. Look’—the two strangers spread their own blueprints and sample drawings of a duplex. Taggart pointed to the amenities in their plan: ‘A recreation building up here. And along the channel, an esplanade.’ Zorn, inspecting, saw that Judge Noble’s steel-reinforced chair was gone, and it looked as if the Emerald Pool and the Heronry would also be obliterated, but when he asked about them the men said: ‘We’d be insane to lose them when we have to build two other lakes from scratch. Those two big areas are your present pools, enlarged.’

  ‘Explain how you move a long-armed backhoe up to the edge of an existing pool,’ Taggart said, ‘and scoop it out like you were serving ice cream.’ Zorn saw that the four pools included in the plans were so spaced that the duplexes scattered about the edges could be sold for additional charges.

  ‘We expect one half of a duplex to sell from $210,000 to $380,000 along the waterfront. And with these prototypes we’ll start selling right away,’ Taggart said. ‘We’ll move Henderson down next week—very forceful salesman, he’ll have half the condos sold before they’re finished.’

  ‘And when do you estimate that to be?’

  Taggart looked at the two men and the architect answered: ‘Land cleared in one month. Infrastructure in second month, and by that we mean roads, sewers, lights. Grade and pour the twenty-four double slabs, third month, and finished houses five months after that,’ and the developer said: ‘Remember, in Florida you can work outdoors twelve months a year. By this time next year, we’ll be off working on some other site.’

  They now explained in detail the features of the duplexes and how no two, which would be twins on their slab, would be identical with any other pair in appearance or orientation. ‘We’re building for beauty, for permanence,’ the architect said and the builder confirmed this: ‘Highest quality in details,’ and he rattled off the famous brand names of kitchen cabinets, bathrooms, floor coverings and electric lighting. ‘When we’re finished, you’ll want to buy the first duplex, Dr. Zorn.’

  Zorn felt suffocated by the detail these skilled men threw at him, but when they were finished he had to ask, almost plaintively: ‘Why wasn’t I told about this sooner? You’ve made so many decisions,’ and Taggart had an excellent answer: ‘Because we were not planning for only one site, wonderful as yours is. This double-sized slab is going to be used in our holdings in the other hot states like California, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas. And we have just as fine plans for the states where we have to build with cellars.’ He tapped the blueprints: ‘It was touch and go, Andy, whether we’d build this trial run in your Florida showcase or the big development Harry Cain operates for us near San Diego. You won because you’re farther along in whipping the Palms into shape.’

  He interrupted himself to tell the men: ‘Dr. Zorn has worked miracles down in Tampa. He’s two years ahead of the schedule I posted for the place. When you build in his backyard, you’re associating with the best.’

  At lunch the four men continued their discussions, with the other three assuring Zorn that the Palms West, which was the name Taggart had settled upon, would enhance both the look and the reputation of the retirement area: ‘It’s the wave of the future, Andy. Four-step offering instead of three. You watch. Retirement areas that cling to the old style, with no single dwellings for the early retirees, will fall by the wayside.’

  When Zorn pointed out that whereas the Palms West sounded rather attractive the proposed development would actually lie to the south, Taggart said with great conviction: ‘South does not sell in real estate. It carries a connotation of moving away from the main action, a sense of retreat. West is always good. Moving toward the noble traditions of the nation. West sells.’

  After lunch Andy hurried to O’Hare, where he caught a plane back to Tampa, bringing with him a hefty packet of new blueprints, plans and drawings depicting the future of the Palms. He went to bed exhausted, but was wakened early the next morning by Ken Krenek and Ambassador St. Près, who wanted to know what was happening out in the savanna, and when he joined them to inspect what had taken place while he was in Chicago, he was astonished. The low woodland was covered by a blizzard of three-foot stakes with one of three different colors at their tips indicating future use: red for the proposed roadways, blue for the waterways and bright yellow outlining the twenty-four concrete slabs, each of which would contain two duplexes. And off to the west, where the channel ran peacefully, there stood a row of black stakes indicating the paved promenade that would rim the waterfront.

  ‘What in the world are they proposing?’ St. Près demanded, and Andy explained the concept of the Palms West, which would bring ninety-six new residents into the complex. At this point a crew appeared to install along the highway a huge billboard that proclaimed: THE PALMS WEST. DUPLEXES FROM $210,000. Well inside the area a semi hauled a long prefabricated building already decorated as a compact sales office; and four monstrous bulldozers moved in to sculpt the land in conformance with the dictates of the colored flags. One of the bulldozers had a huge claw projecting from the rear, and it started digging out what would become the first of the ponds around which the more expensive houses would be built. />
  Rattler was infuriated. And when that happened he was big enough and deadly enough to do something about it.

  His problem was twofold: he hadn’t eaten for two weeks and was starving; and the lush savanna stretching to the north of his den in which for so many years he had hunted rewardingly for rabbits, mice, birds’ eggs and a multitude of little creatures was being scraped clean by the big bulldozers that were clearing the land for the condominiums soon to be erected there. Social progress had caught up with the great rattlesnake, and he did not approve.

  On a very hot afternoon in August he remained close to the Emerald Pool protecting himself from the destructive sun by hiding in his den amid the roots of a few small trees and bushes that had been left standing by the planners of the new buildings. But if he was relatively comfortable in his retreat, he was not content, for he was suffering acute pangs of hunger.

  For the present he refrained from going out to seek food; he realized that if he was exposed to the burning rays of the sun for any considerable period, he would perish. Had he had a voice he would have howled in frustration; instead he coiled himself into his combative position and prepared to take action, but what specifically he might do he did not know. What was certain was that any object, man, animal or a force unknown, that came into contact with him in the next hours was in mortal danger. He would be on the prowl, a deadly opponent.

  So he waited in his refuge until the sun had departed, leaving cool shadows in which it would be safe for him to go hunting. Thrusting his delta-shaped snout out into the fresh air, he sensed a most enticing opportunity: there was activity in the Heronry some distance to the northeast. His supposition was based on various bits of data. Big adult herons were flying so close to him overhead that he could see them carrying fish in their beaks. Normally the birds would have eaten the fish right after catching them; if they were bringing them inland it must be to feed their newly hatched young. He smelled new odors drifting in from the Heronry, in which traditionally the big birds reared their young, and on previous night excursions he had heard coming from the birds’ breeding place unusual sounds, perhaps of young begging for food. There was also in the air a smell of the feeding process. For all these reasons, a daring trip to the Heronry seemed a good risk with a promise of something to eat.

  But if he slithered away from his den he faced an entirely new risk, one that had recently arrived to endanger him. When the noisy bulldozer had moved across the savanna, reaching with its destructive jaw only a few yards north of the Emerald Pool, it had scraped the earth flat, knocking down trees and uprooting and killing all grasses and shrubs. And it had continued the process of annihilation all the way north to the highway and east to the line of buildings. Within a few days it had converted the savanna with its many nooks and crannies into a barren dusty waste that provided no refuge to any living creature, from tiny mouse to gargantuan rattlesnake. During the first moments of this evening’s foraging, Rattler would have to leave the reassuring grassland surrounding the Pool and risk his life in crossing the arid dryland.

  Furthermore, when he reached the Heronry he would face not a nestful of baby birds, whom he could gobble up one by one, but a pair of adult blue herons capable of destroying any animal threatening their nest. Through the years he had often seen the big birds, sometimes grave and stately, at other times awkward and clumsy, prove to be deadly if a snake exposed himself to the powerful stomping of their heavy, hornlike feet or the piercing jabs of their long, sharp beaks. Three jabs, properly placed, could kill even a large snake, so this venture to the Heronry was no casual expedition. It was a choice between certain starvation or possible death.

  When assured that the sun had gone down, he cautiously left his den, twisted his head left and right to see if perchance some stray rabbit or large mouse had happened by to provide a meal, which would make the trip to the Heronry unnecessary, and somewhat reluctantly brought the full length of his massive body from its hiding place and started for his goal.

  He was a monstrous snake, almost nine feet long, fourteen inches in circumference at his fattest part, and with a huge assembly of rattlers on his tail. If he wanted to sound a warning by activating them, he could be heard for many yards.

  His mode of travel, perfected over many million years, was unique in the animal kingdom: he had no wings so he could not fly; he had no feet so he could not run; he had no fins so he could not swim; and he had no legs so he could not leap. But what he could do, almost magically, was send nerve messages to the various segments of his extended body so that they responded in ways that allowed each part to edge forward, inch by inch. If so inspired, he could slither forward almost as fast as a man could run. He was a relic from some ancient past, and the fact that he carried in his fangs a deadly toxin converted him from a harmless snake, of which there were a hundred varieties, into a lethal torpedo, an animal constructed to kill efficiently. When he was in motion, he was as potentially destructive as an army on the march, but he was so deadly that nature had slowed him down by imposing a most curious rule: he could not strike his enemy when he was fully extended and moving forward; he must stop and wind his fearsome length into a coil so that the full weight of his body could be used to spring forward three or four feet, allowing the deadly fangs to fasten into the body of the victim.

  And, strangest of all, he had been constructed by the forces that devised him with a serious impediment: he could not strike without first sending a loud, clear warning from the rattles in his tail. The sequence was invariable: Stop, coil, signal noisily, then strike.

  It was this snake, veteran of a thousand attacks on others, survivor of a hundred assaults upon itself, that approached the Heronry.

  Great blue herons had lived for untold generations in what had become known to human beings, late on the scene, as the Heronry, but that was in the days before bulldozers had been invented or condominiums conceived. The grassy savanna had extended unopposed north to the river, east to undefiled lands and south three miles to another body of sluggish water called the Bayou. It was an ideal place for herons to breed and many did, but within the last month—the herons had a year of contiguous periods when nature gave unmistakable signals that ‘now is the month to breed’ and ‘now is the month to make the babies leave the nest’ and ‘now is the month to visit these other fishing grounds’—the birds had been assaulted by a series of unparalleled confusions: noisy men had come painting signals on the trees, great machines had appeared to scrape the earth clean of grasses and shrubs, and for a few dangerous weeks it looked as if the huge machines were going to erase the Heronry, but other humans in green uniforms had come to drive stakes some distance from the area and call to one another: ‘We’ll save this and hope the birds will stay.’ There had been jubilation among the ones in green when the herons built their nest.

  But now, as night fell, the mother heron experienced a wave of unease. Always attentive, she thought she detected a slight movement amid the patch of grasses that had been spared by the machines, but when she moved a short distance from the nest to investigate, she could see nothing and concluded that at worst it might have been a mouse, from which she had nothing to fear. He might come by when the nest was no longer in use, to clean it up and maybe take a few small sticks for his own use, but he could not damage the nestlings.

  But it might also have been a rat with long, fierce teeth, and that could be dangerous, for rats were determined predators with the power to create havoc in a nest. They too, however, could be defeated by two determined adult herons with their powerful feet and sharp beaks. The mysterious creature in the grasses could not be one of the most dangerous enemies of all, a water turtle who caught baby herons, and adults too, by coming at them from the bottom of some stream, catching their long legs underwater and pulling them down until they drowned and became food for the other turtles. The mother heron need not take precautions against the voracious turtles till she led her fledglings to the channel.

  But just as she was abou
t to dismiss her fears about a lurking danger, she saw in the gray twilight a sudden flash of iridescence and the appearance of a hideous, triangular head with gaping mouth attacking her nest and catching one of her babies—the chick’s head deep within the jaw, with the rest of the small body dangling out.

  When the mother heron uttered a loud cry, her mate came rushing through the savanna grass, aware that disaster of some kind had struck. Without hesitation the male heron leaped right at the rattler’s head, striking it with his long, incredibly sharp beak, while the mother heron took her stance near the nestlings and launched her attack on the extended body of the snake. Neither heron accomplished much, for the rattler was able to slither his body so adroitly that the long spikes of the birds’ beaks missed their marks. Freed for a moment, the snake started his reluctant retreat, with his mouth immobilized by the long legs of the half-eaten bird dangling from it, but the herons continued their attack until the battleground had moved a safe distance from the nest. The mother bird, satisfied that she had repulsed the invader with the loss of only one chick, returned to the nest to protect the other four from any other assailant who might attack in the confusion. She had finished with the rattler, gratified that she had at least once sunk her powerful beak into some portion of his cold body.

  But the male heron, the inheritor since birth of a fear of the dreadful snake that could destroy an entire nestful of young birds, maintained his attack on the retreating foe, stabbing at wherever the grass was moving and trying to anticipate where the reptile would next be visible in the fading light.

  Rattler now had a new set of problems. His raid had started as a success, but now, as he tried to retreat, other herons flew in to assist the original pair and he found himself assaulted from all sides. Some of the flashing beaks were beginning to do damage along the entire length of his body. Frightened, he managed to dispatch signals to all segments, and when they responded, he was able to slither in a dozen different directions at once, confusing the birds and allowing him to make his momentary escape into the deep grass near the Heronry.