Scat

by Carl Hiaasen

  "A year is what we heard, but hopefully not that long."

  On the very next cast, Nick's dad hooked a good snook that jumped twice and then streaked into the mangroves, cutting the leader. The guide cursed loudly, yet Nick's father seemed as pleased as if he'd landed the fish.

  "Your turn, Nicky, " he said, reeling up his line.

  "No, Dad. Keep casting."

  "Come on, I had my chance."

  "Catch the next one," Nick said.

  The truth was, he didn't feel like fishing. He was satisfied to sit back and watch his father work the fly rod, whipping airy ribbons in the sky. Nick wanted a memory to keep fresh, something that would stay with him while Capt. Gregory Waters was away in combat. "You tell Mom yet?" Nick asked. "Last night."

  "Is she all right?"

  "She had a feeling it was coming. She watches the news."

  "Aren't you scared?"

  "A little, " his father said. "But mostly I'm bummed because I'm going to miss your soccer season. Maybe lacrosse, too. But they let us do e-mail over there."

  "Cool. I'll send you the scores."

  "Nicky, I guess there's no need to give you the big speech."

  "About taking care of her?"

  "Right."

  "Don't worry, " Nick said. "I won't."

  Nick's father tossed another long cast. Instantly there was a flash on the surface and the line came taut. Five minutes later, the guide slipped his net under a hefty snook that was dark and coppery from the swamp water. Nick's dad lifted the sleek fish by its lower jaw and held it up while Nick snapped a picture.

  His father was beaming. "What do you think-ten pounds?"

  "More, " said Nick. "At least twelve."

  Late that night, after his parents were in bed, Nick had gone on the Internet and Googled "Iraq" in order to learn what the war was all about. Seven months later, he still wasn't sure.

  Nobody could find the terrible weapons supposedly stashed by the Iraqi government, while many of the terrorists who were attacking American troops had turned out to be Iraqi citizens. It was hard for Nick to understand why good soldiers like his dad were being blown up by some of the same people they were trying to help.

  Nick was a mild and levelheaded person who seldom lost his temper, but lately there were times when he'd get mad about what had happened. Running toward his mother in the school parking lot and fearing the worst possible news, Nick felt the anger boil up again. Maybe it was selfish, but he didn't want to lose his father to a war that nobody seemed able to explain.

  Nick ran up to his mom and pulled her close. He blinked away hot tears and almost choked when he tried to speak.

  "It's okay, Nicky, " she said, sounding amazingly strong and calm.

  "I called the hospital and they said Dad was gone."

  "Yes, I know."

  "But I thought he was getting better! What happened?" Nick cried.

  "You should ask him yourself."

  His mother spun Nick around to face the car. Capt. Gregory Waters sat in the front passenger seat, grinning and giving a thumbs-up sign with his left hand.

  Every evening Dr. Wendell Waxmo set out a dozen bowls of food for stray cats, a gesture that annoyed his human neighbors but was greatly appreciated by the wild raccoons, squirrels, and opossums that would amble out of the woods to gorge themselves on stale Meow Mix.

  Wendell Waxmo lived in a small apartment five blocks from the Naples beach, a lovely place that he never visited because his sinuses got inflamed by salt water and his skin was ultra-sensitive to ultraviolet rays. Wendell Waxmo was strictly an indoor person. Yet, for a teacher (even a substitute), he spent little time reading books or polishing his skills in science, math, and English.

  Instead Wendell Waxmo preferred to drown his brain in bland television, especially the shopping networks and infomercials. He purchased every goofy, worthless gimmick that he saw advertised on cable-cheese curlers, mayonnaise whippers, personalized oven mitts, ear-hair trimmers, electronic sock deodorizers, reusable dental floss and even a flashlight that stayed on for three straight years night and day.

  Wendell Waxmo got so caught up channel-surfing in search of clever new items that he'd tune out everything else in his peculiar little world, from the tuba ring tone of his cell phone to the yowls of the cats being roughed up by hungry raccoons behind the apartment building.

  As it happened, Wendell Waxmo was once again glued to the phone, excitedly ordering a solar-powered raisin peeler for $49. 92 (to be paid in twelve monthly installments of $4. 16, not including handling and shipping), when he glanced up and saw a stranger standing in his living room.

  "That's quite a tuxedo," the man remarked.

  Gripping the phone fiercely, as if the intruder planned to snatch it away and order the raisin peeler for himself, Wendell Waxmo stammered, "I'll b-b-be with you in a m-m-minute."

  The man sat down and waited. Wendell Waxmo gathered his wits, completed his transaction, and put down the phone. He decided that the stranger didn't look like a chain-saw killer.

  "How'd you get inside my apartment?" he asked.

  "The door was unlocked. You should be more careful The man wore a dark ski cap, khaki clothes, and what appeared to be a Western-style ammunition belt.

  "If you're going to rob me, take whatever you want, Wendell Waxmo said with a sweep of an arm. "Just don't hurt me."

  The intruder smiled wryly as he scanned Wendell Waxmo's vast assortment of useless gadgets and gizmos, which cluttered the shelves and the tables and the floor.

  "As much as I'd love to own a three-speed sonic artichoke juicer," the man said, "I think I'll pass."

  "Then what are you doing here?"

  "A small favor for the youth of America."

  Wendell Waxmo nervously loosened his bow tie. "What does that mean?"

  "It means you're about to retire from the teaching profession."

  "What?"

  "Your services are no longer needed at the Truman School. Today was your last day."

  Wendell Waxmo's piggy eyes narrowed. "Who are you, anyway?"

  The stranger said, "Bunny Starch takes her responsibilities very seriously, and she expects her substitutes to do the same. She's been receiving some very disturbing reports from her classroom, Wendell."

  "I've no idea what you're talking about."

  "Teaching the same page over and over on the same day every week. Asking students to get up and sing, for no good reason." The man shrugged and rose. "By the way, what kind of nitwit sings the Pledge of Allegiance?"

  "Is that it?" Wendell Waxmo asked resentfully. For one foolish moment he considered trying to defend his teaching methods.

  "I get results!" he declared.

  "No, you get laughed at," the stranger said. "Some kid grinds out a five-hundred-word essay, a kid who's never writ-ten anything before in his life, and you tear him down in front of the whole class. Not cool."

  "You mean the pimple paper?"

  "Another kid, his old man gets torn up in Iraq and you want him to do 'White Christmas'?" The intruder shook his head in disgust. "The only thing worse than a whack job, Wendell, is a clueless whack job. I recommend you find another line of work."

  Wendell Waxmo huffed. "From what I've heard, Mrs. Starch can be just as tough on her students."

  "Oh, I don't doubt that, " the man said, heading for the door, "but at least they learn the whole book."

  "You can't fire me! Only the headmaster can do that."

  The man stopped, walked back to Wendell Waxmo, seized him by the shoulders, hoisted him out of the chair, and said to his face: "I'm much, much crazier than you are. Do not give me a reason to return here."

  Finally Wendell Waxmo was frightened, a sane and normal reaction. The intruder's arms were rock-hard, and his eyes were cold and weary. He acted like a man with absolutely no fear and no doubts.

  "I'll call in sick tomorrow, " Wendell Waxmo peeped.

  "Permanently."

  "Right. I'll think of something awf
ul and contagious."

  "Good idea." The stranger in the ski cap lowered Wendell Waxmo back into a sitting position.

  "I don't suppose you want to hear me sing, " the substitute said. "It might change your mind."

  "Highly unlikely."

  "Then just tell me this-are you a spy for Bunny Starch?"

  "Good night, Wendell." The intruder stalked out the back door and down the steps, scattering the whiny throng of stray cats.

  When Duane Scrod Jr. got home from school, his father handed him a short grocery list that included milk, cereal, and five pounds of sunflower seeds-too much to haul back on a motorcycle. Duane Jr. took one of the pickup trucks and headed for the store, the wheels spraying gravel.

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss, who was waiting down the street, recognized the boy from the photograph shown to him by Torkelsen, the fire investigator. As soon as the pickup was out of sight, Jimmy Lee Bayliss pulled up to the house and parked next to a Tahoe that bore angry graffiti: BOYCOTT SMITHERS CHEVY!!!!!

  Ironically, Jimmy Lee Bayliss himself was driving a Chevrolet, a four-door sedan that he'd rented because he didn't want to be seen in the company truck. On this mission, it was crucial that Jimmy Lee Bayliss's connection to the Red Diamond Energy Corporation remain secret. He planned to talk his way into the Scrod house and secretly swipe something-anything-that belonged to the boy.

  The windows were dark yet wide open. A symphony was playing loudly, which Jimmy Lee Bayliss found strange. From the rough, unfinished look of the place, he would have expected to hear the blues or country music, his own favorite.

  A man who could only have been Duane Scrod Jr. 's father answered the door. He was barefoot and had three days' growth of beard. He wore smudged reading glasses, a dirty red cap, a camouflage hunting shirt, and no pants-only leopard-print boxer shorts.

  "Are you here about the taxes?" the man asked.

  That sounded to Jimmy Lee Bayliss like an excellent cover story, much better than his original idea of posing as a septic-tank inspector.

  "That's right, " Jimmy Lee Bayliss said to Duane Scrod Sr. "I'm from the tax collector's office."

  "Well, I've been expectin' you, " said Duane Scrod Sr., who whipped out a pair of rusty needle-nose pliers and, quick as a viper, clamped the lips of his startled visitor.

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss would have let loose the loudest scream of his life, if only he could have opened his mouth. But all he could do was moan and remain motionless, because even the slightest movement worsened the pain from the pinching pliers.

  "Oh, Nadine?" Duane Scrod Sr. called out.

  A tremendous flapping noise erupted, and a very large, gaily plumed bird came to rest with a squawk on Duane Scrod Sr. 's shoulder. Jimmy Lee Bayliss, whose eyes were catering because his lips hurt so much, studied the bird anxiously.

  "Hello," it said. "Bonjour! Hallo!"

  "Hhhnnngggg, " replied Jimmy Lee Bayliss.

  Using the pliers to tow his prisoner, Duane Scrod Sr. walked to the living room and turned off the stereo. "Man's home is his castle, " he grumbled. "Says so, right in the Good Book."

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss was in no position to argue. Frantically, he tried to think of a means to escape.

  "What if I yanked off your lips and fed 'em to Nadine? Would that make you think twice about invadin' a person's privacy?" asked Duane Scrod Sr.

  "Nnnnuuuuggh!" Jimmy Lee Bayliss pleaded.

  "She's a blue-and-gold macaw. Speaks three languages. One time she got so hungry, she ate a beer can, " Duane Scrod Sr. recalled proudly. "We're talkin' top-grade aluminum- gobbled it down like an oatmeal cookie."

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss understood how Duane Scrod Sr. 's son could have become a troubled youth. He felt a pang of sympathy for the boy, whom he intended to frame for arson.

  "Whaddya say, Nadine baby? Wanna snack?" Duane Scrod Sr. teased the macaw, who was eyeing the prisoner with great interest. Jimmy Lee Bayliss carefully reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wad of cash, which he held out to his captor.

  Duane Scrod Sr. counted the money and said, "Nineteen dollars? You think you can buy your freedom for nineteen lousy bucks?"

  He began feeding the dollar bills, one at a time, to his bird. "I told you people about a thousand times, I'll be happy to start payin' my taxes again, soon as somebody puts a new transmission in my Tahoe."

  "Aaaccchhhhh, " warbled Jimmy Lee Bayliss, who'd heard enough. He kicked hard at one of Duane Scrod Sr. 's bare kneecaps and made solid contact. The man hollered and let go of the needle-nose pliers, which hung momentarily from Jimmy Lee Bayliss's face before dropping to the floor.

  As Duane Scrod Sr. hopped in circles, swearing and clutching his bruised knee, the macaw squawked furiously and took flight. Jimmy Lee Bayliss ran for the screen door, but he was too slow-the bird caught him from behind and locked its jagged beak on his scalp, trying to shuck him like a coconut.

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss fell to his knees and flailed at the vicious devil bird, which refused to let go. Dragging himself across the moldy shag carpet, Jimmy Lee Bayliss came upon a heavy nylon satchel with arm straps. He picked it up and began beating himself about the head, a painful but effective strategy. Several of the blows struck Nadine, scattering blue and gold feathers. The bird cursed in German, released Jimmy Lee Bayliss, and flew back toward Duane Scrod Sr., who by now was searching madly for his pliers.

  Dizzy from clobbering himself, Jimmy Lee Bayliss lurched down the front steps and dove into his rental car. He was halfway to the interstate before he came to his senses and noticed that he still had the bulky backpack with which he'd fought off the killer macaw. It was right there on the front seat next to him: a camo-patterned book bag.

  A kid's book bag.

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss thought: This is too good to be true.

  From the parking lot, Nick's mother phoned Dr. Dressier, who gave permission for Nick to leave school early. On the drive home, Nick peppered his father with questions until his mom told him to slow down and catch his breath.

  "So the infection must be gone, right?" Nick asked.

  "It's getting better, " Capt. Gregory Waters said. "There's a V. A. outpatient clinic in Fort Myers where I can get my checkups. "

  Nick noticed that the welts and burn marks on his dad's face were healing, and that his hair was slowly starting to grow back.

  "How's the rehab?"

  "Good, Nicky. I hear we're going to be partners." Nick's father pointed at Nick's wrapped right arm. "What kind of exercises are you doing with your other one?"

  "Mostly trying to write and do math, " Nick said. "It's harder than I thought."

  His mother interjected: "You should see him on the computer, Greg. He can type almost as fast with one hand as he could with two. And last night he was throwing the baseball!"

  Nick's father lit up. "Pitching lefty? That's fantastic. " A bit embarrassed, Nick said, "I look kind of spazzy on my windup."

  "You do not look 'spazzy,'" said his mom emphatically. "You're doing great."

  "I can't wait to see, " his father said.

  "No way, Dad, I'm not ready."

  "Come on, I could use the inspiration."

  "Maybe later, " Nick said.

  When they arrived at the house, Nick and his mother helped Greg Waters walk to the bedroom, where he quickly lay down and zonked out. He slept all afternoon and woke up hungry.

  Over his wife's objection, he declared that dinner would be a left-handed speed-eating contest, with five dollars to the winner. He and Nick made a total mess, mangling their salads and stabbing at their ravioli and green beans. By the end of the meal, they were laughing so hard that they couldn't swallow their food. Nick's mother declared the race to be a tie, and for dessert she served chocolate milkshakes so that both Nick and his dad could rest their arms.

  Afterward they went out to the backyard. His father sat down in a patio chair and said, "Let's see what you've got."

  Nick picked up the ball and approached the homemade pitcher's mound. The framed
net stood about forty feet away, and Nick eyed it apprehensively. He and his father had been playing catch since Nick was three years old, and he'd never felt any pressure-until now.

  This wasn't about baseball, it was about hope. Nick wanted to show his dad that you could do practically anything with one arm that you could do with two.

  "Relax. Take it smooth, " his father advised.

  "Don't laugh if I screw up."

  "In Double-A I played with a guy who was ambidextrous- he could throw out a base runner with either arm. He played right field left-handed and left field right-handed."

  "Are you serious?" Nick said.

  "Incredible athlete. Unfortunately, he couldn't hit a curveball to save his life, " Greg Waters said. "Now he's selling washing machines in Pensacola."

  Turning the baseball in his free hand, Nick lined up his fast two fingers with the stitches. Having his other arm bound to his back made him feel out of balance, almost tippy.

  "Nice and easy," his dad said.

  Nick uncoiled and heaved the ball as hard as he could It bounced six feet in front of the net and rolled into the mesh.

  Blushing, he kicked at the ground. "God, I throw like a girl!"

  His father chuckled. "Don't let your mom hear you say that-she was the strikeout ace on her college softball team. Now do it again, only slow your motion."

  Nick retrieved the baseball and tried throwing with an easier rhythm. This time his pitch caught the lower half of the net.

  "That's better. Take a longer step toward your target, " Greg Waters suggested.

  By the tenth throw, Nick was consistently hitting the strike zone. The pitches weren't very fast, but at least they were straight.

  His father said, "Nicky, that's pretty darn good. I mean it."

  "Thanks, Dad."

  "Can I give it a shot?"

  "Sure."

  But as soon as Greg Waters stood up, he began to sway. Nick rushed over and steadied him.

  "Let's wait till tomorrow, Dad. You've had a long day."

  "I'm all right. Let me have the ball."

  "You sure?" Nick glanced back toward the house and saw his mother watching anxiously from the kitchen window.

  "Ball, please." Greg Waters held out his left hand.