Catching Genius (31 page)

“Is he all right?” she asked.

“Connie!” Mother admonished me. “It certainly wasn't anyone's fault.”

I ignored Mother. “Gib has enough problems right now. I don't need you encouraging him to go out farther than he should and fooling around. One of you could have been seriously hurt.”

Estella nodded, not meeting my eyes. “Absolutely,” she said. “I'm really sorry, Connie.”

“Don't patronize me, Estella.”

She held her hands up in front of her. “I'm not. I'm sorry. It really was an accident, and I'll make sure that Gib is well away from me while I'm swimming.”

She was saying exactly what I wanted to hear, but something wasn't sitting right with me. I braced my hands on the counter and took a deep breath, trying to slow my heart.

“Okay?” Estella asked. Mother watched in perplexed silence while the eggs burned.

“Connie? Are you okay?” Estella asked again.

“Yeah,” I said. “I'm fine. I—” I stopped because I didn't know what I was. I just knew that I didn't want Estella anywhere near my child.

“Connie?” Mother asked.

“I'm fine,” I finally said.

Mother nodded, but she was looking at me in that piercing way she had. I turned away and headed for the living room. “Do you want these records, Mother?” I asked, beginning to pull the albums out. It was time to get back to work on the house. We'd been acting like this was a vacation, a family reunion. It was no such thing. I was there by necessity, as was everyone else, and it was time we remembered that.

“No, I don't think so. Are you sure one of the boys won't want them?” she asked while Estella tossed the burned eggs and started fresh ones.

“If the boys need anything I'll get it for them,” I said.

While everyone ate breakfast I gathered more boxes from downstairs and began taping them together in the living room. Gib left for the beach, and Mother and Estella went grocery shopping while I divided the second floor items into trash, charity, and possible keepers. Everyone seemed unnerved by my sudden burst of energy. If
I
could have gotten away from me, I would have too. But eventually the work soothed me, a salve on my frazzled and uncertain nerves. My heart didn't even jump when the phone rang.

“Hello,” I said absently, wiping sweat off my brow.

“Connie? It's Bob. I've got Angela DeSantis on the line with me. She'll be handling the divorce. Angela?”

“Hello, Connie,” she said. She sounded young. “Please call me Angie. I'm sorry we're not able to meet in person just yet. Bob has brought me up to speed, and I have all of your paperwork here in front of me. Is now a good time to discuss a few things?”

Bob must have sensed my hesitation because he didn't wait for me to answer. “Connie, I want you to know you're in good hands here. Angie is the best divorce lawyer in southwest Florida. She'll be keeping me posted on every aspect of the case, and you can always call me if you can't get ahold of her.”

For the first time since I'd known Bob he was in business mode, and I had to admit that it was impressive. “All right,” I finally said.

“Take good care of her, Angie,” Bob said. “Connie, tell your mother I miss her.” And then he hung up, leaving me to his colleague.

“So, Connie, tell me about you and Luke.”

Telling her about me and Luke, and Luke and Deanna, and Gib and Carson, took longer than I expected. Estella and Mother returned and put groceries away while I talked, occasionally ranted, and once, to my humiliation, cried. Luckily, Gib remained on the beach. When I finally finished the phone call, I was exhausted.

Mother and Estella hovered near, pretending to rifle through the boxes I'd filled, but in reality they were simply waiting, like nurses, to see what I might need next. What I needed was to be left alone.

“I think I'm going to go for a walk,” I said.

They both nodded, and I noted with amusement that they had the same tilt to their head, the same pointed chin bounced up and down at the same tempo. I wished I had a camera to capture it and then show them how alike they really were. They were more sisters than Estella and I. They seemed a pair, and in their twin show of understanding, they made me feel even more alone.

I walked toward the cut, scattering sandpipers and crunching through patches of coquinas. The tide had pulled back, revealing rills of sand that kept small pools of water on the beach, some shallow enough to qualify only for puddle status, some calf deep, trapping confused pinfish.

Once past the small cluster of houses on the north end of the island, the cut came into view. Two men fished in the surf. Not wishing to exchange pleasantries, I nearly turned around.

But as I drew closer, I saw that it was Gib and Tate. Both were reeling in, but only Gib's rod was bent with the weight of a fish. I quickened my steps in time to see him pull a stingray from the water as Tate secured his pole in a length of PVC pipe stuck in the sand.

“Mom, look,” Gib shouted as I came upon them. The stingray, light tan with gray eyes set close together on top of its head, such as it was, fluttered its wings against the beach and lifted its tail in the air, its barb searching.

“Okay, watch it now,” Tate said. He held the tail down carefully and maneuvered the stingray over, letting his tail go at the last second and then holding it down again once the ray was on its back. The underside of the ray was a soft, vulnerable white, with a tiny mouth locked in an almost comical smile. Tate used small pliers to release the hook and then, careful of the tail, he carried it to the surf and let it go. It disappeared before our eyes.

“It seemed kind of small for how much it fought,” Gib said, his face already bright red from the sun.

“They're strong,” Tate agreed. “They head down, where a fish will head out, so it feels like there's more pressure on the rod. How's it going, Connie?”

“Were you looking for me?” Gib asked.

I shook my head. “No, honey, you're fine. I'm glad you're having fun. No, I was just taking a break from packing. How'd you two meet up?”

Gib shrugged. “I was just out looking around. He had another pole so I thought I'd try it.”

“Looks like you liked it,” I said.

“I caught a lot more than that. Look,” Gib said, his eyes shining as he pointed to a small cooler. Tate opened the top and I could see several pompano nestled in ice. “Tate says he'll show me how to clean them, and then we can roast them in palm fronds on the beach.”

“Sure,” I said, shooting Tate a grateful smile. Gib was excited in a way I hadn't seen in years. Luke had taught Gib how to play sports, but they were the sports of suburbia, not survival. The house had been filled with basketballs, footballs, hockey sticks, golf clubs, baseball bats, and soccer balls. They were initially plush, brightly colored toys, but had evolved into the dirty real thing. They took up room in all the closets, bounced out of the garage and into the street, and smelled of leather, sweat, dirt, and boy.

Fishing, shooting, hunting of any kind had never entered the play realm. Gib's skills enabled him to fit in to the society of businessmen, weekend warriors, and the hierarchy of high school, while Tate's skills were, or had been at one time, essential to live in a harsh environment.

It had never crossed my mind that Gib might be missing out on anything. But if he enjoyed learning this side of life, I certainly wasn't going to stand in his way.

“Got another pole?” I asked, to Gib's surprise.

“No, but I'm ready for a beer,” Tate said. “You can use mine.”

Gib reached into the bait bucket and held a live shrimp up as I pulled Tate's pole out of the pipe. “Okay, Mom, here, I'll show you.”

Tate popped the top of his beer and laughed out loud. “Son, your mom could show you a thing or two about fishing. Don't insult her or you'll get a hook somewhere unpleasant.”

“Really?” Gib asked, not entirely convinced.

I rolled my eyes at Tate and stuck my hand in the bait bucket, pulling out a shrimp and threading it expertly onto the hook. It was a good thing I'd gotten some practice casting the other day on Little Dune, because my arm remembered the motion easily, and I made a graceful first cast, getting the lead out to the trough with an impressive whine of the reel.

“No way,” Gib said, looking at me with his mouth hanging open.

“Way,” I said, enjoying the feel of being something more than the woman who made sure his clothes were clean. “Go on,” I said, bringing my line in a little. “Bait up, boy, let's see who catches the first fish.”

Gib was quick to take the challenge and busied himself with the hook and shrimp. His cast fell just beyond the trough, landing on the sand bar, but he pulled it back quickly enough and wound up in the right spot. We walked slowly, allowing the current to take us, playing the line, reeling in; and then a fish hit his shrimp, his pole snapped down and he brought his wrist up quickly, hooking in.

Almost immediately I got a hit too, and I snapped up. We reeled and played out, watching each other out of the corners of our eyes, but I was more experienced and got my pompano up first, swinging it close and netting it with the little hand net Tate had been waiting behind us with.

I secured the pole and held the net up, crowing in victory as Gib pulled his catch in. Another pompano, but Tate took a quick look at it and declared it too small to keep. Gib watched and moved his hands in tandem with mine as we unhooked the fish. Mine went into the cooler, Gib's went back into the Gulf.

I quickly rebaited, and we fished the rest of the afternoon, occasionally allowing Tate a turn. By the time the sun began to lose its strength, I was wiped out. The three of us trudged home, Tate and Gib carrying the full cooler between them and me carrying the poles and bait bucket. Estella and Mother called to us from the widow's walk, and we waved back, spying Vanessa with them.

I started up the boardwalk, but Tate held Gib back.

“We're not even close to being done,” Tate said. “We need to dig the pit, we need good, dry driftwood . . .”

I continued up to the house, allowing Tate's instructions to fade away, chuckling to myself as I remembered the work involved in cooking on the beach. Gib had no idea what he was getting himself into, and Tate was a no-nonsense taskmaster.

I washed up and joined everyone on the widow's walk. Estella and Mother searched my face, but I had nothing to hide. I was sun-tight and tired. I invited Vanessa for a dinner of roasted pompano, which she happily agreed to.

“Carson's camp called,” Mother said, and my great mood disappeared.

“I can't believe I missed him,” I wailed. “Damn, did he say I could call back?”

“Carson didn't call,” she said. “The camp director did. He wouldn't tell me what it was about, just that Carson was fine and he needed to speak to you. The number's on the pad by the phone.”

I hurried downstairs and called the camp. I wasn't particularly worried, since Carson was okay, but I was nervous. I wasn't ready to start the fight over my son that I knew was going to begin when people in charge, people like Dr. Pretus, decided that he might be a genius. I said a little prayer that Carson hadn't done anything brilliant.

I identified myself to the man who answered the phone, and poured myself a glass of wine while I waited on hold. Finally, the director picked up.

“Mrs. Wilder, thank you for getting back to me so quickly. Carson is fine, but I'm afraid I have some bad news.”

“Okay,” I said, confused.

“We had a little fire last night—”

“Oh my God,” I said, forgetting my wine. “Carson's all right?”

“Yes, he's fine. Unfortunately, he and two other boys were the ones who started it. I'm afraid I have no choice but to ask that you pick Carson up immediately. We can't allow him to complete his time here. Please understand, we're not pressing charges. We feel that it was accidental. The boys seem very contrite, but I'm sure you understand that we do have to take this measure.”

“Carson? Carson started a fire?” I could not accept it. Not from Carson. From Gib perhaps, but Carson? “How? What other boys?”

“Two boys in his cabin. The three of them have become quite close, something of a Three Musketeers. You know how boys are. They were playing with fireworks one of the boys brought from home, and unfortunately one got lodged in the shakes of their roof. There's minimal damage, but had they not immediately notified someone we could have had a terrible tragedy.”

I sat down heavily on the barstool behind me, shaking my head, speechless for a moment.

“Mrs. Wilder?”

“Yes, yes, I'm here. The other boys, are they being sent home too?”

“Of course. Rick has already been picked up and Pat's parents will be arriving tomorrow. We're not placing sole blame on Carson, we're trying to be as fair as possible. And Mrs. Wilder? For what it's worth, I am sorry to see Carson go. He's a very talented young man. Aside from this incident, he's been a joy, and I think he's benefited from being here.”

“Thank you.”

“When can we expect you?” he asked.

“I suppose I'll come tomorrow,” I said, thinking hard.

“We'll have Carson ready for you. Just come to my office.”

“I'd like to speak with him now if he's there,” I said.

“May I suggest that you wait until tomorrow? He's rather upset and obviously worried about your reaction. I believe he's hiding out in the boys' room right now.”

Now that sounded like Carson. I suddenly felt sorry for him. “Okay,” I said. “Please tell him that Mom said everything is going to be all right. I'll be there by noon to pick him up.”