Sea Creatures (5 page)

4

THE FIRST THING I SAID
to the hermit was: “You're very precise.” I handed over his list, items crossed out, exceptions noted.

He was slim with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, only two or three inches taller than I was. His large gray eyes folded at the corners and he was due for a shave. He didn't meet my eyes.

“I used to try to be easygoing,” he said, rubbing his chin with his thumb. “It didn't work out.”

I told him my name and introduced Frankie, laying a hand on Frankie's head, which Frankie shook off. The man told us his name—Charlie Hicks—then stepped into the Zodiac and started hefting boxes onto the dock. The muscles in his forearms tightened as he lifted. I signed to Frankie—
Stay there
—and stepped down to help, and within a few minutes the Zodiac's deck was bare.

Charlie pulled a small plastic bag of lures from the pile and held it out to Frankie. “Can you carry this for me, please?” he said quietly.

Frankie nodded solemnly and clutched the lures to his chest, then followed Charlie toward the staircase. I grabbed a couple of bags and hurried to catch up. Frankie took the stairs deliberately, and Charlie glanced back every few steps to check on him. We emerged onto a broad wraparound porch rimmed by a white wooden railing. Each segment of the railing was comprised of four horizontal two-by-fours that angled slightly toward the water, like oversize blinds. The bottommost rung was about three feet from the porch floor, which left plenty of room, I thought, for a toddler to fall through. In one corner was a metal toolbox, a hammer and jar of nails beside it. I kept careful watch over Frankie, wondering again if this was such a great idea.

We dropped the bags on the linoleum floor of the kitchen and went back downstairs. Again, Charlie handed Frankie something of his own to carry. Frankie took great care. I fretted that we were seconds away from some drama that would end the whole enterprise. Frankie might drop something into the water or tumble down the stairs or off the dock. It looked to me like the water beneath the house and surrounding the dock was only four or five feet deep, which was somewhat reassuring. We made several trips, Charlie leading and Frankie close behind, eager to be handed his next assignment. Each trip, I took in a little of the house's interior: sagging sectional sofa in faded gray corduroy, plywood coffee table covered in books and magazines, Formica breakfast bar rimmed by four cracked red vinyl stools, faded oval braided rug in the living room, wood-paneled walls painted a chalky off-white. Above the kitchen window hung a wooden clock in the shape of a knobby ship's wheel, the hands frozen in place. On the walls of the living room were half a dozen framed paintings, all Florida landscapes of a similar, realistic style. In one, the long neck of a wind-blown palm tree curved over a pale beach. In another, a stately bright poinciana shaded a dirt road. In a third, an anhinga took flight through dense wetlands beneath dark clouds ringed by silvery sunlight. Off the main room of the house was a brief hallway and three closed doors.

When we were done, Frankie scrambled onto the sofa and looked through a large window at the open ocean. I noticed a canvas bag on the seat beside him, overstuffed with mounds of yarn pierced by a pair of knitting needles.

“Frankie, come back,” I said.

“He's fine there,” said Charlie.

There were two large coolers stacked beneath a window in the kitchen. Charlie started filling them with the ice I'd brought.

“Did you build this house?” I said.

“No.”

“Who did?”

“My uncle.” He washed his hands at the sink. “Did you have time for lunch?” he said without looking up. For a moment I thought he might not have been talking to me. “Is the boy hungry?”

Frankie spun around and waved both arms—this was how he signaled me—and signed:
Banana
.

We hadn't eaten. “I brought snacks,” I said to Frankie, signing as I spoke.

“It's late,” said Charlie. “We'll have a meal.” He looked up quickly, then away again. He was so wary of making eye contact that I watched him unheeded. He had the compact, stocky-legged body of a wrestler or swimmer, and his face was square in shape and sun-worn, deeply lined across the forehead and around the mouth and eyes. His straight hair was brown with a lot of white at the temples, parted messily. His lips were thin and pale, his mouth set in concentration. I would have guessed he was older than he was, older than my father.

“We don't want to put you out,” I said. “Tell me what I can do.”

“Sit down.” He pointed at a low wooden armchair with leather cushions. “That's the comfortable one.”

I brought a bottle of water, now warm, to Frankie.
Boat
, Frankie signed, pointing through the window at a distant ship, smokestacks branching into the sky.

“Cruise ship,” I said. I didn't know the sign.

Charlie opened and closed the refrigerator, putting away groceries, but no light went on inside.

“Is there electricity?” I said.

“Generators,” he said, motioning downstairs, where I'd noticed a small room in one corner beneath the house, across from the stairway.

“Water?” I said.

“There's a rainwater tank,” he said. “The commode flushes, the sink works. But drink only bottled water, please.”

He filled a glass from a gallon jug of water and placed it on the coffee table in front of me. Then he brought down a tray from a cabinet and started pulling items from the coolers, chopping and arranging them in white bowls: strawberries, squares of pineapple, green olives, hunks of French bread, two kinds of cheese, carrots.

When he was done, he moved a stool from the breakfast bar to the sink, then said Frankie's name to get his attention. “Come wash your hands,” he said.

Frankie complied, cupping the wedge of soap Charlie handed him, then taking a long time to dry his hands on a faded green dish towel. He raised both arms toward Charlie before climbing down from the stool, and before I could step forward to help, Charlie had lifted Frankie under the arms and set him on his feet. Frankie made his way back to the sofa. Charlie turned on a radio that sat on the ledge above the sink, and from it came a scratchy thread of classical music. The tray he'd prepared reminded me of a kaleidoscope, all the colors distinct but nestled tightly. He sat on the sofa and handed me a plate.

“Eat,” he said, offering the bread. His eyes landed briefly on mine. To Frankie, he said, “You, too.”

“This is lovely,” I said. “Thank you.”

Frankie bounced down onto his rump and ambled to the table, eyes wide. Charlie chewed slowly, glancing at Frankie, who ignored his plate and went from bowl to bowl, choosing each bite. After eating his first chunk of pineapple—it wasn't a fruit I tended to buy—he emitted the softest sigh of pleasure. This gave me a little thrill, but I kept my cool. He pointed to the bowl of pineapple and signed,
What name?

“Pineapple,” I said. “We'll look it up when we get home.”

And the fish
, he signed.

“And the jellyfish,” I said.

Charlie watched us but didn't say anything.

I said to Charlie, “Henry wanted to make sure you're okay with one of the reds he used.”

“I'm sure it's fine,” he said.

Maybe it was the heat, but I felt no urge to stoke conversation. The air was still. In the distance came the buzz of a boat engine, but then it passed. Gulls squawked. After a while, all that was left on the tray were the stubby green heads of the strawberries and a small mound of wrinkled olive pits. I offered to clean up. Charlie shrugged by way of agreement. As I worked, Frankie dropped to the linoleum and army-crawled to the open doorway, where sunlight spread across the floor. He placed his hands in the patch of light, keeping his fingers inside its boundaries, then rearranged them and did it again. This was the kind of thing that could occupy him for long stretches. Charlie watched him.

I said, “I was told it was no problem if he came along.”

“It's fine,” said Charlie, wiping his face. To Frankie, he said, “You're what—four?”

Frankie held up two fingers, then corrected himself by adding one more.

“I see,” said Charlie. He brought his hands—they were thick-fingered, nails neatly trimmed—to his knees and rubbed the worn denim. “I gather you don't like a lot of talky talk.”

Frankie nodded, then shook his head.

“I don't much care for it, either,” said Charlie.

I dried the last of the bowls and put them away, then returned to the living room, where Frankie now crouched over a laminated fishing map of Biscayne Bay. I wasn't sure what was supposed to happen next. In awkward situations, I called on my manners; this was my mother in me. “You were nice to feed us,” I said.

Charlie stood and crossed his arms against his chest. “I hate this beginning part,” he said. “Every time, all uphill.”

“You've had a lot of assistants?”

“A handful. The last fellow was with me almost a year. You won't last that long.”

I couldn't read his tone. “Probably not.”

He went to the corner and brought back an empty white cooler. “Keep this. Every time, bring me ice. As much as you can handle.”

“No problem,” I said.

“And take away the trash. I try to keep it to a minimum, but there's always some.”

I went to the kitchen and pulled the bag from the trash can. He took it from me, saying, “You'll need a library card if you don't have one already. And you'll need to get my mail from the post office once a week, I don't care what day. There's a Friday list—you have it already? Did you talk to Riggs?”

“Not yet.”

He went through a hallway door and came out again, closing the door behind him. He handed me a piece of paper, another photocopied list. “I have a project. We'll start Friday, if you can spare a few hours. If you want to get paid, I'd call Riggs right away.”

I scanned the list. “You eat a lot of fruit.”

“I was in the navy,” he said. “There's a history of scurvy.”

I assumed this was a joke, but he gave no indication. I had questions—I would have liked to know how often I'd be coming, what exactly I'd be doing, and how much I'd be paid—but the way he avoided my eyes discouraged me from asking. I signed to Frankie:
Let's go
.

Charlie followed us downstairs and lifted Frankie into the boat, then dropped the garbage bag into the well. I stuck out my hand and Charlie shook it. “Friday?” I said.

“Before noon, please.”

I turned to get into the boat, but he put a hand on my elbow. He spoke in a low, rough voice. “One more thing. The boy's vest—it's too big. He'll need one that fits. Don't bring him back otherwise.” He put up his hands to indicate the obvious: we were in the middle of open water. The current carried on beneath our feet. The porch and the stairs were nominally railed, the dock not at all. One could step off and be swallowed. In addition to a new vest, he would need more swim lessons.

“Got it,” I said.

Charlie handled the boat lines, then stood on the dock with his hands in his pockets while I started the engine. At the mouth of the channel, I looked back, and he was out of sight. The water was smooth and the sun high. In the distance, the Miami skyline was a low cluster of sun-washed buildings, insubstantial as watercolors. As we neared, the shoreline parted, revealing our path. I throttled down and peered into the dark hollows of the mangrove roots, searching for an ibis or heron or turtle to show Frankie. A footprint-shaped swirl rose in the water off the port side.

Look
, I signed to Frankie, pointing with my index and middle fingers from my eyes toward the water.

He jumped down from the bench and I put the boat into neutral. Together we watched the manatee's dome break the surface. Its molded-clay face appeared for a long moment, then it sloughed past, tail waving in slow motion.

 

BEFORE GRAHAM GOT HOME THAT
night, Frankie and I sat at the kitchen table with the
American Sign Language Dictionary
. I'd gotten pretty good at understanding the ASL's descriptions of signs, and the
jellyfish
one was a breeze. Frankie and I did it together: one palm out flat, the other open above it, then all fingertips brought together, then open again, in imitation of the creature's movement in the water. For
pineapple
, we made a
P
at the corners of our mouths and jiggled a little, which Frankie found hilarious. His mouth opened wide and out came quick gusts of breath, a silent guffaw.

Graham struggled through the sliding glass door and dropped his panniers. He frowned at the dictionary on the table; he'd lost patience with the speech problem. He opened his arms to Frankie, who scrambled up the trunk of his father like a monkey, then sat complacently in his arms without holding on, as if perched on a throne.

Over dinner on the
Lullaby
's back deck, we exchanged details of the day. Graham had been assigned to a team that was developing a new kind of weather buoy, and he was in charge of improving the software that collected and transmitted the buoy's data. I described our trip to Stiltsville. When I mentioned lunch, Graham cocked his head at me, his fork paused in the air above his plate.

“What kind of job is this?”

“I really don't know.”

“So what's he like, this hermit?”

I thought about how to answer. “He's intense, quiet. Kind of formal.”

“Is he strange?”

“Not particularly. Not that I could tell.”

“Seems as if he'd be strange, living like that.”

When he was done eating—Frankie relished snacks but at mealtimes became suddenly disinterested in food—he emptied the contents of his pockets onto the table, item by item. This was a habit he'd developed: he stashed things in his pockets during the day, and at night he presented them to us like treasures: stickers backed with lint, a tiny elephant from the toy box, a sugar packet from Lidia's kitchen. Tonight, the last item was a plastic yellow sea horse the size of my pinkie finger. I touched the sharp ridges along its spine.