Shark River (20 page)

I found that story touching on several levels, and not only because tears welled in Ransom’s eyes as she told it.

A woman who believed in dragons. A woman who believed in taking control of her own destiny and beginning a second life—her Womanly Life, she called it.

Which is exactly what she decided to do.

Looking at Ransom, it was difficult to imagine her fat and soft. No . . . it was impossible, looking at those legs, that hard body. According to her, though, the death of her son was the beginning of a physical decline that nearly ruined her. “I had me a job waitressing at the little restaurant down at New Bight. I’d drink goat milk shakes and eat sweets all day long, still always so tired I could barely make myself walk home to bed. Got so, my husband, he wouldn’t touch me. I strip my clothes off, man, he look the
other
way.”

It got worse. On Cat Island, mail is delivered by slow boat, which works its way down the Bahamian chain. During one mail call, she’d had to deliver meals to the crew. As they ate, she overheard them laughing and joking about a man named Ebanks who had wives on at least three neighboring islands, lots of children, too. The reason it was so funny was because the postal service couldn’t keep all the Ebanks women straight.

“That a very dark period for me,” she said. “A time come in a woman’s life when we got the choice to give up, start living like we old and not womanly no more. Or we can fight back. Givin’ up, that the easy thing to do, ’cause you just keep sliding and sliding like you got no control ’til the end. That what I learned, my brother! People, they not afraid of dyin’. Dyin’, that be easy. What we really afraid of is that we not strong enough to make our living a success.”

Ransom decided to take the risk, find out if she was strong enough. Ironically, her pivotal moment was catalyzed by Sinclair Benton, Tucker’s old enemy.

Now, over the noise of my trawl boat’s burbling engine, she said, “That the part I didn’t tell you, but that Obeah man, Benton, he had somethin’ to do with me choosing to change what I’d become. What happened was, I was waiting tables at the restaurant when the big witch walk in. Sinclair, he always got two or three bad men with him, and he scary enough by his own self. They all three sit down at my table and Sinclair, he grabs my shorts as I walk by, holding me by the rump. Then he looks up at me with those lil’ berry eyes of his and he says, ‘Back when you’s a high yella girl, I tried to get you in the bushes many times even though you spawned by white trash, but you always run away. I tell you somethin’ about how the world changes. You still high yella, but now you a high yella cow. These days, you try to get ol’ Benton in the bushes, I be the one to run away!’

“Ev’body in the restaurant thought that very funny. They laugh and laugh. I laughed, too, on the outside. But on the inside, I felt something change in me. Something way down deep.”

I liked the flint clarity of her voice when she told me that story. Liked the unemotional resolve. It had been the final indignity, which made even more understandable the course of discipline she chose.

“What I knew was, I’d already lived a life for other people—it what I call my Motherly Life—which is the same as saying I’d lived as a person that was only part me. I decided, fuck ’em man! It were time I lived my next years just the way I wanted. I thought of it as my second life. What I call my Womanly Life. Every time I got weak or scared, I’d jus’ remind myself of Benton and all the others in that restaurant who laughed like I really was some ol’ cow, and that’s where I found strength.”

It took her several weeks to build up enough momentum so that she didn’t dread, day by day, her new routine of work and exercise. It was nearly six months before she came to actually enjoy it.

“That mountain where Daddy Gatrell hide the doubloons? I didn’t even know they was hidden there at the time, but every day, I’d walk partway up that mountain, huffin’ and puffin’ like I had a wagon attached to my big brown ass. But I didn’t quit and I’d get a little further and a little further each time.

“Something else I did was, we got a real pretty hotel on Cat Island at Fernandez Bay. It’s Mister Armbrister’s place, old British loyalists people, and the beach out front has water like glass over a bowl of sugar. I started swimmin’ along that beach. Doggy paddlin’ at first, kinda pulling myself along. It was just like climbin’ the mountain. I’d go a little further each and every time.

“I walked every day and swam two, maybe three times a week. I stopped drinking them goat’s milk shakes and eatin’ them sweets, and I didn’t smoke no more cigarettes, either, except for a lil’ ganja now and then to give me a smile. Missus Armbrister, she figured out what I was trying to do, and she showed me a little outdoor weight bench they got there. So I started lifting weights, too.

“After a year, I’d walk by a mirror and didn’t even recognize the strong woman I saw there. Man, I liked that woman! I could run up that mountain, clear to crazy Father Jerome’s monastery. I could swim all the way down the beach to where the surf hits the cliff. Missus Armbrister, she had to send off to Lauderdale to get more weights, that’s how much we was lifting.

“Only thing I didn’t like was my bubbies still had a little sag, but one of the guests at the Armbrister’s hotel, turns out he a famous plastic surgeon when he not sitting around drinkin’ rum and fishin’ for boneyfish. I danced with that nice doctor three maybe four nights, and bring him coconut drinks when he sitting out there under the palms. One night he whisper to me, ‘What you give me to meet you in Nassau and fix your bubbies for you free?’ I told him, ‘Man, you so handsome and sweet, I give you
that
anyway. But you fix my bubbies, somethin’ nice I also do for you is promise not to tell your wife.’ ”

She was Tucker Gatrell’s daughter, alright.

“Getting that letter from Daddy Gatrell was a sign to me,” she said. “It hurt my heart not to know that he’d died, but it also made me feel good knowing he cared. Benton, he wasn’t the only witch on our island. We got us a good witch, too, an old woman, Mizz Baker, who give me these beads for luck, and fix me up some special gris-gris bags. You know what a gris-gris bag is?”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a little yellow pouch about the size of two tea bags, sealed with string. Inside, she said, were herbs and a magic potion that the witch had said a spell over, giving them power.

When she handed the pouch to me, I bounced it light in my palm, then held it to my nose. It smelled of turpentine and some kind of power. We were off Useppa Island, another of Florida’s exclusive, private islands. I could see men in white shirts and shorts playing croquet. I could see people eating lunch on the patio outside the Collier Inn. It was a striking contrast: a voodoo talisman and a Obeah believer backdropped by modern America’s affluent.

“That a gris-gris bag Mizz Baker made especially for good luck. When she give it to me, she say, ‘The letter from your daddy, that a sign it time to go out and start your Womanly Life.’ So that really why I’m here, my brother. And why I’m giving this gris-gris bag to you. The thing done already brought me good luck ’cause we together now. I hope it bring you the same good fortune.”

 

 

 

The first thing I did after securing my skiff and the trawler was check the shark pen, which is on the deepwater, sunrise side of my piling house. I stood on the top deck and watched three bull sharks, all thick as small ponies, swim a slow clockwise perimeter along the heavy netting.

Usually, they swam in just the opposite direction. Lately, though, it was clockwise. I’ve never understood why.

I checked their feeding chart—Jeth had fed them twenty fresh mullet that morning. That was the most difficult thing about keeping sharks in captivity—getting them to eat. They could be very fussy. But these three seemed to be doing okay. They looked healthy. One, a female, had a very deep mating scar on her back, which I’d treated with antibiotics. It looked to be nearly healed.

Standing at my shoulder, Ransom said, “Man, the way you look at them scary animals, I bet you got names for all three of ’em.”

I answered, “Why would anyone name a fish?” and moved on.

Then I checked my fish tank, which is the primary storage unit for the plants and animals I catch and collect and keep alive.

The tank is actually a thousand-gallon wooden cistern, built like a whiskey barrel, that I’d cut in two, mounted on the widest part of the dock and then added a sub-sand filter and a hundred-gallon upper reservoir to improve water clarity. PVC pipe and a Briggs raw water pump kept it oxygenated.

The tank is so large that it’s a miniature, self-contained sea biota, its own little saltwater universe, and so heavy that I’d had to have extra pilings jetted in beneath it for support.

In the tank are local flora and fauna: turtle grass, tunicates, sea hydroids, and several common vertebrates, such as killifish, small snappers, immature groupers, several immature tarpon and snook, plus plenty of shrimp so the fish don’t eat each other. There are also sea horses, whelks, and tulip shells, and as many reef squid as I can keep alive and uneaten. I like to keep squid in the tank because they are delicate, and good indicators of an aquarium’s integrity.

Ransom followed me around like a shadow as I checked the filters and water flow. She seemed amused that I would keep fish as what she perceived to be pets, names or no names. She was also very comfortable with my house—surprising, because it’s a simple place. Not all women like it. It’s two weather-bleached cottages, really, under one tin roof, built at the turn of the previous century on a plank platform over the water, and connected to the mangrove shoreline by ninety feet of boardwalk.

She looked at the cypress planking, the peeling gray paint and the outdoor, rain cistern shower. Looked at the Franklin fireplace, which is my only source of heat. Considered the little gas stove where I cook and the simple ship’s refrigerator. Noted the single bed, the sparse furnishings, the worn throw rugs, and completely misinterpreted what it all meant.

“Man,” she said, “I thought I was poor, living in my lil’ house on Cat Island. At least I got me a portable heater for when the northers blow and a television set that gets two Miami stations and one outta Nassau. When we find that six thousand dollars, my brother, you keep it all. You need the money a lot more than this girl.”

She didn’t seem to understand or believe why I was amused by that. “Why you smilin’ at me? You think I’m joking? No, I mean what I’m saying—we use the money, buy you some decent furniture, then I take what’s left over if there some money remaining.”

Perhaps there is a sense of subconscious linkage due to familial genetics. More likely, it was because it was absolutely impossible not to like and trust this woman even though I’d tried to remain disinterested, indifferent. Didn’t matter. She’d won me over and there was nothing I could do about it. Whatever the reason, I decided to give her a vague idea—a very vague idea—of what my income is per year.

After I told her, she said, incredulously, “You got to be kiddin’!”

No, I wasn’t kidding.

“You got all that money, why you live so poor?”

I looked around my house, trying to see it through her eyes. “Money’s got nothing to do with the way I choose to live.”

She found that funny. “Man, money got everything to do with how a person live. You got money, you should show it off a little. Get a little flashy, man. Let people know.”

I said to her, “Once they know, then what?” Meaning that, like giving a name to a shark, it made no sense.

I don’t believe people who say they don’t care about money and I don’t trust people who care too much.

The acquisition of money is necessary to living a life of acceptable independence. The question, of course, is what is acceptable? And how much will it cost?

A couple of years back, after a beery night of philosophical discussion, Tomlinson and I had both decided to take an active interest in acquiring money. I saw it as a clinical exercise. He saw it as a spiritual experiment.

We both succeeded way beyond our expectations, but I feel no pride in what has been the steady accumulation of paper wealth because I had no emotional interest in it to begin with.

The same is probably true for Tomlinson.

Reason’s simple: The credit belongs entirely to Mack. Mack, who owns and operates Dinkin’s Bay, has a New Zealander’s appreciation for thriftiness and a genius for the American stock market. Coincidental to that discussion, I’d just separated a very evil man from a sizable chunk of money, and I’d asked Mack to invest it all for me. I didn’t care if I lost the entire bundle—indifference can also work as a very effective cleanser of ethics.

By the end of that fiscal year, had I not reinvested my dividend payments, profits would have far exceeded what I make collecting and selling marine specimens.

I already had a sizable cache of cash hidden away in foreign accounts, so I’d taken ten percent of what I estimated to be the total and had Mack invest that, too. Tomlinson did the same with his own sizable inheritance after the untimely death of his father. Without even trying or really caring very much, we’d both become men of means and perhaps even wealthy, depending on how the market went and whose standards of wealth you used.

I was checking a recent and already much regretted acquisition—a telephone answering machine—as I explained this to her.

She said, “You tellin’ me you make all that money and don’t even do no work for it?”

On a pad of paper, I noted that a Professor Steven Dougherty had called from Grinnell University in Iowa with an order for three hundred small horseshoe crabs preserved in formalin, as I said, “There’s risk involved. Not as much now because the guy who does the investing for me—you’ll meet him tonight, a man named Mack. This guy, Mack, he handles my investments, and he’s done what they call diversify. What that means is, he’s spread the money out into more dependable stocks, which are supposed to be safer. The marina has a big party every Friday night. In just a couple hours, right at sunset. Mack’ll be there.”