The Man Who Ivented Florida (9 page)

Joseph stiffened. "Jesus Christ," he whispered, "Dracula?"

But it wasn't the one he had imagined. This Dracula was a big black dog with pointed ears and skinny hips. It loped across the yard, then froze when it sensed Joseph.

This will be a good test. If the dog barks, I'm alive. If it doesn't. . . well, I've got problems.

Suddenly, the dog gave a low growl and charged right at him. Joseph grinned—he must still be alive, because that mean dog wanted to bite him! But then the animal banked sharply to the right and disappeared, howling, into the shrubbery. Joseph was thrown into such an instant state of emotional turmoil that he didn't even notice the cat streaking off ahead of the dog.

"Can it be I'm really dead?" Joseph wailed—out loud, for he was certain that no one could hear him. "Am I really a goddamn ghost?"

Then he heard a train whistle from the far distance. "Shit—now I've gone and missed the train to boot!"

He felt wretched. He remembered all the things he had left undone in his life. He punished himself with myriad regrets and accused himself of a thousand stupidities. He groaned and moaned bitterly until the door of the house flew open again and a man stepped out. "Get outta this yard, you damn cat!" Then the man at the door watched in shock as a huge figure dressed in a cowboy hat and skeleton costume went moping across to the next lot, then out of sight.

But soon Joseph Egret, who in his entire life had never allowed regrets to linger, began to recover from the shock of being dead. If he were a ghost, his new form might offer certain opportunities that his old living form had not. He studied the possibilities as he walked past more nice houses. He could steal money most probably. Take from the rich and give to his friends. That would be nice. And he might make a ghostly visit to the women's shower room at the local college. He had always dreamed of a chance to do that. Maybe being a ghost wouldn't be so bad, after all. He'd become a phantom Robin Hood—with hobbies.

By now, Joseph was feeling better. Death would have its advantages—if he was left to his own devices. He didn't want heaven,- he just wanted to be left alone. He would visit his old friends and scare the hell out of them. And no adult better harm a child while he was around! Joseph grinned maliciously. Those fat nurses back at the rest home better be on their toes the next time they reached for a tampon. As for Tucker Gatrell's claims that he had found the living water . . . well, that just made no sense. But then, Tucker rarely did make sense.

Joseph was on what seemed to be a vast rolling lawn now. Houses surrounded him. He walked up a hill and came to a patch of soft grass with a flag in the middle: Thus he knew he was on a golf course. Joseph had never been on a golf course before. It smelled good. Down the rolling fairway, beyond the tar-slick pond, he could see the clubhouse. It was lighted as if for a party. People mingled outside beneath Japanese lanterns and the swimming pool was Jell-O green. Joseph remembered that Marjorie had said something about a bake sale at the country club. That had been days ago, but maybe they had some food left over. Joseph loved rhubarb pie and he was fond of peach cobbler. He decided to have a look.

As he got nearer, he could smell something cooking on a grill: steaks. Joseph liked steak even better than cobbler. He peeked through a bush and saw a chubby man in a chief's apron turning slabs of meat in a long row. The smell of the meat made Joseph's stomach growl, and he thought, If I'm a ghost, then I'm a hungry goddamn ghost. And if I'm not a ghost, I'll swipe a couple of them steaks, anyway.

Joseph kept a high copse between himself and the party. He watched the people laughing, talking, carrying drinks around. People with money, he could tell that by their clothes. People who knew one another but who seemed tense about something, nervous. Joseph could sense that, too. Then some of the people moved, clearing his view, and he could see why. Beyond the pool, a man and a woman were arguing. The man was tall but slumped, with gray hair. He had a drink glass in his hand and he was talking loudly, slurring his words. Saying mean things.

I'll be damned—

The woman was Marjorie.

Joseph watched this outrage for a time. Marjorie tried to walk away from the man, but he caught her arm and jerked her back. She began to cry, covering her face with her hands. The man pulled her hands apart, then hurried after her as she ran toward the clubhouse. She got to the clubhouse first, and the man stopped short, furious. The door that swung closed behind her read LADIES' LOCKER ROOM.

Joseph did not hesitate. If ever there were a job for a phantom, this was it. That the partygoers did not seem to notice as he sauntered toward the dressing room reassured Joseph. And when the man who had been harassing Marjorie let him pass through the door without question, he felt positively bold.

Being a ghost is gonna be fun, Joseph thought.

Tuck
was frying his supper and humming a tune written by his old flying buddy, Ervin T. Rouse, when he heard a car slide to a halt outside. He looked through the window. Big bloated car— Tuck couldn't tell the makes anymore—and Joseph Egret was climbing out. The Indian waved a farewell as the car tore off, throwing dust.

Joseph came into the house, grinning broadly. He carried a heavy grocery sack and there was a swelling beneath his eye.

Neither men were the type for social preamble or reunion niceties. Tuck went back to the stove, saying, " 'Bout time you got the
cojones
to leave that rat-hole rest home."

Joseph placed the grocery sack on the table. "Got steaks in here—some of them already cooked. Steaks and beer."

Tucker turned the chicken he was frying and got another pan for the steaks. "Stole 'em I suppose." Looking meaningfully at Joseph's swollen eye.

"This?" Joseph touched his face. "There was a lady friend of mine in trouble. This guy got upset when I followed her into the shower room. I woulda ducked, but I thought I was a . . ." It seemed rather silly now, thinking he was a ghost. "Anyway, I didn't think he could see me. After I knocked him and two or three others in the pool, things got kinda crazy. There was a lady screaming around with no clothes and a fire got started. But they didn't see me take these steaks. If they did, nobody said nothing."

Tuck decided not to pursue it. Later, around a campfire perhaps, it would be a good story to hear. Find out why Joseph was dressed like a skeleton, too. Had to be an interesting story behind that. But now, if the police came . . . well, it would be refreshing to be able to tell them the truth—that he didn't know anything about it.

The two men ate the chicken and steaks in silence, then Tucker leaned back in his chair, patted his stomach, and said, "Still takin' good care of myself, Joe. Left just enough room for a six-pack." He stood, found a foil packet of chewing tobacco and paper cups. Pushed a cup, then the foil packet across the table to Joseph, saying, "That woman who brung you, she's not coming back?"

"Women love me," Joseph explained sagely, "but they love to leave me, too." He had had two wives and more romances than Tuck, and he knew it was true. "But she said she might come see me someday. Said her gentleman friend was just drunk and hardly ever like that, but she'd see." Joseph said all this sadly, but Tucker recognized the thread of relief in his voice.

"Know exactly what you mean," he said, addressing the undertone rather than the words. "I had to pay a man cash money to take his woman back. Had to do it in secret so's she wouldn't find out. Hardest part was actin' heartbroke. That woman thought she was the best chili cook in the world. Had the windows open for a month after she left, just to air the place out."

Joseph nodded, comfortable in the understanding of an old friend. He had his nose to the foil pouch of tobacco, smiling at the sweetness of it, smiling at being out, alone, and on the loose again. "You going to the porch?"

Tucker had stood. "Yeah, but you ain't goin' nowhere till you put on a shirt and a pair of my jeans. Take off that stupid suit. After that I'll take you on a little walk, say good evening to Roscoe."

When he'd changed, Joseph followed Tuck outside, across the porch to the sand yard. Stars were pale blue in the black sky and thunderheads flickered in the high darkness, east over the Everglades, drawing wind from the mangrove thicket beyond the pasture. The village of Mango, what was left of it, was on a weak curvature of mud flat that created a harbor, and the harbor curved away toward the charcoal haze of the Ten Thousand Islands.

The islands separated Florida's mangrove coast from the Gulf of Mexico.

"Sally Carmel's back," Tucker said. He could see her sailboat moored off the end of the long dock. The halyard was flapping in the breeze, tapping against the mast, and Tucker thought, Whew, what a lonely sound.

"Who?"

Tuck said, "That little girl used to play around here. That tomboy kinda girl that liked birds. I know you remember her mother, Loretta."

Joseph made a soft whistling sound. "You bet I remember Loretta. Ran the fish house. Real tough business woman, and that body of hers . . ." He let the sentence trail off, picturing Loretta with her blond hair and the way she'd looked in a shirt with buttons.

Tucker had stopped at the shed, rummaging around until he found a Coleman lantern, saying, "I know, I know, but Loretta's in her grave now, so stop thinkin' what you're thinkin'."

"Just admiring her memory, that's all."

"Uh-huh." He fired the lantern. "Sally moved back a couple years ago, fixed up her mom's old shack"—Tucker motioned toward a white cottage with lighted windows—"fixed it up nice. Had some guy living with her a while, a husband, but then she kicked him out. Snooty kind of guy, thought he was smart."

"Good for her."

Tucker opened the pasture gate, and the two men walked along side by side, going slow, talking. Joseph knew where they were headed without having to ask—to the source of the water. As they walked, Tucker talked about the fish company closing down, about people moving away from Mango so they could make a living. "I still got them five shacks I used to rent. Down there off the mud flat? But they're all falling in. Can't get anybody to rent them 'cause they're such a mess." Then he talked about the state people planning to take the land so they could add it to the national park that extended down the west coast to the Florida Keys. Most of which Joseph already knew, but he let Tucker talk, anyway. Was used to the noise the man had to make; kind of enjoyed it, in fact, because it required so little effort on his part.

Tucker said, "So only a couple of us even bother living here anymore. The Hummels still live where they lived, and there's old Rigaberto with those idiot chickens of his. Them gawldamn birds—now I like a rooster that makes noise in the morning, but the bastards he's got go at it all day. Bunch of little banties, and you know how mean they are. I had a couple nice cats, but the damn chickens run 'em off, stole their damn food out of the bowls. And we got a new woman up the road who raises a garden with pink flamingo statues in it. She gives me collards, and her husband's a hell of a nice guy. And there's a retired church organist lives in that trailer. Come a windy night, she'll wait till 'bout midnight and start banging out 'The Old Rugged Cross' full bore. But sometimes she calls me and I do her heavy lifting, then she has me over for breakfast."

"I like a good breakfast," Joseph said.

"Hell, then tonight when she's asleep, we'll go roll that organ a hers out the door again. Give her a reason to invite us."

"Again?"

Tuck cleared his throat. "Well, somebody give her the idea that, the way the earth spins, things can roll around at night."

Joseph didn't say anything, and Tucker replied to his silence: "A man's gotta eat, don't he?"

The scrawny cattle in the pasture shied at the approach of the men, then calmed, chewing, when they saw it was only Tucker. Roscoe came trotting out, big white horse nodding his head, pawing. Tuck said, "You don't believe me about the vitamin water, look at this." He put his hand on the horse's flank and put the lantern on the ground. "There they are, plain as rain. Roscoe's nuts."

Joseph squatted and looked. "I don't remember you having him gelded."

"Sure did. Vet had him twitched and drugged, and Roscoe still tried to take him apart." Tucker scratched the horse's neck. "Didn't you, boy? Ha! Living out here with no mare, he was starting to act weird, but I see now it was them damn heifers leading him on. Won't happen again, old boy!" Tuck took something from his pocket—a carrot—and the horse followed behind as the two men cut across the pasture, through the low myrtle and palmetto thickets. Mangrove trees at the edge of the bay formed a natural fence at the back end of the pasture, and Tuck held the lantern high, looking for something. "It's around here someplace," he said. "Little opening in the mangroves." He swore softly when he stepped in a fresh cow pie, then tripped and almost fell as he tried to clean his boot.

"Hum . . ." said Joseph, starring. "What's that thing you kicked?" He picked up something and held it to the light. "Stick with a ribbon on it."

Tucker was still cleaning his boot. "That? Oh, that. Doesn't seem to be much of anything. Golf flag for midgets? Ha-ha."

"Looks like a survey stake to me."

"Yeah, well—you named it." Tucker dropped the stick he had been using, picked up the lantern, and resumed the search. "Florida state flag, that's what it is. I can't fool you, never could, so I might just as well come out and say it plain."

Joseph said, "That'll be the day."

"Naw, I mean it. I was going to tell you, but not tonight. Didn't want to spoil your homecoming. Hell, you know how sentimental I am."

"Uh-huh."

Tucker said, "Here it is!" meaning the path. Then to the horse: "Stay here, Roscoe. I don't want you dropping pies in the water." Tucker stepped over a little arch of mangrove roots, snaking his way through the low trees. Mosquitoes found them—a swirling veil of silver in the lantern light—and Tucker continued to talk as they twisted along the trail, ducking low. "What's going on, Joseph, I used to own 'bout a hundred and twenty-five acres. Owned that whole stretch along the bay, them docks, the shacks—well, hell, you know what I owned."