The Missing Manatee (4 page)

“Let's begin now, and find out who will be the lucky guy or gal to win this fantastic home karaoke machine!” He pulled a slip of paper from a box and said, “Please welcome our first contestant, Mrs. Arlene Kimball, who will be singing ‘Proud Mary.'”

“Good,” Memaw said. “I didn't want to go first.” She gave me a wink and added, “The darker it gets, the better I'll look up there.”

Arlene Kimball did an okay job, I guess, but I whispered to Memaw, “You'd give that ‘rollin' on the river' part a lot more pizzazz, wouldn't you, Memaw?”

“Shush, now,” she said, but she was smiling, and she gave my hand a little squeeze.

The deejay cupped his hand to his ear to listen for the applause, then moved the meter to 4. Arlene smiled kind of weakly, and sat down next to a guy I figured was Mr. Kimball. He'd been cheering his head off anyway.

The next lady sang a slow, sad song about the morning light coming after the dark, dark night. Her voice got real high and quivery toward the end, and, with a tragic expression to go with the mournful words, she clutched at her throat with one hand and dropped her head, to show she was plain wrung out from the emotion of it all.

I rolled my eyes at Memaw and she laughed. There was some polite clapping, and the meter registered 2.

A few of the singers who followed were pretty good. We got a bad scare from a husband-and-wife team who scored an 8, and a young guy who couldn't sing for anything, but had a lot of friends who clapped and cheered and whistled and stomped his score up to a 9.

When it was Memaw's turn, I was suddenly nervous as all get-out. But she walked up there as if she owned the place. No embarrassed looks or bashful giggles for Memaw. The minute she started snapping her fingers, I noticed everybody in the place sat up and paid real close attention. When she got to the part where she sang, “One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over
you,
” she narrowed her eyes and pointed out into the crowd, and it was clear to everyone that Memaw was no one to mess with. Then during the talking part she made her voice real low and dangerous, and the music got spiky and jazzy. Memaw started her boots marching and the crowd went crazy. When she was finished, Dirty Dan ran right up onstage and gave her a big hug and a kiss, lifting her right off the ground to do it.

Well, I probably don't have to tell the rest. Memaw scored a 10, and the deejay said she'd have gotten an 11 if the meter had had one. There were a few more contestants after that, and I felt sorry for them having to follow Memaw. It was as if they had the stuffing knocked out of them before they even started.

Mac and Earl came over to congratulate Memaw afterwards, and they helped Dirty Dan and me carry the karaoke machine out to Mom's car. Mom walked with us, while Memaw stayed to collect a few last compliments from her admirers.

Mac told Mom he needed to speak to her, so I got into the car, and they walked off into the parking lot a ways.

I watched as they talked. I couldn't hear their exact words, but I didn't need to. I'd heard them argue so many times about what I was and wasn't allowed to do that I could pretty much imagine the conversation.

Mom shook her head, and Mac talked some more. I crossed my fingers, whispering over and over, “Please let me go, please, please, please let me go.”

Then Mom frowned and folded her arms over her chest.

“Please, please, please,” I murmured, while she held on to her elbows and stared up into the sky, looking annoyed. It seemed like a long time.

Finally, Mom looked at Mac and said loud enough so I could hear it from the car, “All right. But you're in charge. If that boy comes back with one hair on his head harmed, you and Dan are both going to have to answer to me.”

Mac nodded and said a few more words, then Mom was walking toward the car. Mac headed back inside, but first he turned to me with the grin that made him look like a big, naughty kid, and gave me a thumbs-up.

I could hardly believe it. I was going tarpon fishing with Dirty Dan.

Five

I had a hard time getting to sleep
that night, with my mind flying back and forth between Mom and Mac, the prospect of fishing with Dan, and the dead manatee. I kept trying to figure out who the killer might be and what he looked like, and how the whole thing had happened and why.

Then I'd picture a scene in which I had a huge tarpon on the line. Sometimes I landed it; sometimes I did something wrong and it got away.

When I finally got to sleep, I had some very weird dreams. The manatee killer appeared. As I fought him, he turned into a giant hammerhead shark, laughing at me, his big mouth open to show rows of sharp teeth.

The shark turned into my English teacher, Mr. Giordano, who had given us a writing assignment to do during our break. We'd all groaned, and he had tried to make it better by saying, “It only has to be a first draft. And I think you're going to like this one. I want you to write about a pet peeve.”

My buddy Lenny had raised his hand and said, “How about if your pet peeve is having to do writing assignments over vacation?”

All the kids had laughed. Mr. Giordano had just smiled and said, “Fine. Then write about it. But let me feel the passion in your words.”

I'd forgotten about the assignment, but I guess my dream brain hadn't. I had a very passionate nightmare about staring at a blank sheet of paper for hours with no clue of what to say.

Then I dreamed I was outside Mom's bedroom hearing those words: “I don't want you to come back. Not now. Not ever.”

I was relieved when Memaw knocked on my door in the morning, calling, “Rise and shine!”

“Come on in,” I croaked.

She peered in, her eyes bright and wide awake. “Come on and get up, Skeeter,” she said. “I'm real hungry after last night's excitement. We're going to Sunday brunch at Fat Boy's to celebrate—my treat!”

I knew there was no point in getting between Memaw and a meal at Fat Boy's Bar-B-Q, so I dragged myself out of bed, brushed my teeth, and got dressed in a groggy daze. I sat in the backseat on the way to the restaurant, and dozed until we got there.

Once we were seated in our booth, it was plain that while Memaw was still fired up over her karaoke triumph, Mom was in a very different mood. She looked around the room, sighed, and said gloomily, “I'd like to pack up and move far away from here.”

That woke me up. I didn't like the sound of it at all. I didn't want to move anywhere; I liked it fine where we were.

Mom was too busy being bummed out to notice my distress. “Then I think, where would I go at this point in my life?” she went on. “Where else could I go where I'd be the best-looking woman in town, simply because I have all my teeth and weigh less than two hundred pounds?”

Sunday is all-you-can-eat day at Fat Boy's, and there were a lot of folks taking what you might call full advantage of the offer. As I looked around the place, I thought Mom might have a point.

But Memaw wasn't having any of it. “
I
live in this town, and I'll have you know I weigh the same as the day I was married,” she said haughtily. She reached up to pat her hair. It was the same blond color it was when she got married, too, thanks to the smelly foam she put on it every month.

I smiled, noticing that Memaw didn't say anything about having all her teeth. I'd seen what she called her “partial” in a glass by her bed plenty of times.

“And anyway,” Mom said, “who cares what I look like? The only eligible bachelors around here are fishing guides, and I made that mistake once already.”

Oh, boy. I hoped she wouldn't get going on that subject. I never knew what to do when she started. I didn't want to argue with her, but at the same time, I always felt as though I should defend Mac. Besides, what was she doing talking about eligible bachelors?

Luckily, Memaw spoke before Mom could get up a head of steam. “Well, I don't worry about such things myself,” she said, picking up her menu and studying it with a hungry eye.

“That's fine for you,” Mom pointed out. “You're not looking for a husband.”

“Who says I'm not?” Memaw asked indignantly, giving me a sly wink. “There were a number of gentlemen last evening who seemed interested in the position, if I do say so myself.”

But I was still trying to take in what Mom had said. “Are
you?
” I asked her, and I was embarrassed to hear my voice come out kind of squeaky. “Looking for a husband, I mean?”

She blushed, as if just realizing what she'd said. “Oh, Skeet, no. Not really. But, well, your father and I—”

“I know,” I interrupted. “You kicked him out for good.” I was surprised and a little scared by how angry I sounded.

Mom looked surprised, too. Then her face darkened. “Has he been talking to you about this? Because he promised me—”

I interrupted again. “No, it wasn't him. It was you. On the phone yesterday morning.”

Her face looked crumply for a minute. Then she straightened up and brushed the hair away from her forehead. “I'm sorry you heard that, Skeeter. Your father and I intended to talk to you about this together. And we will, honey. Don't you worry about it right now, okay?”

It was a ridiculous thing to say, and I didn't answer. What was I supposed to say?
Sure, Mom, okay. I won't worry about a thing.

“As for that business about looking for a husband,” she went on, “well, I was only talking, honey. I'm sorry. Don't pay any attention to me.”

“We're not,” Memaw said firmly. “You can sit there in a blue funk if you want to, but Skeet and I are here to celebrate, right, Skeeter?”

“Right,” I mumbled, opening my menu and burying my face in it.

We were quiet until the waitress came to take our order. After she left, there was another long, uneasy silence, until finally Memaw said, “I declare! If I'd known you were going to be such party poopers, I'd have come by myself. I'd be better off trying to celebrate with that napkin holder than with you two sad sacks. Maybe I'll just move over to the next table and see if those nice folks would like to hear about my karaoke machine.”

Mom sighed deeply and gazed into space. But I felt bad for Memaw. I was trying to think of something to liven up the party when I remembered I hadn't told Mom and Memaw about the manatee, what with the karaoke contest and all. So while we waited for our food to come, I did, leaving out the part about the radio being busted. Luckily, Mom didn't think to ask why I hadn't called for help.

She and Memaw were both real interested, and asked all kinds of questions, most of which I didn't know the answers to, such as what was going to happen next. And the one everyone seemed to ask: What kind of awful person would do such a thing?

Memaw was especially outraged. “I swear,” she said. “If that isn't the flat-out meanest thing I can think of.” Her blue eyes flashed.

I had to smile, thinking I wouldn't want to be the killer if Memaw ever discovered him. Especially if she had her boots on.

Anyway, after talking about the manatee, I began looking around the restaurant, playing a game, checking out each man to see if he looked like the manatee-killer type. I had the feeling that if I saw him, I'd know somehow. If you were a bad guy like that, wouldn't it show? The people at Fat Boy's might have been above average in size, but they didn't appear very menacing.

I started thinking about what I'd do after brunch, and decided I'd go out in my skiff. I could pick up some extra money by catching baitfish and selling them to Larry, who would sell them to fishermen. I really did want to get the cash I needed to get a new antenna for my radio, the sooner the better.

“Mom? Can I—” She shot me a look. Mom was determined not to have me grow up “ignorant,” which was what she called it when people said “ain't” for “isn't,” and “can” when they meant “may.” Exactly as she was determined that I have “a better life” than hers or Mac's.

She had so many plans for me, sometimes it made me tired. She was always sending away for college brochures and reminding me I had to keep my grades up so I'd be able to get in. Then she'd say I had to do well in college, too, so I could go on to graduate school, so I'd be able to get some fancy job she dreamed of for me.

I'd remind her that I was only eleven years old, and that my grades
were
good, and that the job I wanted was to be a fishing guide. She'd say I was too young to know what I wanted, which really ticked me off.

I didn't want a different life; I wanted our old life, the one that used to be hers and Mac's and Memaw's and mine.

I corrected myself. “
May
I go out in the boat when we get back?”

She cocked her head to the side, raised her eyebrow, and asked, “You're going to leave this manatee business to the police—or the wildlife people, or to whoever's responsible—right?”

In a way, it was kind of flattering that Mom thought I might be going out to investigate on my own. I shrugged. “It's not like I have much choice,” I answered, which was true and not true at the same time.

“Well, then, I don't see why you can't go,” Mom said. She smiled. “You're on vacation, after all.” She paused, then asked, “Do you have any homework?”

“Not much,” I said. “Just a paper for English.”

“Have you started it?”

“No. But I still have lots of time.”

“Okay, then. But when you go out in the boat, remember the rules.”

Was she kidding? I knew the rules by heart. I had to wear a life jacket whenever I was in a boat by myself and whenever any boat I was in was moving. Also, I had to tell somebody approximately where I was going and, I thought guiltily, I had to have a radio or some way to call for help.

Knowing the rules didn't mean I always followed them.