The Society of S (33 page)

May in Florida is a curious time. My mother called it the last-chance month; with June 1 came hot humid rainy days, she said, and the start of hurricane season.

That night the temperatures fell into the sixties, and we wore sweaters when we took a stroll after dinner, down to the river. A small wooden dock jutted into a harbor, and tied to it were three boats: a canoe, a motorboat, and a pedal boat. “Want to take her out?” Mãe said.

“Which one?”

“Let’s start the easy way,” she said.

I climbed awkwardly into the pedal boat, and she untied the lines and jumped in, so lightly that the boat barely moved. Then we pedaled off, down the river.

The full moon slipped in and out of clouds, and the night breeze was sweet, smelling of orange blossoms. “You live in a wonderful world,” I said.

She laughed, and the sound of her laughter seemed to sparkle in the dark air. “I’ve built it carefully,” she said. “I gave up my heart when I left Saratoga.” Her face wasn’t sad, merely thoughtful. “We have so much to tell each other,” she said. “It can’t all be told in one day.”

The boat moved into open water, and ahead I saw the lights of the hotel where I’d spent the previous night, and the thin beam from the lighthouse on Monkey Island.

“Poor monkeys,” I said. I told her about watching them from the hotel.

My mother’s eyes flashed. “Do you know the story? The original monkeys were put on the island after they’d been used to develop a vaccine for polio. They were the survivors — the ones who weren’t paralyzed or dead. So their reward was to become a tourist attraction.”

We pedaled closer. Bob sat on a rock, staring at nothing. The other, smaller monkey hung from a tree branch and watched our approach. Mãe made a funny clicking sound with her tongue, and Bob stood up. He walked down to the rocks on the island’s edge. The other monkey sprang out of his tree and loped after Bob.

What happened next is hard to describe. It’s as if my mother and Bob had a conversation across the water, though no words were spoken. The other monkey kept out of it, and so did I.

“All right then,” Mãe said after a few minutes had passed. She looked again at Bob. Then she steered the boat to the side of the island not visible from the resort. We hit bottom several yards from the shoreline. She waded ashore, moving so gracefully that she barely made a splash. I sat and watched, wanting to cheer, not making a sound.

When Mãe reached the shore, Bob was waiting. He wrapped his arms around her neck and his legs around her waist. The other monkey climbed onto her shoulders and clasped her neck. She waded back, more slowly now. The monkeys stared at me, their small eyes bright, curious. I wanted to greet them, but kept mum as they climbed into the boat. They sat on the floor, in the stern.

We left the harbor as quietly as before.

I was thrilled beyond words. Not only had I found my mother — I’d found a hero, and two monkeys as well.

Bob wasn’t his real name, it turned out. He was Harris.

My mother and Harris sat in the living room later that night, working out the details. The other monkey, Joey, had a snack of apples and sunflower seeds, then went off to bed in the guest house.

Mãe and Harris communicated with gestures, eye movements, grunts, and nods. When they were done, they hugged each other, and Harris nodded at me as he left for the guest house.

“How did you learn to communicate with monkeys?” I asked.

“Oh, we’ve had monkeys here before.” She stood up and stretched her arms. “Some were pets who’d been abandoned, and some came off Monkey Island. You realize that the hotel will replace Harris and Joey, don’t you? They always do.”

I hadn’t thought of it. “Then we can rescue the new ones, too?”

“It depends.” She rubbed her eyes. “Some like it on the island. Joey might have been perfectly happy there. But Harris hated it, and Joey didn’t want to be left alone.”

“Will you teach me how to talk to them?”

“Sure,” she said. “It takes some time, but not as much as learning French or Spanish.”

“I want Harris to be my friend,” I said. I imagined holding his hand, talking walks, maybe even trips in the pedal boat.

“He will be, for a while.” Mãe looked hard at me. “You realize he can’t stay here?”

“Why not?”

“It’s not safe, for one thing. Someone might see them and then we’d have the hotel to deal with. You don’t know yet how small this town is.” She walked around the room, switching off lamps. “Even more important, Harris and Joey will be happier at a primate refuge. There’s a sanctuary in Panama where we’ve sent monkeys before. They’re rehabilitated and taught how to live in the wild again.”

I thought this over. Sadly, it did make sense. “I really wanted him to be my pet.”

“Someday, a monkey might turn up who wants to stay.” My mother yawned. “But not Harris. He absolutely hates Florida.”

How could anyone hate Florida?
I wondered later. I lay in my soft white bed, watching the orange-blossom-scented breeze lift the white curtains, listening to the rhythmic song of tree frogs punctuated by the percussion of bamboo stalks clacking against each other. I felt as close to happy as I’d thought I’d ever be.

The next morning, after writing in my journal, I went out to the kitchen and no one was there. I sat down at the big oak table, not sure what I should do. A newspaper from Tampa lay at the table’s head, and I read the front-page headlines upside down. Then I picked up the paper and skimmed it, story by story: Wars. Floods. Global warming.

Toward the bottom right side of an inside page, I read: “No Clues in Vampire Slayings.” The story summarized the deaths of Robert Reedy of Asheville and one Andrew Parker of Savannah. Police asked the public to call with any information about the murders. Parker’s family offered a reward for any tips. I carefully re-folded the paper, wondering how I would tell my mother I’d killed a man.

She came in a few minutes later, talking to a tall woman with the most interesting hair I’d ever seen: it had been rolled and twisted and pinned up into elaborate shapes like cabbage roses. Her eyes were enormous, caramel-colored.

“Dashay, this is Ariella,” my mother said.

I said hello, feeling shy. I’d never known before how beautiful and animated women could be. No one like these women walked around in Saratoga Springs. I stared down at the table, listening to their voices.

Dashay talked about the horses she’d seen at the auction, about the people who were buying and selling. She hadn’t been tempted to bid, but she’d met with three owners interested in breeding mares with Osceola.

Mãe asked detailed questions about the owners while she stood at the stove, cooking oatmeal. She set steaming bowls before us, and Dashay handed me a glass honey pot shaped like a hive. “Drizzle it on,” she said.

We ate, and I savored each mouthful. The honey tasted of flowers and spring air, and the oatmeal’s texture was creamy, soothing. Last night’s dinner — grilled mahi-mahi with citrus sauce and puréed sweet potatoes — had been equally delicious. I didn’t miss my tonic and protein bars at all, but I wondered when I’d need blood again.

My mother looked at me, questions in her eyes.

“So you were up early with the bees, huh,” Dashay said. “Guess I’ll do some gardening this afternoon, then take some honey down to the store.”

Mãe was still watching me. “Two cartons of orange blossom are ready to go,” she said. “Meanwhile, I’m going to give Ariella a riding lesson.”

In short order I learned how to tighten a saddle, adjust the stirrups, mount and dismount, and hold the reins. I’d asked to ride Johnny Cypress. Mãe agreed.

“He’s the gentlest of the bunch,” she said. “I think it’s because he’s so grateful. His previous owner abused him. You should have seen him when we adopted him, poor baby.”

We headed down a trail toward the river, the horses stepping briskly, enjoying the outing. I quickly got used to the rhythm and let myself relax in the saddle.

“You ride well,” my mother said. It was the first time she’d praised me, and I grinned. “It’s not always so gentle,” she said. “Later we’ll pick up the pace.”

The dirt path led through mangroves, past small ponds and marsh grass, and then to the river, broad and blue, smelling of salt. Here we dismounted and sat on a large flat rock, shaded by mangroves. “We have picnics here,” Mãe said.

For a while neither of us spoke. The wind played with our hair, and we watched the horses as they grazed. Osceola was a true beauty: tall and muscular and handsome in all respects. Johnny Cypress was small and jaunty, perfect for me.

“I want to ride him every day,” I said, not realizing I’d spoken aloud until Mãe said, “Of course you will.”

“Mãe, I need to tell you some things.” Again, I hadn’t planned to speak. Then the words all came in a rush. “I killed someone, I didn’t mean to, you don’t know who I am, it all happened so suddenly —” Clumsy words, but such a relief to say them.

She put up her hand, and the gesture made me stop talking and think of my father.

Her blue eyes were clear, untroubled. “Slow down and tell me.”

I told her the story of Robert Reedy’s untimely death in the woods outside Asheville. She interrupted only twice, to ask, “Did anyone see you get in his car?” (I didn’t know) and “Did you leave behind any evidence?” (I hadn’t, and I’d been wearing gloves.)

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it,” she said, when I’d finished.

“But it’s murder.”

“More like self-defense,” she said. “He would have raped you.”

“Then why do I feel so bad?” I crossed my arms and gripped my shoulders. “Why do I think about it all the time?”

“Because you have a conscience,” she said. “Something he probably lacked. Ariella, from all you’ve said I doubt that you were the first girl he took out there. Be glad you’re the last.”

I shook my head. “You’re not even shocked that I’m — that I’m —”

She laughed. “You’re so like your father,” she said. “All this concern for things that really can’t be helped. No, I’m not shocked. How could I be? I knew you were a vampire — although I didn’t like to use the word — right from the beginning.”

To be precise, she said, she knew from the first trimester that her pregnancy wasn’t “normal.”

“I felt terribly sick.” She rubbed her forehead, then pulled her hand through her hair. “I threw up all the time, and I was mean to your father. I blamed him for everything. But in fact, getting pregnant was all my doing.”

“It usually takes two.” My voice came out sounding so prissy that she laughed again, and finally I smiled.

“In our case, I was the driving force,” she said, her voice dry. “Hasn’t he told you any of this?”

“Some,” I said. “He said it was a difficult pregnancy. And he did say that you were the one who wanted me.” I looked toward the river.

“That’s not entirely true, either. Look at me. Are you sure you want to hear this?”

I wasn’t sure, anymore. But I said, “I have to know. It feels as if everything depends on me knowing.”

She nodded. She told me her story.