Turtle in Paradise (6 page)

“You got me,” he says with an admiring laugh. “Not much gets past you.”

“I’m smart,” I say.

“But there were pirates around here a long time ago,” he says.

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true. See those keys?” he asks, pointing at the little islands in the distance. “There’s hundreds of them. That’s where pirates used to hide their ships, and their loot.”

“Anyone ever find any treasure?” I ask.

“Everybody’s always looking for Black Caesar’s treasure. Especially after Old Ropes up and disappeared.”

“Who’s Black Caesar? Who’s Old Ropes?
Why’s everybody got such funny nicknames around here, anyway?”

Slow Poke laughs. “It’s just the Key West way,
Turtle
.”

“Humph,” I say.

He looks out at the water. “Black Caesar was a ruthless pirate who buried his treasure here in the Keys.”

“And Old Ropes?”

“An old-time sponger. People said Old Ropes spent so much time on the water that he had webbed feet.”

I laugh at the image.

“One day Old Ropes came back from a sponging trip. He had a drink at the bar, and the next morning he was gone. Nobody ever heard from him again. Left his house full of furniture, food in the icebox. Even left his cat.”

“How could he leave his cat?” I ask.

“Rumors started going round that he’d found one of Black Caesar’s stashes and was living rich as a hog somewhere in South America. After that, everyone and their mother started crawling over this key looking for gold.”

“Do you think he found treasure?” I ask him.

“I think he found trouble. Old Ropes liked
to gamble. I suspect he owed someone money and he had to get out of town fast.” He looks up at the darkening sky. “Speaking of which, we better start back now, or your aunt will run me out of town.”

“How’d you get the name Slow Poke, anyhow?” I ask.

“Guess you could say I’ve always taken my own sweet time doing things. My mother said I was late for my own birth.”

“Just as long as you don’t take your time paying me,” I say, and I hold out my hand.

He shakes his head and digs into his pocket.

Maybe it’s because it’s only ever been Mama and me, but I don’t understand what’s so wonderful about having a big family. Someone’s always fighting, or not talking to someone else, or scrounging around trying to borrow money. Far as I can tell, relations are nothing but trouble.

The Diaper Gang’s got Pudding today, and Buddy, too, because Aunt Minnie has to do Mrs. Winkler’s washing. She takes in laundry to make money. Kermit’s right—Buddy’s more trouble than a baby. He’s spent the entire morning complaining. He’s hot. He’s tired. He’s bored. He’s thirsty. He needs to use the outhouse. Now he’s hungry.

“I’m so hungry I can’t think!” Buddy whines.

“You can’t think ’cause you ain’t got no brains, Buddy,” Beans says.

“I got a headache ’cause I ain’t got no food in my belly!” Buddy whines.

“Come on, let’s go to my house,” Pork Chop says.

“Mrs. Soldano makes the best
bollos
on Ashe Street,” Kermit tells me. He pronounces it “BOY-ohs.”

“You better not let Mami hear you say that,” Pork Chop says. “She thinks she makes the best bollos in all of Key West.”

A sign that says
SOLDANO’S
announces the little lunch counter that’s set under the porch in front of a house. There’s a man eating a sandwich on a stool.

“You must be Turtle!” a round-cheeked woman bustling behind the counter says with a warm smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All bad,” Pork Chop says.

“I hope you children are hungry, because I need someone to try my latest batch of bollos,” Mrs. Soldano says.

“I’m starving!” Buddy cries.

Mrs. Soldano places a plate of fried balls of dough in front of us and the boys grab them as fast as they can. I pick one up and take a bite. It’s tasty, all garlicky and spicy.

“What’s in them?” I ask.

“Black-eyed peas, garlic, pepper, and a few other secret things,” Mrs. Soldano says.

“These sure are swell, Mrs. Soldano,” Buddy says, licking his fingers. “But I think I might need to try some more to see if I like them better than the last bunch you made.”

“You say that every time, Buddy,” she laughs.

“Say, you win last week, Mrs. Soldano?” Kermit asks.

“I’ll win this week. I picked good numbers,” she says.

“Win what?” I ask.

“The
bolita,”
Mrs. Soldano says.

“Cuban lottery,” Pork Chop tells me.

“You’ll still make us bollos when you’re rich, won’t you, Mrs. Soldano?” Buddy asks.

“Of course, Buddy,” she says.

Mrs. Soldano makes us lunch—toasted ham and pickle sandwiches on Cuban bread and something called
flan
for dessert. The flan is delicious and creamy.

When we’re done, she hands a bowl of flan to Pork Chop.

“Take this over to Nana Philly,” she says.

“Mami,” he complains, but she just orders, “Go,” and turns to a new customer.

We walk down Francis Street, stopping in front of a house that looks abandoned. The windows have shutters that have been nailed down with boards.

“What are we doing here?” I ask.

“Bringing Nana Philly her lunch,” Pork Chop says. “You think we’d come here for any other reason?”

I look at the house. “Someone lives in there?”

“You mean the shutters?” Kermit asks. “They’ve been up for years. She put them up for a hurricane and won’t let anyone take them down. There’re probably a million scorpions living behind them by now anyway.”

Beans parks the wagon with the sleeping Pudding in the shade of a tree. Then the boys start to walk inside.

“You just gonna leave him?” I ask. “What if somebody takes him?”

Beans scoffs. “Who’d want him?”

“I’m not going in there,” Buddy announces. “You can’t make me!”

“Oh, Buddy,” Beans says. “She can’t hurt you now.”

“I don’t care,” he insists, his chin jutting out. “I ain’t going in!”

“Suit yourself,” Beans replies, and walks in the
front door, not bothering to knock. He calls out, “Miss Bea? You here?”

No one answers back.

I follow the boys into a dark parlor. It’s surprisingly cool, with little bits of light filtering in through the shuttered windows. Most of the parlor is taken up by a hulking piano that looks like it’s crumbling in places.

“Termites,” Kermit says, catching my look. “That piano is crawling with them. I swear this house is going to just collapse around her one of these days.”

“You can hope,” Pork Chop says.

“Why doesn’t she just get rid of the piano?” I ask.

“Her daddy was a wrecker and he saved it from a sinking ship.”

“Wrecker? You mean he’s the one that broke that piano?” I ask.

“You don’t know anything, do you?” Pork Chop says.

“That’s Nana Philly’s daddy,” Kermit says, and points to an oil painting of a cranky-looking old man. Most old people are cranky. Not that I blame them. How can you be happy when you know you’re gonna be dead soon?

Kermit explains, “When ships would wreck around Key West, he would salvage the cargo before it sank and then sell it off. Furniture, liquor, silk, jewelry, you name it. He was one of the richest men in Key West.”

“What’s Buddy so scared of?” I ask as we file down a narrow hallway.

“Her,” Pork Chop whispers, looking in the door of a small bedroom.

A tiny, frail-looking old lady is sitting on a rocking chair reading a fashion magazine. She could probably use some fashion advice, considering what she’s wearing: a long white cotton nightgown with a dressing gown over it, black stockings, and a red cloche hat that makes her eyes poke out like a mole peeking up at the world.

“Hi, Nana Philly,” Beans says. “Miss Bea gone out?”

The old lady blinks her blue eyes fast when she sees me. She opens her mouth with obvious effort.

“Thadie,” she says. It comes out in a frustrated moan.

A cheery woman with silver hair and a large straw hat bustles in and says, “Why, hello, children! I was out back hanging laundry. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Hi, Miss Bea,” Kermit says.

Pork Chop holds out the bowl. “Mami’s flan.”

“How sweet of her! Miss Philomena does love her flan,” she says.

Miss Bea doesn’t look much younger than the old woman in the chair.

“You must be Sadiebelle’s girl! You look just like your mother.” She turns to Nana Philly. “Doesn’t she look just like her mother, Miss Philomena?”

Nana Philly’s mouth curls up on one side, but the other side stays tugged down. It looks like she’s smiling and frowning at the same time. Something about her seems familiar.

“I’m Turtle,” I say.

Miss Bea smiles warmly. “We’re just so pleased to meet you! Maybe you can visit sometime?”

“We gotta go, Miss Bea,” Pork Chop says with a touch of impatience. “We got babies.”

“Of course you do,” she says. “Be sure to thank your mother for the flan, Pork Chop.”

Back outside, under the glare of the hot sun, I turn to the boys.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “What’s so scary about that old woman? She can barely talk.”

Pork Chop guffaws.

“I guess you could say she was a little different before she had her accident,” Kermit says.

“Nana Philly had a fit last summer and fell, and now she can’t walk or talk that good,” Buddy says.

“Best thing that ever happened, if you ask me,” Beans says.

“You said it, pal,” Pork Chop says.

“Miss Bea lives with Nana Philly now. Takes care of her,” Kermit says. “Ma helps out, too, of course. Brings in lunch most days, so Miss Bea can get out for a break.”

“Miss Bea’s a saint,” Beans says.

“You’d have to be to live with Nana Philly,” Pork Chop says.

“How can you say that about a poor old lady?” I ask.

“Because she’s meaner than a scorpion!” Buddy says.

“It’s true,” Kermit agrees.

“She said Ma would be better off dead than married to Poppy,” Beans says.

“And she stood up in church and told the minister his sermon was so boring he ought to be crucified!” Pork Chop adds.

“God himself could come down from heaven, and Nana Philly would tell him he did a lousy job,” Kermit says, and they all laugh.

“She hates kids most of all,” Buddy exclaims. “She washed my mouth out with soap!”

“Mine too,” Kermit admits.

“And mine,” Pork Chop adds.

Beans nods.

“That’s a lot of soap,” I say.

“Old Nana Philly,” Kermit says almost wistfully. “Francis Street sure is a lot quieter these days.”

“How can you talk about someone’s grandmother like this?” I ask.

“Someone’s
grandmother?” Beans says. “You mean
your
grandmother, don’t you?”

“My grandmother? But Mama told me she was dead!”

“She’s not dead. She’s just mean,” Kermit says.

Now I know why those eyes looked so familiar—they’re the exact same shade of blue as Mama’s. But why did Mama lie? And what am I supposed to do with a grandmother?

“Do I have a grandfather, too?” I ask.

“Nah, Grampy’s dead,” Kermit says. “Died right around the time Buddy was born.”

“Wasn’t my fault!” Buddy exclaims. “I was just a baby!”

“I can’t believe I have a grandmother,” I say.

“Believe it,” Pork Chop says.

“Welcome to the family,” Beans says, smirking.

We’re splashing around in the water at the little beach at the end of Duval Street. It’s the only way to cool off on a hot day, and every day is hot here. I wade in up to my waist in a bathing suit that Aunt Minnie found for me.

A beaming boy comes running up.

“It’s Ira!” Kermit exclaims.

“I’m back, fellas!” the boy announces like a returning hero. He’s got a moplike head of curly red hair. He looks like Little Orphan Annie without the red dress.

“When’d you get in from Miami?” Beans asks.

“Last night. It took us forever to get home. The ferry ran aground.”

“Poppy told me that when the highway’s finished we won’t need no ferries,” Kermit says.

“Can’t be soon enough for me,” Ira agrees. He strips off his shirt and dives into the water.

“What were you doing in Miami?” I ask him when he surfaces.

He gives his wet head a shake. “Who are you?”

“I’m just some cousin from New Jersey,” I say before Beans can.

Ira says, “My little brother needed an operation, so we had to take him to the hospital there.”

“What’s he sick from?” I ask.

“Dumbness,” Pork Chop says.

“Eggy lit some firecrackers and wouldn’t believe me when I told him to throw them,” Ira says. “He blew his thumb off, and his pinkie, too.”

“How’s Eggy doing?” Kermit asks.

“He’s got so many of my aunts worrying over him, he can’t fart without one of them jumping,” Ira says. “So what’d I miss? Have we had a lot of babies?”

“The Diaper Gang was Ira’s idea in the first place,” Kermit tells me.

“I’m the brains of this operation,” Ira says.

“I wouldn’t brag about that,” I say.

“We been busy,” Beans says. “But we’re gonna need a new wagon soon.”

“Where we gonna get the dough for a new wagon?” Ira asks.

Everyone’s quiet, and then Kermit wiggles his eyebrows and says, “The Shadow knows!”

The boys are always quoting the Shadow. He’s a mysterious narrator from a crime radio show. I like the Shadow as much as any other kid, but you’d think if he knew so much, he’d give some advice to President Roosevelt. Far as I can tell, he needs all the help he can get.

A pretty lady with a broad-brimmed hat walks by with a handsome man.

“Pork Chop. Beans. Are you boys having a pleasant summer?” she asks.

Beans looks frozen, but Pork Chop swallows and mumbles, “Yes, Miss Sugarapple.”

“See you two in the fall,” she says, and they stroll off.

“Not if I’m lucky,” Beans says.

“Your teacher?” I ask.

Kermit says, “Pork Chop and Beans got in big trouble with Miss Sugarapple.”

“What did you do?” I ask.

“Nothing,” Beans says.