Acts of Nature (12 page)

“I’m sorry, Ms. Morris,” he’d said. “But each man makes his own decisions dependin’ on his nature, ma’am. That’s just God’s way.”

“Fissst,” Buck’s mother hissed and he still recalled the recrimination in the unspoken expletive and how seeing it fly from his mother’s mouth had scared him enough to step back.

“Don’t you bring God into it none, Mr. Brown,” she’d said. “If you was such a believer you’d remember that you was not supposed to lead them men into temptation.”

Brown had continued to stare at the floor that day, and for a long time Buck thought the old man had been struck to stone by his mother’s call on the Almighty. But Brown finally looked up and spoke: “I’m not a kingdom nor a power, Ms. Morris. I am just a man my ownself.”

Despite his mother’s recrimination at Brown and her admonishment to him to stay away, Buck not only continued to be obliging to the old man, he also took it upon himself to ask for his advice and guidance on things pertinent to the Glades and fishing and hunting. And Brown was willing to give it in those instances. It was the line into what he called thievery that the old man would not cross and would turn his shoulder to Buck if he smelled it coming into a discussion.

But if Buck had even one of his father’s traits it was his careful ways. He did not rush headlong into things. He did not like to react emotionally to threat or doubt or even opportunity. He was no knee-jerker. So he’d given thought to this newly hatched plan. He heard the same stories the boys had of the new generation of Glades camps filled with the things that others’ money can buy. It could mean a big haul. It could mean enough cash from Bobby the Fence to get him off this rail to nowhere. Maybe he’d find a way to clear out of this place, find a better way up in central or north Florida. Some guy in prison had told stories of cattle ranges up in Hendry County. Maybe this was his ticket to another century.

But Buck also knew that any job had its dangers and a careful man tried to plan, and no one in this world knew more about the Glades than Nate. So he’d brought the map he’d made to get the old man’s sense of the spots they’d marked, the areas they planned to visit.

Buck set the coffee down on the damp tabletop and pushed a cup to Mr. Brown’s side and then unfolded the map.

“I’ve got a bit of an airboat trip planned here, sir, and thought I might get your take on some of these here spots you might recognize,” he explained, sliding the chart to edge up against the mug he’d given Brown.

The old man raised the thick china cup to his lips, took a long draft even though the heat of the coffee still sent steam up and around his prominent nose, and men leaned out over the map. Despite his unknown age, Buck had never seen the man wear a pair of glasses. Brown set the mug down and then reached out and placed his fingertips on each X-crossed spot on the map like he was feeling the place, conjuring a memory.

“This ’un here is too far north for any good fishin’,” he said. “It’ll be wet now after this blow, but in dry times they ain’t but a foot or two of water.

“Now this ’un might could get you a few smaller tarpon, maybe some snook. This other is ’bout the same.”

Buck just nodded his head, watching the old man’s brow, the deep furrows made by a lifetime of squinting into the reflected sun rays bouncing off open water.

“This ’un here is in an awful pretty spot up in Palm Beach County. Ain’t much to fish ’cause the river over this way draws ’em all, but there’s some gators in a old hole we used to take ever season near there. Big, nasty sumbitches too, pardon the cussin’, son.”

“I’ve heard worse, sir,” Buck said, like he was back in his teenage years and his father was alive and Brown was back in his seventies.

“Yep, I know,” Brown said without looking up. “Prison’ll learn you that.”

They both sat in silence for a moment. Buck knew what the old man thought of him and his arrests. Even though prison was familiar to them both, Brown’s and Buck’s father’s incarcerations had been considered a different breed.

“But you ain’t goin’ to these places to do no huntin’ or fishin’, are you, boy?”

It was an accusation, not a question and Buck hesitated in his response. He could try to make up a story, something with a taste of civilization that the old man might not be familiar with.

“No, sir,” he finally said, eschewing a lie in the face of a man he begrudgingly revered. “It’s a salvage operation.”

Brown did not look up but Buck could see the lines of a sneer start at the bridge of his nose like he was beginning to smell something foul.

“You mean like when them boys found that there Caddy Escalade out of gas on the highway up to Naples and
salvaged
the wheels and electronics?” Brown said, this time looking up at Buck with a single eye. Buck was mildly surprised that the old man had heard of that incident with Wayne and Marcus. The fancy wheel rims had sold for a nice price. He avoided the old man’s look, shifting his own back to the map.

“You know them boys is headin’ for trouble. Don’tcha, son?”

Buck was not going to get into a philosophical debate with the old man.

For some men in Florida, trouble had been a natural way for a long time. He thought of the stories his own father had told of citizens in the early 1800s who often “salvaged” the broken holds of ships carrying goods from New Orleans around the tip of the Florida Keys and up the east coast to New York on the tide of the Gulf Stream. When those ships ran aground on the sharp- edged coral reefs, it was considered a Floridian holiday and pillaging was nearly a civic duty. Near the turn of the twentieth century, land owners selling useless deeds to Florida swampland created millionaires overnight who fled with the cash and left the losers behind. Nate Brown himself had poached gators out of his favorite hunting holes even though they were considered off limits after the federal government created the Everglades National Park in the 1940s and the practice was deemed illegal. Those men all used the excuse that what they did, they did to survive. Buck had heard that rationalization a thousand times coming in late-night conversation from the darkened bunks of men up in Avon Park Correctional.

“Maybe it’s just trouble of a different nature,” Buck finally said, but he was still not willing to meet the old man’s eyes.

“No, son,” Nate Brown replied, his voice holding a weak resignation that Buck had never heard before. “The nature’s the same. Sometimes that’s the part of people that don’t never change.”

Buck pushed his chair back, knowing the old man was finished. He stood and started to roll the chart, but Nate Brown’s finger was still pressed down on one last X.

“Let me give you some advice, Buck. If that’s what you come for,” he said, using the young man’s name for maybe the first time since his childhood. “Stay clear of this one here.”

He was indicating the X farthest south on the map.

“They’s stories on this one. One told is that an old-timer built here and must have died over the years because no one seen him for years. Word was someone in his family took it over but they somehow got spooked and left the place empty. Then new owners that put out the word of no trespassin’ and meant it. I been out there myself and heard awful strange music comin’ from the place when there wasn’t a shred of light on the property.

“Steer clear, son.” And with that the old man removed his finger and sat alone at the table while Buck gathered the map, and said his thanks.

“Yes, sir,” he said and then turned back to retrace his steps to his own place.

“We’re gonna hit those places now.”

The boys just looked at each other with a mirror expression that said surprise, but what the hell. They’d shown up midmorning after wandering around town in their boat boots, checking out the damage from the night. Buck was in one of those suspiciously dark moods of his. Wayne figured this was the way he must have been in prison and it was not a good idea to argue with him. Besides, when Buck wanted to roll, it usually turned out to be a hell of a lot more interesting than sitting around this place. They could easily tell their mothers that they’d been hired to do some kind of rescue or salvage work and with the promise of money on their lips they’d be off the hook for any cleanup at their own homes.

“I already been over at Owen Chadwick’s tour business shed and his airboat is intact and I have the key,” Buck said while he turned his back on them and stuffed something into his black, zippered duffle. They were both in that sort of uncomprehending dumb-assed mode he’d seen a dozen times in their teenage faces when he grabbed up the bag and turned back to them.

“What? You two suddenly lost your comprehension of English overnight?

Again the boys stood quiet. They had learned that if they looked at each other for some kind of shared intelligence they’d get another dose of Buck’s shit. So they stood mute.

“We got opportunity here, fellas. Those camps are either out there with their doors blown out for easy access to what’s inside. Or they’re in pristine shape while their owners are scurryin’ around at their big-assed mansions in the city worryin’ about how to get their air conditioning back on,” Buck said.

“Nobody’s thinking about them camps after a hurricane, boys. We got a window of opportunity here and, fellas, we’re gonna climb right on through.”

He ordered them to grab up some bottled water and some food and “whatever tools you think you might need” and meet him over at Chadwick’s boat shed. Then he slung the duffle over his shoulder and started down the outside staircase.

“And hurry your asses up,” he called out to them as they went in opposite directions. “We’re burnin’ daylight.”

Buck liked to quote from John Wayne movies and with these two he often dredged up lines from that one called
The Cowboys
about Wayne taking a bunch of young kids on a cattle drive because the Duke couldn’t find any men to help him with the job. In the Old West Buck would have been a leader, a man admired. He figured that might have been why he never objected to the nickname that got stuck on him in high school. Buck. Just like in the 1800s. Now there was a century he knew he would have fit into. Maybe driving cattle up in Hendry County wasn’t that different today. Maybe he hadn’t been born too late.

The boys must have heard the chug of the airboat engine turn over twice, three times while they were walking across the mud that used to be Marshall’s Circle because when it finally caught and burst into a roar, they started running.

“Son of a bitch will leave without us for sure,” said Marcus, toting his quick packed duffle and a Lil’ Oscar cooler filled with water bottles.

“Yeah? Where’s he gonna go without us to do his lifting and totin’,” said Wayne, who sounded cocky, but didn’t stop running either.

When they jogged up to Chadwick’s place, Buck had the big airboat out on a new mud slick near the old mechanic’s nearly submerged dock. It was there that he usually loaded in the tourists who had been lured by his
AIRBOAT TOURS OF THE ANCIENT EVERGLADES
sign posted out on the Tamiami Trail. Anybody who’d lived here for any of the last three or four decades could still pick up some business from folks passing by from Naples on the west or Miami to the east who wanted a peek at the gators or bird flocks or just the open sawgrass range of still-wild land. The boys could never see the attraction. Buck thought it was as bad as running carnival rides, catering to gawkers and thrill seekers who had little respect or appreciation for what they were seeing. But he’d still served as a substitute driver for Chadwick as long as he got paid in cash.

The boys stepped up onto the flat boat deck, built like a pontoon skiff in light aluminum but with an angled bow so it could slide up over a small bank or plow right over tall grasses and thin-stalked trees. Buck had loaded the big open deck with a line of red five-gallon gas cans, a cooler, and his duffle. The boys tossed their bags behind the raised seats and then climbed up behind Buck’s pilot chair. The huge, wire- caged propeller was right behind them and the airplane engine roared when Buck pushed the throttle forward to keep the rpms high. He reached back to them to offer a plastic bottle of little yellow chunks of spongy material you could stuff into your ears to cut down the thrum of noise. He didn’t say a word, even if they could have heard him. They both waved him off. This was nothing they hadn’t dealt with in Cory Marshall’s Honda Civic with the Bose CrossQuarter speakers that thumped out Da Trill and vibrated the whole car on a Saturday night roll over to Naples. When Buck’s head turned forward, Wayne pointed his finger forward and mouthed the words: “Let’s flow, dude.” Marcus read his lips and they both giggled like little kids.

FOURTEEN

I knew that without my partner it was going to be a much harder pull, but I missed her more than I could calculate.

We were two hours into the trip back, twice the amount of time it had taken to make this leg to the Snows’ camp from the thick hammock of pigeon plum and strangler fig trees where the hidden camp may have survived the blow better than ours. I was hoping that the place had been sheltered by the trees and might be a serviceable resting spot. Now, after plowing through miles of water that had become a cluttered soup of floating, rootless vegetation, hope had turned into a prayer. I was envisioning beyond logical expectation a dry room, potable water, canned food of some sort, maybe even a battery-powered radio-phone. In the last hour my fear had grown that the latter was going to be a necessity if Sherry was going to survive with her leg intact.

In the still, flat light, I was watching her eyes while I stroked with the makeshift paddle I’d fashioned from the wall plaque. At first she’d been hyperalert, her eyes dancing from left to right, checking, assessing, nervous like a kid riding in the jump seat and watching the landscape go by when she really wanted to be facing the destination instead of having her back to it. She would grimace with pain each time the canoe slid up with a jerk onto some flotsam that stopped us with its thickness. More than a dozen times already I’d had to climb out into waist-deep water and pull us through shallows, fearful of steering us around them too far and taking the chance of getting off the direct line of GPS coordinates. Each time I pulled from the front, my handhold next to Sherry’s shoulder, my eye checking the pulse in her neck. Once refloated, I would get her to drink more water from the bottles, even when she argued, correctly, that we needed to conserve.