Alligator Park (13 page)

“Hey bro,” Will says, and
gives his brother a hug.

His brother fixes his eyes on
me, with a worried look.

“Who’s that?” he says.

“That’s my ride.”

Will’s brother gazes at the
horizon for what seems like an eternity, then turns to me.

“Excuse us for a moment Miss,”
he says, and takes Will out of earshot. I can’t make out what they are saying,
but Will’s brother starts raising his voice dropping an occasional phrase like,
“there’s no room” and “I don’t have time for distractions” and “you never told
me about this.” And then I clearly hear the words, “white trash.” I’m overcome with
dismay. What made me think I could somehow fit into this lifestyle? It was a
stupid idea and I regret ever doing it. I quietly shuffle away and head back to
the PT Cruiser.

“Miss, miss,” I hear.

I stop, turn, and see Will’s
brother approaching. He stands in front of me, looks around, scratches his
head, avoids eye contact. It’s apparent he wants to say something, but is uncomfortable
with the situation. Then he looks right at me.

“I appreciate you bringing Will
down here, but I don’t have room for both of you. You do understand, don’t
you?”

“It’s quite all right. I’ll
find something back at the Interstate,” I say, then continue walking back to
the Cruiser. He catches up to me, and then stands in front blocking my path.

“I think you better stay here
tonight.”

“No, I’ll manage. It’s not
the first time I’ve been alone.” I open my handbag and search for the car keys.

“I feel really bad about what
I said. Please, I apologize.”

“It’s okay!” I insist.

“Look, it’s dangerous driving
through the swamp at night. The roads are dark, and poorly marked, and... Well,
people get lost all the time. I’d feel better if you’d stay here tonight.”

We stand there awkwardly
staring at each other, for several minutes, with absolutely nothing to say. Will
rushes between us, rescues the moment.

“This is my brother, Fargo,”
he says. “And this is Indigo.”

I nod, acknowledging his
presence.

His brother ekes out a smile.
A few more seconds pass and still no one says a word. I notice him gazing at my
hair. Living out here, in the middle of nowhere, he probably doesn’t see many
women with blue hair. Then Will cuts in, drawing Fargo’s gaze away from me.

“Hey, got anything to eat?”

“Yeah, hold on, I’ll get ‘em.”

Fargo dashes over to the
airboat, reaches into a cooler, and then takes out a half-dozen fish. He comes
back, and then presents them to me, like a peace offering.

“I caught ‘em tonight,” he
says.

I hesitate, not knowing quite
what to make of it.

“Of course, if you don’t like
fish...”

“I love fish,” I say,
reaching out to receive them. Fargo places the fish in my hands, but they’re
wet and slimy and some are still wiggling and I almost drop them. I press them
against my tee-shirt to prevent them from slipping through my hands. My
tee-shirt is getting soaked, but I pretend not to notice. I don’t want Fargo to
think I’m ungrateful for his hospitality.

Will makes his way back to
the cabin and I follow close behind, struggling to keep the writhing fish from
escaping. We climb the stairs and approach the front door. Will attempts to
open it, but it won’t budge. Fargo sees him pushing on the doorknob and shouts
out: “The key’s under the mat.”

Will reaches under the mat, retrieves
the key and unlocks the front door.

The cabin is dark, but I
manage to find my way to the kitchen and then drop the fish onto the counter.
Will switches on the light and I join him in the living room. The place is clearly
a man’s domain. The walls are paneled in pine, the furniture is worn, and the
floor is bare wood with no carpets. The windows have blinds but no curtains. On
the back wall hangs an attractive blanket decorated with Native American art.
And on another wall are a wooden bow and a quiver filled with arrows. They
appear to be several hundred years old. Scattered between the artifacts are
pictures of tribal chieftains.

I wander over to get a better
look and come across a picture of a woman about sixty in a small frame on a
shelf. She’s wearing a Native American dress, a necklace of sea shells, and has
two feathers in her long hair which reaches down to the middle of her back and
is almost completely black except for a few strands of grey. I pick up the
picture to study it; her eyes have a tired look to them.

“That was my mother,” Will
says.

“She was very beautiful,” I
say.

“It was taken a few months
before she died. No one expected it.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, putting
the picture back on the shelf.

I stroll past the rest of the
artifacts as Will unpacks his gear, and then, head back to the kitchen. I
switch on the light revealing a sink half-filled with dishes. Will and I are
really hungry, and I’m pretty sure Fargo hasn’t eaten yet, so I decide to whip
up a quick dinner. I make a mental inventory of what I have to work with; there
are vegetables in Fargo’s refrigerator, I have rolls and fruit in the PT
Cruiser, and of course there’s the fresh fish. I pick up a cast-iron frying pan
that looks like it hasn’t been scrubbed in a month. I approach Will with the
pan and some steel wool.

“Hey Will, how’d you like to
clean this and I’ll make you a dinner you’ll never forget?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says, and takes
the pan.

“And you might as well do the
rest of the dishes while you’re at it,” I add, peering over the stack of dishes
in the sink.

Will winces, but grudgingly
does what I ask.

I step outside and scour the
PT Cruiser for anything that looks appetizing. I come across a half-gallon bottle
of Muscadine wine we picked up at a farmer’s market in North Carolina. The
Carolinas produce over 1200 tons of Muscadine grapes each year and much of it
goes into the production of wine. It looked so tempting in the store we
couldn’t resist buying it. I gaze at the bottle, contemplating whether to use
it tonight. We were saving this for a special occasion, but what the heck, we
made it to Florida and that’s special enough. I gather up the ingredients and
take them back to the kitchen. Will has finished washing the dishes and they’re
all neatly stacked on the countertop, by the sink.

“Does Fargo have any spices?”
I ask.

Will retrieves an ornate
wooden box with small jars neatly organized in it.

“This was my mother’s. It’s been
five years since it was last used, but the jars are sealed and I’m pretty sure
the contents are still good.”

I open the bottle of Dill and
take a whiff. It hasn’t lost its aroma so I conclude it’s still usable. I place
the vegetables on the stove since they take the longest then begin preparing
the fish. I decide to sauté the fish in butter because it’s easy, fast, and in
my opinion, makes the best tasting fish around.

“Does Fargo have any candles,
long ones, with holders?”

Will rummages through a
closet and produces some.

“How about a table cloth?” I
ask.

Will rolls his eyes but
retreats to the bedroom without argument. He comes back with a white table
cloth.

“This also was my mother’s.”

He places it on the dining
room table, sets a candle at each end, then places the bottle of Muscadine in
the middle. The place is starting to look like a fine restaurant except
something is missing.

“Will, I noticed some
wildflowers on the edge of the parking lot. Could you get them for me?”

Will scowls, gives me one of
those looks like: You’ve got to be kidding. But I’m determined to get this
right so I ignore his complaining and add: “And find out when Fargo will be
done so I can start the fish.”

Will shuffles out
the door mumbling his displeasure and I go back to my cooking. A few minutes
later he’s back and hands me the flowers. I look them over and am surprised by
what I see.

“These are Ghost Orchids,”
I say.

Will shrugs.

“Ghost Orchids
are unique to Florida.”

“Whatever,” he
says.

“Picking them is
against the law.”

“For you, maybe.
Not for me.”

I stare at him
confused.

“This is Indian
land, and I’m Indian,” he tells me.

“What does that
mean?” I ask.

“It means the U.S.
government can’t tell Indians what to do on their own land.

“Who told you
that?”

“Fargo, I think.”

The door opens
and Fargo walks in. Will approaches him before he gets a chance to put his
backpack down.

“What was that
case you told me about a while back? The one about Indians on their own land.”

“You mean, ‘The
State of Florida vs. James E. Billie,’” Fargo says.

“Yeah, that one.”

“Billie was a Seminole
Chief. He was arrested in 1987 for killing a panther on an Indian Reservation. Panthers
are rare, and a protected species. I personally don’t support the idea of
killing one. But Billie argued he had a right to hunt and fish on Indian land, without
U.S. Government interference, and most of the Seminoles supported him. He
claimed his rights come from treaties between the U.S. government and the
Seminole nation. The State of Florida argued against it, but was unable to
prosecute.”

“You seem to know
a lot about the law,” I say.

“The whole
Seminole nation followed this case. We have a long history of broken treaties.”

“So you
prevailed,” I say.

“Not really. They
just failed to prosecute. They left the door open for next time. But most Indian
folk believe the state won’t bother us, as long as we keep low key, and stick
to our established traditions.”

Fargo notices the
flowers in my hand.

“Where did you
get those?” he asks.

“By the parking
lot,” I say.

“They’re Ghost
Orchids. Very rare. You can get arrested for that.”

I feel my face
getting warm from embarrassment. I glance at Will, hoping he can save me. But
he just shrugs.

“They grow mostly
in and around the Everglades, but I managed to transplant a few. Took years of
hard work. Everyone said it couldn’t be done. But you can see the result.”

“I’m sorry, I
didn’t know,” I say, desperately hoping for mercy.

“My mistake,”
Will says. “What do I know? They look like weeds to me.”

“My guests like
them,” Fargo says. “Can’t believe they grow this far north.”

“Can I replace
them?” I ask.

“Forget it. These
ones grew actually on their own. Anyway, there’s more out there, in the swamp.”

Fargo redirects
his gaze to the dining room table.
He
stares at the candles, the tablecloth, and the wine, and then glares at me.

“What is this?”

“I thought we should celebrate,”
I say.

“Celebrate what?”

“Maybe just the fact we got
here safely.”

Fargo peers at Will, waiting
for him to comment. Will shrugs again. We stand there, staring at each other, waiting
for someone to say something. But for a good ten seconds no one says a word.

Then Fargo announces: “Give
me a couple of minutes,” and makes his way to the bathroom. I hear the shower and
take the opportunity to place the Orchids in a vase, add some water, then set
them on the dining room table.

Ten minutes later Fargo wanders
into the dining room wearing a buckskin shirt with matching pants and has his
hair tied into a pony tail. If he were carrying a Kentucky long-rifle, I would
have to conclude he’s an Early American frontiersman brought back to life.

“Sit anywhere,” I say.

Fargo takes a seat at the
head of the table. I brace for some disconcerting comments, but he’s as quiet
as a puppy. Will lights the candles then turns off the room light. I bring out
the vegetables and serve the fish. It’s obvious Will and Fargo are hungry
because they waste no time digging in. Will opens the wine and fills everyone’s
glass. I finally get a chance to sit down. I pick up my wine glass, and offer a
toast.

“To the future,” I say.

“To the future,” Will repeats,
but Fargo is silent.

We all click glasses and take
a gulp. Fargo’s silence unnerves me a little, but the wine helps me relax. How
good it tastes. The perfect thing to wrap up a hectic day.

We all finish our meal and I
surprise them with a dessert made with apples, yogurt, blueberries, raisins and
saltine crackers. It was another one of those concoctions I put together hastily
from whatever I could find. You wouldn’t think those ingredients would complement
each other, but everyone went back for seconds.