Wakulla Springs (7 page)

“No, sir,” Jimmy Lee said.
“You pull right up to the main entrance.”

“Main entrance?” asked Levi’s mama.

“Can’t let just you and Levi see me looking this fine, can I?” Jimmy Lee asked. “Got to show off a bit.”

The driver squinted at the mirror. “They expecting you, son?”

“They ought to be,” Jimmy Lee said. “I got a reservation.”

“Oh, my God,” Levi’s mama said. “You ain’t still on about that, are you? Jimmy Lee, this
is Florida, not Korea.”

“I know where I am,” he retorted. “And I know where I’ve been, and what I’ve seen—”

“You like baseball?” the driver asked Levi, loudly, as his mama and Jimmy Lee started talking all at once, voices raised. “Boy, I hated to see the Dodgers lose, didn’t you? But Campanella, he sure had him a season. One hundred forty-two RBIs, can you imagine? New team record. You play
baseball?”

“I swim,” Levi said.

“Wish I could swim,” the driver said. “Throw me in that swamp over there, I’d sink like a rock. I might as well—”

“Roy Campanella!” Jimmy Lee cried out, interrupting the driver. “Now there’s an example for the boy. Larry Doby. Jackie Robinson. Six colored players in the major leagues now.” He looked at Levi’s mama. “See, times change, baby. And people like us,
we’re going to keep changing them.”

“Jimmy Lee, you could get me fired! And where would we be then?”

“Orlando,” Levi murmured.

At the fork, the driver slowed nearly to a stop before he turned left toward the Lodge, shaking his head. He followed the woodcut arrow labeled CHECK IN; the right-hand drive toward the dorm and other outbuildings was unmarked. The backseat quarrel raged as the familiar
red tile roof swung into view. “Soldier, you making a big mistake,” the driver said.

“Mind your own business, old man,” Jimmy Lee replied.

With an
erk
, the driver slammed on brakes, a few yards shy of the turnaround at the front door. Levi braced himself against Lena Horne. There was silence from the back seat as the driver flexed his fingers on the steering wheel, threw the gearshift into Park,
then slowly turned toward Levi, the cracked seat leather creaking as he shifted.

“Listen,” Jimmy Lee said. “I’m sorry.”

The driver ignored him and addressed himself to Levi, who was trying to smooth down one ragged Lena Horne corner, where his palms had crimped it. “Son, could you help me with this luggage?”

“Yessir,” Levi said.

Everyone got out. The driver opened the trunk, and he and Levi
hauled out a bulging duffel bag and a battered suitcase that used to have stickers on it, but now just had fuzzy tacky outlines. Jimmy Lee awkwardly held a wad of bills out to the driver, who waited a beat before he accepted it.

“Keep the change,” Jimmy Lee said, as the driver reached for his wallet.

“You watch your ass,” the driver told Jimmy Lee. He turned to Levi’s mama and said, “You have
a good evening, ma’am. And you, son,” he added as he turned to Levi, “you take care of your mama, you hear?”

“Yessir.”

“And keep on swimmin’. But work in a little baseball, too, okay? Ain’t never heard of no colored swimmers.” By now he was back behind the wheel. He made a three-point turn, waved at Levi, shouted, “You look like an outfielder to me,” and was gone.

Levi’s mother had her arms
folded across her chest. Jimmy Lee reached for her hand, but she shrugged it off.

“Baby,” he said, “I need you with me.”

“I been praying for you every night for two years, Jimmy Lee Demps,” Levi’s mama said. “And I will not stand here and watch you get yourself killed now, right on the doorstep of home.” She turned and strode toward the dormitory road. “Come on, Levi,” she called over her shoulder.

“Dammit,” Jimmy Lee muttered. He picked up his luggage in each hand and strode off, toward the front door.

Levi wanted to see what was going to happen. He thought quickly and called to his mama, “Aunt Vergie asked me to come by the kitchen.”

His mama slowed her steps, but didn’t stop. “All right,” she said. “But you stick to the kitchen, and you come
right
back, you hear?”

“Yes’m,” Levi said.
He waited until she was out of sight before running to the outside fire escape and galloping up, steel steps drumming beneath the leather soles of his Sunday shoes. He’d be less noticeable, he hoped, if he watched from the back-stair landing that overlooked the front desk. The upstairs hall was clear; guests not at the early dinner seating would still be in the water, enjoying the last of the sun.
Levi ran to the back stairs, crept down to the landing and crouched there, peering around an iron heron on the balustrade just as Jimmy Lee strode up to the front desk, set down his suitcase and his duffel bag, and placed his fingertips on the mahogany as if it were a set of piano keys. He focused on the desk clerk, looking neither left nor right.

Mr. Teale was on duty this evening, the back
of his gleaming bald head turned to the lobby, and to Jimmy Lee. He was shoving messages them into numbered cubbyholes, the swinging silver chain on his glasses reflecting the harsh fluorescent bulb of the desk lamp.

The lobby held a handful of people: two white men and a woman in a distant cluster of lounge chairs, holding drinks, all dressed for tennis; Miss Carla in her gray uniform, white
hat and apron, polishing the brass photo frames; Mr. Hubert in his red jacket, waxing the floor of the enclosed porch.

All stared at Jimmy Lee, who paid them no mind.

He cleared his throat.

“Oh, I
am
sorry, sir,” Mr. Teale said, turning as he spoke. “How may I help—you?” His voice faltered as he looked Jimmy Lee up and down, as if the colored man were a marvel the balding white clerk had never
seen before.

“I have a reservation,” Jimmy Lee said.

Mr. Teale didn’t immediately say anything, though his mouth was slightly open, exposing his crowded lower teeth. He ducked his head and looked over the top of his bifocals at Jimmy Lee.

“I beg your pardon?” he finally said.

Though quiet, the men’s voices carried far across the checkerboard tile of the lobby. The five other adults present
didn’t even pretend not to listen, though Miss Carla continued to make circular polishing motions on the same brass corner, and Mr. Hubert continued to push the waxer back and forth, as if it were a baby long since rocked to sleep.

“I have a reservation,” Jimmy Lee repeated. “Made it by phone just last week. The name is Jim—no.” He straightened his shoulders. “The name is James Lee Demps. D-E-M-P-S.”
When Mr. Teale didn’t respond, Jimmy Lee added, “I believe it’s right there on your card file.” He smiled. “I learned to read upside down in the Army. It’s useful, when the C.O. calls you in.”

“I’m sure it is,” Mr. Teale said, plucking the card out of the file and holding it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger, looking back and forth from it to Jimmy Lee. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Demps. I was
not on duty to take your call, but there must have been some mistake.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jimmy Lee.

“Isn’t it obvious, Mr. Demps?” Mr. Teale shook his head. “I mean, you can’t stay here.”

Jimmy Lee frowned, but only a little. Levi wondered if he had taken up poker in the Army, too. “You have no vacancies?”

“Vacancies are irrelevant, Mr. Demps. The Lodge is—restricted. I’m sorry if
you were told otherwise.”

“Oh!” Jimmy Lee said. “You mean it’s just for white people.”

Mr. Teale winced. “If you must put it that way, yes. Whoever you spoke to on the phone must have thought—well, as I say, a mistake was made. I am truly sorry.”

Jimmy Lee glanced around the lobby. He pointed first at Miss Carla, then at Mr. Hubert, both of whom quickly turned away. “
She’s
not white,” Jimmy
Lee said, “and
he’s
not, either.” His pointing finger half lifted, he turned to the gaping tennis players, as if their white-on-whiteness were momentarily in doubt, but only smiled at them before turning back to Mr. Teale.

“The sass of that nigger,” one of the men said.

“Where’s the Klan when you need ’em?” said the other.

“Those are
employees
, Mr. Demps,” Mr. Teale said, raising his voice
as if to drown out the murmured ugliness across the room. “As you well know.” He cleared his throat. “Now, there are some very nice colored boarding houses between here and Tallahassee. I’m sure our kitchen staff would be pleased to tell you all about them, and we will even call a taxicab on your behalf, if you’ll just step around to the delivery entrance.”

“Do you see these?” Jimmy Lee pointed
to the row of decorations on his chest. “I earned these in Korea. This is my National Defense Medal. This is my Bronze Star. This is my Purple Heart. I won’t show you the scar—it’s on my right leg—but I was one of the lucky ones. I don’t even limp anymore.”

“Mr. Demps, please.”

“And this one, which you may not have seen before, is the Korean Service Medal. You may be interested to know that
the blue and white in the ribbon are the colors of the United Nations. All free peoples, of all colors, united. And on the medal itself, see that? Here, let me hold it up to the light for you. That design is from the South Korean flag. It’s called a
taegeuk
, and it’s an ancient symbol, dating from the seventh century. It shows the yin and the yang, the opposites—low and high, light and dark, black
and
white—swirling together in harmony. How about that?”

Mr. Teale’s voice was cold. “Mr. Demps, we thank you for your service in Korea, but it does not entitle you to a room at the Wakulla Springs Lodge. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”

Jimmy Lee stepped back from the front desk and balled both hands into fists.

Behind the desk, Mr. Teale stepped back as well, and reached for the telephone.

Both the tennis men stood. One stepped toward Jimmy Lee.

Mr. Hubert picked up his waxer and ducked through the arched doorway to the enclosed porch, out of sight. Miss Carla had already disappeared.

And a three-foot alligator walked out from behind a potted palm, claws smacking wetly onto the tile, snout raised as if smelling the possibilities.

The tennis woman stood, took hold of a companion’s
arm—whether to cling to him or pull him back, Levi couldn’t say—then saw the gator. She was closer to it than anyone else in the room. Her eyes widened. The cords in her neck stood out. Her mouth opened.

Levi was already at the foot of the stairs, clearing the last flight in two leaps.

The woman shrieked. “It’s a monster!”

Levi ran across the lobby. He had no plan, exactly, but he hoped to
put himself between the woman and the gator, the way Herbert A. Philbrick might have done. But he was only halfway across the lobby when the gator ran beneath the sofa. Without slowing, Levi changed course, skidded past the tennis woman, and jumped onto the sofa. The cushions were softer and deeper than he expected; he had to grab the back to keep from bouncing into the air.

The shrieking tennis
woman was halfway across the lobby, her companions close behind her. Jimmy Lee ducked around them and ran for the sofa.

“Levi, don’t move!” Jimmy Lee hollered. He picked up a freestanding ashtray and swung it before him like a club. Ashes and butts scattered across the tiles. “He’s a little guy, but he could still take your hand off.”

“I can flush him out,” Levi said. He hopped up and down on
the sofa.

“No, don’t do that,” Jimmy Lee said, but it was too late. The gator scuttled into view again, whipped its tail, and snapped its many teeth at the veteran.

“God almighty!” Mr. Teale cried.

Levi vaulted off the sofa, snatching up a pillow. He shook it at the gator, which whirled, darted forward, and clamped it in its jaws. Levi let go, and the gator thrashed its head back and forth,
shredding the pillow in a blizzard of feathers.

“Shoo!” Jimmy Lee told the gator. “Go that way. Outside. That way.” He wasn’t having much luck.

Strong hands gripped Levi’s upper arms from behind. “Hang on, son,” said an unfamiliar male voice. The next thing Levi knew, he was in midair, then behind the sofa. The stranger had just picked him up and set him down again out of harm’s way, as easily
as Jimmy Lee had picked up the ashtray. Levi turned. The man was big, more than six feet tall, very tan and broad-shouldered in a tight knit shirt, muscled legs bare beneath damp swim trunks.

“Come on, honey,” the newcomer cooed at the gator. “Come on, now.” He moved toward the gator in a crouch, arms spread wide. Jimmy Lee did the same from the other side, jabbing with the ashtray. Their unspoken
mutual goal was to turn the gator, force it onto the enclosed porch, then outside. Instead the gator looked from one threat to the other, then dashed between them, across the lobby and through the archway leading to the ground-floor guest rooms.

Jimmy Lee and the newcomer said in unison, “Uh-oh.” They ran to the archway, Levi right behind them.

Halfway down the otherwise deserted corridor, the
gator sauntered along the carpet, long head swinging from side to side, snout almost nudging each door in turn. At the far end was a closed exit door, its handle far out of the gator’s reach.

“This isn’t good,” said the guy in the trunks. “Any ideas?”

“Not really,” Jimmy Lee said. “But maybe we oughta bang on some doors, warn people to stay in their rooms?”

At that moment, the door alongside
the gator opened, and a white-haired gentleman in a seersucker suit stepped out of Room 124 into the hallway, closing the door behind him with a
snick
, juggling too many small items in his hands: room key, pince-nez, pipe. The gator turned its head and regarded the old man with its cool prehistoric gaze. After interminable fumbling and muttering, the old man finally jammed the pince-nez onto his
nose and stood motionless for a second, looking at the freshly revealed gator. He nodded and half-smiled, as he might have acknowledged a passing matron in the lobby, then turned and stepped back into Room 124, closing the door behind him just as gently as before. At the sound of the bolt being thrown, the gator was off again, scrambling down the corridor toward the far door.