Whale Season (18 page)

Chapter 29

“Y
ou pays your money, you takes your chances.”

Leon had forgotten about that old sign. It's written in Grammy Lettie's perfect Palmer Method handwriting, which she was always quite proud of. The sign gives him a sentimental feeling. For a moment, he wants to take it down and hang it over the front door at Lucky's, but then thinks better of it. Fair warning has a tendency to be bad for business.

“You need some time alone there,” Carlotta told him. “Place feels haunted, but in a good way. Like your mama and grandma just want to remind you where you came from.” Then she kissed Leon on the cheek. That's when he knew it was probably over. He wanted to tell her about the shrink-wrapped money he found, but didn't. Leon could see by the way Carlotta stole a look at Trot that the money wouldn't make much difference anymore. It wasn't like he didn't see it coming, though.

Damn this town, he thinks. If only she hadn't expected whales.

So when everybody was dancing, Leon took the huge bag of money from the Dream's washing machine and stuffed it into his trunk. Didn't tell a soul.

On the way out to his family's former alligator farm, he made a list of all the things he needed to do now that he's not dead—and probably single again.

First—get some clothes. Running around shirtless without shoes and wearing jeans that are so big they make you look like a refugee from Ringling Brothers is not the best look for a man who recently came into a sack of shrink-wrapped cash.

Second—drag some gators back into Grammy Lettie's front yard and flood it up a little bit; not so much like the last time, just enough so the gators don't die.

Third—build an amphitheater around the whole thing.

Fourth—rename the place “The Ghost House Gator Farm.”

Dang, I'm good, he thought. Who wouldn't pay money to see large amphibious creatures in the front yard of a house that's been spit back up from the earth?

Best of all, lucky thrill-seekers could have an opportunity to spend an hour training with one of the most famous gator wrestlers in the state of Florida—“Sam the Gator,” former U of F football star. After a quick lesson, they could wrassle their own gator for only $250 a pop.

Cash in advance. No checks or credit cards, please.

Leon knew he was getting a little ahead of himself—he hadn't even talked to Sam about the idea—but he could smell the money rolling in. Extreme sports—everybody loves them. Swimming with sharks. Driving through Miami during tourist season. Even on TV, people are always lowering themselves upside down into snake pits and eating maggots. It's a fine American tradition.

This idea is foolproof, Leon thought. Which he knew meant that, even with a bag full of shrink-wrapped cash, he had about a 50-50 chance of pulling it off.

But now he's not so sure anymore. Not sure if he wants to.

As he walked through the arch of passion fruit flowers that wove themselves across the canopy of live oaks, he suddenly felt like he did when the bees had covered him. The air was fragrant, cool. His body hummed.

The house was smaller than he had imagined. Worn.

But still. There it was.

It's haunted in a good way, Carlotta told him.

The ghost house has risen, Trot had said.

Standing in the shadow of the gigantic gator grin—an entrance gate like no other, as Grammy Lettie used to say—Leon understands what they meant. He imagines the ghosts of Mama Po and Grammy Lettie sitting at the kitchen table playing five-card stud, no limit, just waiting to deal him in. So he goes inside.

The old-styled television makes him laugh. And there's TV tables just like the ones he has—or had.

“Had,” he says out loud, and tries to get used to the word. Let it sink in. After the explosion, he officially has no place to live. Takes some getting used to.

Maybe I should just move in here, he thinks. Carlotta probably is going to move on soon. It's better than sleeping at Lucky's. Or in the Dream—those Levis could have been killed in there.

He hadn't thought of that before. The idea makes his skin go cold. He wraps his arms around his bare chest and thinks of the RV salesman's motto, “Ignorance is bliss,” but isn't too sure about that anymore. In fact, he doesn't feel sure about much anymore. Everything feels changed. Even him.

And the house feels so quiet it spooks him. He didn't expect that. No hum from lights or electricity. Feels a little like church. Leon runs a hand though his tarnished hair and wishes he'd borrowed a shirt from Trot or Bender. Being bare-chested in such a quiet place seems disrespectful.

In the kitchen, however, there are no ghosts—at least none that he can see. The room smells of bleach and that smell he remembers as a kid, that particular mix of dying fish, heat, and salt. He likes that. Makes him happy.

The kitchen is good-sized, big and square, with an enameled stove. It's the kind of kitchen you can make tapioca in. Carlotta's left some plates in the sink. There's a coffee cup with her lipstick on it. The plates are milky green glass, as is the cup. Leon opens the cupboard, and there's a whole set of them. Not just plates and coffee cups, but juice glasses made from blue glass. A couple of jelly jars. Everything smells of bleach.

Carlotta at work, he thinks, and picks up a soup bowl. Holds it to his ear like a shell. Listens.

He's not sure what he's listening for, or why. But knows his mama must have had soup from this bowl—and Grammy Lettie, too. So he listens, but all he can hear is the sound of his own heart beating just a little too fast.

Haunted, he thinks, but in a good way.

Next to the living room is a small bedroom. He suspects it was Mama Po's; the walls are peeling pink paint. In the closet there are hangers with dresses, but the cloth of them is nearly rotted away; only shreds of fabric remain, colorless, bleached by salt air and water. The rotted fabric sways in the still air.

He opens the top drawer of her dresser. It creaks. The clothes inside are moldy and decayed, but on the top of them there's a bundle of something. A faded red ribbon is tied around what looks to be a stack of envelopes. Maybe love letters. It's tough to tell. The pages are so covered with mold and warped; the bundle is curled into itself. Looks like a small bird, long dead.

Leon's afraid to touch it. He tells himself whatever secrets are in this house they don't matter anymore. Still, when he looks around the peeling room, his chest goes tight.

Outside, he hears a bark, then a yip. From the window, he can see a family of panthers running along the beach, a mother and three kittens. Carlotta told him they were around. The cats are biting each other's ears and rolling in the surf as they make their way down the thin shoreline. They look happy. Leon watches from the window until he can't see them anymore. Then he goes outside after them, not willing to let them disappear quite yet.

They remind him of Cal, that roughneck, fearless way he used to play.

Just a minute more, he thinks. But by the time Leon reaches the water, the cats are scampering into a thick of cypress trees farther down the shoreline. Leon stands in the surf and watches them until they are out of sight. The tide is high and rough. There's a storm in the Gulf. Clouds bump up against each other and bruise. Waves break against Leon. He rocks under their force.

The peninsula of land that Lettie's house sits on curves like a hook. In the distance, Leon can see the neon light of Bob the Round-Up Cowboy. Can see the entire beach of Whale Harbor. The town looks so tiny and faraway. Hardly seems real.

The storm picks up. Lightning spins across the sky like so many spiderwebs. Leon can smell the coming rain. It's hard to leave, though. He tries to imagine what it was like when Mama Po was a girl and the town of Whale Harbor was really a town. Must have been able to see the lights of the Ferris wheel from here, he thinks.

The enormous blue jeans he borrowed from Sam are taking in water quickly. The belt he's tied around his waist slips. A wave slaps him hard and the weight of the water pulls the pants around his knees.

Now he's naked.

This is not good.

This is the third time in a week that Leon has found himself alone and naked. The first time his trailer blew up. The second, a swarm of bees mistook him for a log. Now what? Obviously, being naked is a sign of bad luck.

Men aren't supposed to be naked when they're by themselves, he thinks. It's unnatural. Dangerous.
Hinky.

He tries to pull Sam's pants up, but they're too heavy and are now filling with sand.

“If this is the way my life is going to go, I've got to get a hobby, man,” he mumbles, but the only hobby he can think of is model railroading—all those tiny trains going round and round in circles—going nowhere fast. Sam's clown-sized pants palpitate around his ankles like a jellyfish and Leon can imagine himself living alone, landscaping cardboard mountains, and wearing a conductor's cap.

He impersonates a train whistle, just for practice. “Woo-woo.” A school of pinfish quickly scoots by him. And now he's really worried. He thinks he may like that sound.

He tries to pick up Sam's pants again, and a bolt of lightning cracks toward town. He looks up and sees something in the distance. Something large is in the water. It's too far to see what it is. But it looks white.

Whale.

“I'll be damned.”

The white body arches in the high waves, then hits the water hard. Not graceful, as you'd expect. Seems to be struggling, but it's difficult for Leon to tell. The storm clouds have turned the sky muddy. If he squints, all he can see is something pale and large, thrashing.

“Got to be whales, though,” Leon says, excited as a kid. “What else could it be?”

With all his strength, he pulls Sam's sinking pants up around his waist. Clenches his fist tightly to hold them in place. He's got to borrow some pants that fit better. Then find Carlotta.

“Every woman deserves whales,” he says.

As Leon runs, he trips on the pant legs. Falls hard. Doesn't matter, though. There are whales in Whale Harbor. Life is good after all.

Chapter 30

F
or Jesus, “Thirteen” turned out to be a very lucky number indeed. Very quick. Very easy. Surprisingly so.

Unfortunately, there was a witness.

“Step away,” Trot shouts, gun drawn.

Jesus is holding the machete in one hand. In the other is Sam. The boy's blue eyes are open and unseeing. “I saved him,” Jesus says with that poker voice of his.

“Drop the knife in the water,” Trot shouts. He tries not to focus on the dead boy; it's too late for him. Trot tries not to panic.

I'm sorry, he thinks over and over again. Hopes Sam can hear him in heaven.

“I gave him a proper baptism, like John the Baptist would,” Jesus shouts. “I have given him the gift of salvation.”

The boy's enormous pale body bobs up against Jesus as he speaks. The water around him is red from blood. The boy's face is nearly shredded, but Trot stares at Jesus. Doesn't break eye contact. Trot never had to shoot a man before, isn't afraid of it, but he doesn't want to make a mistake. Wants to give him every chance. The guy needs help. He's sick. Do it by the book, Trot tells himself.

“Drop the knife,” he says again.

Jesus moves closer. “You believe in salvation?”

“Drop it.”

Trot's hand is steady. He's aiming at Jesus' heart, but the tide is coming in. The waves are pounding the shore—Trot and Jesus, too. Both men move back and forth in the rough water. They look like drunks, stagger with each wave. Even this close, it would be difficult for Trot to get off a clear shot in such strong surf.

Jesus moves even closer. Trot can smell that sticky sweet blood smell.

“Don't,” Trot shouts. “Just drop the knife. Let the body go.”

Jesus smiles and releases Sam's body. Waves break over it. Pull it toward shore.

“Now the knife,” Trot says. Steady.

A large wave hits Jesus from behind and covers him for a moment. He spits saltwater, staggers forward. Now he's within striking distance, just a blade away. “Everybody wants to be saved, isn't that right?” he says. “Even you.”

“I'll give you to ten.”

Trot is beyond fear, working on adrenaline. He keeps thinking about Sam, his huge body being washed on shore like some fish, but doesn't break eye contact.

“Nine. Eight. Seven.”

“Fine,” Jesus says and holds his arms out to Trot as if to surrender, but the machete still in his right hand. The waves push and pull harder. He stares at Trot with those Bible eyes. Unblinking.

“The knife,” Trot says. “Just drop it.”

“Of course.”

And then, finger by finger, Jesus opens his hand. He is clear-eyed and smiling. The waves beat against his back.

Trot, sensing it's over, lowers his gun slightly.

But it's not over.