Pine Island Coast Florida Box Set, page 75
part #1 of Pine Island Coast Florida Series
When Ellie moved back to St. James City and bought her house on Lime Avenue, it had been Quinton who had come over and helped repair the motor on her boat lift. It was an unchangeable law of the universe that things started to fall apart as soon you purchased a home. Things that inspections showed to be sturdy and sound started to snap, burn out, or dislodge the moment your pen finished riding across that small mountain of paperwork. Quinton and Major had become friends as Ellie went into high school, but she hadn’t gotten to know Quinton very well before she went off to college. She knew that his daughter had died many years back and that Major had taken it very hard. Several months ago, Quinton had left on a trip to fulfill a promise he’d made to his daughter before she passed. That was all Major had offered up when she asked him about it, and Ellie felt like she would be guilty of emotional trespassing to inquire any further.
Ellie stepped in behind the bar, grabbed a glass, and filled it with water. “Hey, kiddo,” Major said.
“Hey,” she said. “Good having your friend back?”
He pressed the lid back onto the garnish container and started rinsing his hands. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I’m glad, for his sake, it’s behind him.”
Gloria’s strong, bird-like nose dipped into her glass as she took a long sip of her piña colada. She motioned toward Ellie as she swallowed. “Oh, Ellie, Quinton was just telling us all about his trip to all the baseball stadiums.” She poked her husband in the shoulder. “Fu, we should go visit sometime.”
Fu started to give his customary nod of agreement when he resettled himself on his barstool and a clatter ensued, followed by a thunk, and then a dissonant thump. Fu’s eyes widened and suddenly it looked like his face was dealing with a hard case of sunburn. Everyone followed his gaze down toward his feet. Or foot, rather. Fu’s prosthetic leg now lay on the deck, having made a successful retreat from his body.
“Oh,” Gloria said. She started to get up, but Quinton stopped her.
He stood up, bent down, and retrieved the leg. He set it on the bartop and looked at Fu. He rested a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry Fu, I know it’s hard to walk away from something like this.”
The bar broke up and Gloria looked at her husband. “I keep telling you to get fitted for another one.” Fu nodded timidly and drained the last of his rum.
“We love you, Fu,” Ellie smiled, and Fu’s embarrassment seemed to wane.
Quinton returned to his stool, leaving the leg on the bartop where it sat like an irreverent table decoration. “Ellie,” he said, “I hear you’ve been quite busy since I’ve been gone.”
Before she could answer, Gloria said, “Oh, she has. Ellie helped take down all these drug dealers. It was even in the paper. Well, not her name, of course, but the people she took down. She’s a local hero if you ask me.” Gloria beamed like a proud aunt.
Quinton’s gaze drifted over to Major who briefly met it and then returned to wiping down the back counter.
“It’s a good feeling.” Wanting to get such attention off herself, she said, “Quinton, I walked over to the bait shop a couple times while you were gone. Abel seemed to be doing a great job holding things down for you.”
“I’m lucky to have him. I couldn’t have been gone as long as I was without him.”
“I hope your trip was healing,” Ellie said.
Quinton looked at his beer and used his thumb to wipe a bead of sweat from the bottle. He ran his tongue across the front of his teeth. “Thank you, Ellie. It was. In ways I hadn’t expected.” He swiped at the bottle again. “You know, she would have been twenty-one this year. Could have sat here and enjoyed one of these with me.” His head shone in the early afternoon sun like an over-polished bowling ball, browning sunspots scattered across his scalp. He pulled out of it and smiled, stood up. “I’m sure I’ve got work to do.” The prosthetic limb still sat atop the bar. Quinton patted it and said, “It’s time we broke up. Don’t try to follow me.” Everyone chuckled as he said goodbye, and Fu stared thoughtfully at his leg.
Ellie motioned toward the ceiling. “Major, we need to get some Christmas lights back in here. I hate to say it, but I think some poor fisherman is going to pull up the previous strings from the bottom of the Sound.”
Major folded his arms and looked up. “Agreed. I’ll tell you what. I’ll get some today and you can hang them tomorrow.” He winked at her. She always felt safe when he did that. Like she wouldn't want to be anywhere else.
Chapter Thirteen
A three-car collision on Veterans Parkway had Ellie in a short line of stand-still traffic for nearly twenty minutes, putting her at the warehouse as many minutes behind schedule. She parked her truck at a nearby bowling alley and negotiated the cracked and potholed side streets to the warehouse, entering the grounds through a cluster of photinia. Frustration crept through her when she counted over fifteen people already in line. She walked across the dirt lot and fell in line, bringing up the rear. She recognized a few people from the night before, all wearing the same worn clothing. Ellie wore cutoff jean shorts, a white tank top over a black bra, and worn, burgundy Doc Martens that laced up past her ankles. An hour ago she’d spent time in front of the mirror touseling her hair, overusing product, and rough-drying it, giving it a messy, unwashed look.
The evening was breezeless, dark, and quiet, the humidity bathing the night in a thick, unseen cloud of moisture that was drugging the night into sluggishness. Even the cicadas seemed tired, and the frogs and peepers had gone quiet.
The minutes ticked away, and more people fell in behind her, starting with a girl that Ellie took for no older than eighteen. Her face was thin, her blonde hair twisted into thick dreadlocks, some held together by thin silver clamps. Her eyes were tired, dark circles beneath them. She looked sad. Ellie caught her eye but said nothing and looked away. It was still ten minutes before the door was scheduled to open and more people came out of the shadows and extended the line. Ellie noted how quiet everyone was. There was no light banter, no conversation. Just a cough here and there, and a couple people mumbling to themselves.
It wasn’t long before snickering broke out behind her, followed by the girl in dreadlocks telling someone to knock it off. Then the girl pressed hard up into Ellie, forcing her to take a step forward into the woman in front of her. Ellie found her footing and turned around. Three young men, two white, one black, all matching in black jeans and durags were laughing. The shortest one, a heavy white man with a tattoo of praying hands on his neck, was poking at the girl in dreadlocks, laughing and making sexually charged comments. Behind him, his friends were still snickering. They were the same guys that had sent the man in crutches to the ground the night before.
The girl’s gaze was on her feet as she tried to ignore them. Her eyes said she was scared.
Ellie stepped out of the line. She calmly addressed the instigator. “Hi. Would you mind leaving this young lady alone? Please.”
The girl’s head lifted.
The shorter man snarled. “Get outta here. We ain’t done nothing.”
“Can you just keep your hands to yourself? And your comments. That’s all I’m asking.”
He sized her up, his top lip curling. “I’ve never seen you before. And I know I would have remembered your pretty face.”
Ellie ignored him and returned to her spot in the line, just as the door swung open. The same man from last night—stocky with a thick goatee—stepped to the side. “Just your name,” he called out, and looked back to his clipboard. The strong man from last night was different, but his muscle still spoke over his silence. He surveyed the line indifferently and then took a step to the side until he was positioned against the doorframe. Ellie went up the steps and gave her name as Heather Smith. She listened as the girl gave hers: Abby Norton, and she was the last one allowed in. The men with durags didn’t make the cut. Ellie walked through the door and stepped off to the side as she had been directed. They were in a break room of sorts. A refrigerator was buzzing quietly in the corner. Old brown cabinets lined a wall, and a small table sat in the center of the room.
They allowed in fourteen people, one more than the night before. The two men came back in, and after the door was shut and locked they broke everyone into two groups of seven. The man with the goatee asked the first timers to raise their hands. Ellie’s hand went up along with two others. The man gave the room the rundown in a tired, monotonous voice, like he had given the same speech a thousand times. He probably had.
The shift, he said, ended at 4:00 AM. A short break was allowed between one and two, and bathrooms were on the other side of the wall. No smoking inside. When the shift was over they would be escorted back here, paid, and sent on their way. And with that, the man led the way out of the break room and into the warehouse. They walked down an aisle of steel racks loaded with nondescript boxes before turning out into a main aisle and passing up large sorting machines and roller racks that extended out fifty feet. Beneath the rollers, strewn across the floor, were tiny paper cutouts the size of a dime. The man stopped and motioned toward Ellie’s group. “Tonight you’ll start with sweeping up. Brooms and bags are against that wall over there. When you’re done with that, there are loose boxes on row twenty-three that need to be stacked and set over by the cardboard compressor. Someone will be by to check on you later. Just one minute.” The man walked over to the concrete tilt wall where a laminated chart was stuck to the wall. He grabbed a black marker that was hanging from a string, removed the cap, and jotted a note on the chart.
Abby came up beside Ellie and spoke softly. “Thank you for your help outside,” she said quietly.
“Of course,” she smiled. “We girls have to stick together.”
The man finished writing on the chart and told the second group to follow him. Abby fell in line, and they disappeared around a cluster of parked forklifts. A couple of people walked toward the brooms with a confident gait that told Ellie they had done this before. Ellie followed them over and grabbed one.
Chapter Fourteen
Virgil stared groggily at the ceiling tiles. Two of them, both near the television mount, held brownish water stains. The nurse had just left, saying she would return with a doctor. Her perfume lingered behind. The scent of crushed gardenias caused the ceiling tiles to dissolve into vivid images of Panama and Lupita: she with her hair, black as a crow’s feather, cascading around her neck and her shoulders and her breasts. He could feel the crown of her head tucked beneath his chin, the warmth of her body against his as they sat in the grass and watched the sun disappear behind the canistel trees and the sandbox trees and the wild cashews. Virgil could see her hand on his thigh and the ring that she had let him slip onto her finger. He could see her in the kitchen, her black eyes glistening like polished ore as she held up the white veil her mother had stitched for the upcoming ceremony.
The door to his room opened and Lupita vanished. Two doctors entered, followed by his nurse. They approached his bed and one of the doctors introduced himself as Dr. Jensen. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
Virgil smiled. “First time I’ve ever fallen off a moving golf cart.”
“A jokester. That’s a good sign. Well, we want to give you an update on your situation. Are you up for that?”
An extreme drowsiness suddenly rolled over Virgil. He responded with a half-nod.
The doctor handed his clipboard to the nurse. “A hiker found you out near Flagstaff early this morning. You were in a bad auto accident and…” The doctor drew a pause. “You were also shot in two areas, three times. Before the accident, it seems. Do you remember any of that?”
“I do.”
“The doctors watched him as if they expected him to say more. When Virgil said nothing else, he went on. “After you were airlifted here to Phoenix we had you in surgery for nearly three hours. We stitched your shoulder up and your collarbone. We screwed in a clavicle plate and have you set up to receive bone grafts.”
“And my knee?” Virgil asked.
“To be frank, your knee is the worst off. We have you scheduled for a knee replacement early tomorrow afternoon.”
Virgil nodded, sighed, and stared at the end of the bed.
“As you can see, we have your left arm in the sling. It’s snug to prevent any jostling. Your left knee is in a ROM brace to keep it immobile.”
“Do you have any questions?” the other doctor asked.
“No. I don’t suppose I do. Thank you for the update.”
“I’m sure you’ll have some later. Just ask your nurse.”
Virgil suddenly felt like he could not stay awake any longer. His eyelids closed halfway, popped open, and drooped again, like they were bobbing on a wild ocean. “The morphine will help you sleep,” Dr. Jensen said. “Before we leave, we do need to get some information from you.” The nurse handed him back his clipboard. “What is your name?” Dr. Jensen asked.
Here we go. Virgil forced his eyes open. “I can’t give you that.”
The doctors exchanged curious glances. “I’m sorry, you...can’t give us your name?”
“Correct.”
“And why is that?”
“I can’t say.”
Dr. Jensen’s brows lowered. “Sir, we’re doing our best to help you here. But we’re going to need some personal information from you.”
“Not allergic to any meds. History of diabetes on my dad’s side of the family. But he doesn’t have it and neither...neither...do I.”
Then, like someone had thrown a switch, Virgil’s eyes closed, and drowsiness lured him back into sleep.
Chapter Fifteen
Dark gray clouds had formed overhead, blocking out large portions of the sun and creating grayish patches across the surface of the water. But the clouds were false in that they held no rain.
Quinton stood behind the wheel of his Stingray as he ran it up through Pine Island Sound at fifteen knots. He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with air that was ripe with salt, and felt as though an electric current was charging his veins. He was at home on the water and had recently concluded that spending months away from the ocean was just plain unhealthy.
He passed up Captiva Rocks before arriving at the fishing shack. Of the eight shacks still in existence, just two remained in private hands. Quinton’s grandfather—the only one who had not been married to a liquor bottle—happened to inherit one of them years ago. Before he died he deeded it over to Quinton, his only grandchild who had done something with his life. The shack was not the most practical of endowments, but he and Katrina would come out a few times a year and fish off the deck or camp out over a weekend. Earlier this year Quinton had decided to make an effort at overdue repairs. Most of the floorboards were soft and rotted out from years of imbibing the thick moisture coming off the water below. He replaced corrugated steel panels that had rusted out and begun to let the rain waters in. The door hinges had rusted out, and one of the small window panes had shattered. Just how, he didn’t know, but the odds favored an unfortunate seagull.
Quinton shut off the engine and tied off on the short dock. Using both hands he lifted the heavy air compressor/power generator and heaved it onto the dock. He didn’t have a lock on the door. He never had seen a need for one. Only a couple times had he found a few empty beer cans laying inside, but no one had ever damaged the place. He opened the door and walked the compressor inside, set it down on the sturdiest floor board. He surveyed the small space and was pleased with the condition in which he had left it. All that was left to do was to repair the floor planks. He walked cautiously to the other end of the room, careful to avoid the weaker planks and soft spots so his foot didn’t fall through and take him down with it. He ran his fingers across an old gray 2x6 that stood out against the newer ones. This one would always remain. Katrina had carved her initials into it, and it seemed to fill the space like a tombstone created before its time.
Quinton was twenty-seven when Mary-Anne got pregnant, and that late July evening when he found out, he would have hugged her, or kissed her, or taken her out for dinner, but she ruined such a possibility by throwing a still-wet pregnancy test at him when he was on the couch, clutching a Milwaukee's Best and watching South Park. There he was, growing more anxious by the minute, wondering if the end of the world was upon them and if he shouldn't think about stockpiling water and food and guns, when the pregnancy test nailed him in the cheek and clattered to the floor. He was rearing up to scream at Mary-Anne when his eyes caught the test strip straddling the aluminum strip that formed the edge of the living room carpet and the kitchen linoleum.
“Mary-Anne?” His voice was soft. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Well, you’re damn right it is! It sure ain’t a popsicle stick.”
He reached down and picked it up while wiping Mary-Anne’s urine off his cheek with the back of his other hand. He held it in front of him and when he squinted he saw two blue lines. He didn’t know if it was one line or two that meant that there were now millions of diapers in his future, but given Mary-Anne’s current state of agitation, he went on ahead and assumed it was two.
He slowly sank back into the couch, still holding the plastic stick, his heart thumping, his eyes dilated with a strange combination of both terror and exuberance. Mary-Anne had been on the pill. Quinton had never really entertained the idea of being a parent. “A father,” he whispered, almost reverentially.
And it was in that defining moment that he felt a sudden urge to grow up. To quit being lazy and addicted and irresponsible. He blinked, and suddenly he discovered that he wanted to be the kind of man that could raise a child who wouldn’t flunk out on life. Quinton’s pedigree boasted a long line of what the bourgeois masses liked to label “white trash”; that social strata which conjured up images of Confederate flags, missing teeth, mullet haircuts, and run-down trailer parks. He couldn’t have picked out two men on either side of the family who weren’t drunks or on welfare, and any sociologist or geneticist would have pegged Quinton as a textbook case of what it looked like to repeat the cycle.
