It was different, but good. So I sat there with tea, feeling the house shake beneath me. Whenever Hannah walked—whenever anyone walked—the whole house vibrated. It was one of those old Florida cottages built of heart pine on foot-high shell-mortar blocks, raw shell beneath. The living room had a varnished oak floor and a brick fireplace. On the mantel were arrangements of dried flowers in wicker baskets, a feminine touch. There were also four or five small glass spheres, dark green in color. The spheres were smaller than a tennis ball; reminded me of old glass net floats. Hanging from the ceiling were mobiles made of seashells, and on the walls, a couple of strange paintings: dark backgrounds with fluorescent loops and whirls. The furnishings were inexpensive, simple. Wood frames and bright cushions, beanbag chairs, a rocker, a Lay-Z-Boy, and a Sony television mounted on an orange crate in the corner. A small foyer with jalousie windows faced the bay. There was a breakfast table there covered with baskets of food, cakes, a roast chicken. The kind of gifts that country people bring when there has been a death in the family.
I tried to picture the charred creature I had held in my arms sitting at that table, eating a meal, sipping coffee after a hard night on the water. Tried to picture him walking to the refrigerator for a beer, plopping down on the couch to watch a ball game . . . pictured him taking Hannah into the bedroom.
But the imagery didn't work because the props wouldn't fall into place. There was no man-spore around the house. No heavy boots on the stoop, no tangle of clothes in the corner, no sports page folded beside the Lay-Z-Boy, no tools scattered around the porch. It had been only, what? sixteen hours since Jimmy Darroux had come tumbling out of the flames. My eyes drifted up to the mantel: no wedding picture. Married couples who are childless (I saw no sign of children in the house) usually keep a wedding picture prominently displayed—a gesture I have always found touching. It is as if they are reminding themselves that they are, indeed, a family.
'Sounds like your friend's enjoying his shower. But he surefire can't sing worth a flip. What's his name again?' She was still in the kitchen, but didn't have to talk loud to be heard, The place was so small.
'Tomlinson,' I said.
'He always so happy?'
'Always.' Why tell her that Tomlinson also had a dark side? Twice since I had known him, he'd descended into a depression so emphatic that he did not eat; would barely speak.
She said, 'He's kind'a different. No offense.'
'None taken.'
'I didn't mean it bad, because I like people who are different. I really do. The poet types, people who paint. That sort. See, because I'm kind of like that myself. Different. Since I was a little girl, always sort of, you know— weird. Even my daddy said so. I think I scared him.'
Because I could think of no other reply, I said, 'You seem normal enough to me.'
She poked her head out of the kitchen just long enough to smile and say, 'That's because you don't know me very well yet,' then vanished again, still talking. 'Part of it's I'm a Gemini born on the cusp. But with Leo rising. Like two people in one body, both of us bossy.' Her chuckle was a series of soft bell tones. 'Women aren't supposed to speak their minds, do whatever they please. Know why? Because it reminds men how much spunk they lack. Scares 'em, makes them feel sheepish. What about you, your sign?'
I wasn't even sure I knew. When I took a guess, she said, 'Gad! We're complete opposites. You're the real logical type, everything real orderly. I bet you think astrology's a bunch of crap. Well . . . how about this? You know what a birth veil is? Mama said I was born with a veil over my face. This flap of skin or something, the placenta, I guess, connected when I came out. Like I didn't have eyes or a mouth or nothing. The midwife about fainted—that's what Mama said—because a baby born with a veil is supposed to have the power of second sight. That's what the midwife believed. She was my mama's closest friend, Miz Budd. A colored woman.'
All nonsense. But I liked the sound of her voice, the vitality of it. I said, 'Tomlinson's the one you should be telling. He's interested in folklore.'
'There. I knew he was different. What's he do?'
'Tomlinson? He lives on a sailboat and . . . well, that's what he does. He pulls up anchor occasionally, cruises around, then comes back.'
'To make a living, I mean. For money.'
I'd wondered about that myself. 'I think he has a small income from his family. He does research projects for organizations. Scholarly things. He's written some books—'
'Books!' She was suddenly very interested. She stood in the doorway for a moment, a wooden spoon in her hand. 'What kind of books? You mean that he wrote himself?'
'Well. . . yeah. I haven't read them . . . not clear through, anyway.' I'd given Tomlinson's most recent volume,
She paused for a moment, thoughtful. 'I'm writing a book myself, but don't know nothing about how to get it published. Hell, truth is, I don't know nothing about how to write it. It's about the fishermen. We're the last of about ten generations—if the bastards get their way. And about my great-grandmother and my great-aunt, too, Sarah and Hannah Smith. You ever hear of them?'
I told Hannah that I hadn't, then listened as she told me that, back in 1911, Sarah Smith had driven a two- wheeled oxcart across the Everglades—the only person to ever do it, man or woman.
'Just her alone, doin' what she wanted to do,' Hannah said. 'Some of the history books, they've got a picture of her. All the Crackers called her the Ox Woman. Because of what she did, and because she was so big. Made her money chopping firewood. Swing an ax like that, you've got to be stro-o-o-ng. Sarah had a sister named Hannah— my great-aunt—and she was big too. Like six two, six three. My size, so the old-timers called Hannah Big Six. Because she was more than six feet tall? Sometimes I think I'm Hannah come back. You know . . . like another life?'
I told Hannah, 'When Tomlinson gets out of the shower, you two will have a lot to talk about.'
I could hear a blow-dryer in the bathroom. Tomlinson was getting himself spruced up—a measure of Hannah Smith's effect on him.
'I almost telephoned you after that meeting.' She was still making noises in the kitchen: the clank of a steel lid, the clatter of dishes being washed. I wondered if she expected us to stay for dinner—and why she would want us to. She said, 'The meeting in Tallahassee? You impressed me, that's the truth. No fancy talking. Just the facts. The sportfishing guys, they didn't like it, neither. Didn't want to hear nothin' but their own lies.'
Which wasn't true. Most sportfishermen wanted what was best for the fishery. They were willing to listen. I opened my mouth to correct her, but hesitated, allowing the opportunity to pass—and realized that I, too, was oddly eager to please her. A powerful woman.
She came into living room, wiping her hands on a towel, adding, 'You didn't have an ax to grind, just told it out straight,' then dropped down into a beanbag chair near the fireplace, one stork leg folded over another. 'Truth is . . . that wasn't the first time I seen you.' The expression on her face intermingled amusement and challenge. She waited for a reply; proof that she had my full attention.
I said, 'Is that so?'
'Yep. It was maybe a year ago. I was down fishing in Dinkin's Bay, just me. 'Bout sunset, just after. Still some light but not a lot. I was pushing along the bushes looking for a mess of mullet to strike, when I see this big blond hairy man come waltzing out on the porch. Stripped his clothes off and started washing himself from the water cistern. Brushing his teeth, scrubbing all the shady spots. I banged my paddle a couple times, figuring it was the polite thing to do. Let you know you had an audience. But you never heard. Like you was a million miles away. I found out your name after that. Some people on the island knew. Then I saw you at that meeting.'
I remained indifferent—but it took some effort. 'I must have had a lot on my mind.'
'I'm not complaining. Quite a show you gave me.' Her frankness seemed an innocent conceit; a friendly affectation. She added, 'The Punta Gorda Fish Company built that shack where you live. My daddy, when he was a boy, he and his daddy used to stay there sometimes. Fished for the company. That was before they moved to Cedar Key.' Then she lifted her knees above the vinyl bag, pirouetted on her buttocks, and tossed the towel she had been holding into the kitchen. It landed—still folded—on the counter.
She was graceful for a big woman; had a lazy fluidity of movement that you only see in good athletes or very young children. I found myself looking at her, staring, and when I tried to look away, my eyes drifted back to her again. Hannah Smith was one of those rare women who, the longer you're around them, the more attractive they
