Captiva

I took the clipboard from her, leafed through the sheets. 'You know what you've done here? When Breder and Shlaifer did their work back in the forties, they observed their tarpon for one hour a day over a period of twenty-two consecutive days. Today alone, you've broadened the standards.'

On the field sheets were entry columns for: 'Time; Water Temperature; Rises per Fish Hour; Greatest Time Between Rises; Percent of Minutes with No Rises.' Each column was neatly filled with her penciled entries. Four pages—one for every hour of observation. I said, 'I don't expect you to spend every day sitting with those fish. . . . What I'm saying is, you've already done four days of work here.' I glanced at the clipboard again. 'Looks like very good work, too.'

She was pleased. Made self-deprecating remarks about how she had been a little sloppy here, could have done a little better there. I put my hand on her shoulder; felt her pull away instinctively, then relax enough to lean briefly against me. 'It's all fine. Hell . . . it's great.'

'I can keep working on the project?'

I told her, 'Lady, it is now our project. If I get around to publishing something on it, instead of saying Breder-Shlaifer it'll say Mueller-Ford.'

'Nope—you've got to at least take top billing.'

'If I ever get to know the fish on a first-name basis, then we'll discuss it.'

We stood there talking about the project. We shouldn't be surprised, I told her, if our results differed from Breder-Shlaifer, because we were doing the procedure in January. They had done it in June, when the water was much warmer. Then we talked about the possibility that at least some tarpon behavior was social behavior . . . and of course, mature fish might behave differently than immature fish . . . and Janet said it might be interesting to see what happened if a glass plate was suspended at the water's surface so that the fish could not roll.

'That procedure's been done,' I told her. 'Even in water that was heavily oxygenated, the fish died. Might be interesting to duplicate that one, too, try to find out why—'

'Oh, no-way,' she said with feeling. She glanced toward the tank: the Red Threat, Green Flag, and the others were in there. 'I couldn't be a part of that.'

I dropped the subject. Mostly what I did was wrestle with my own conscience. It was getting late. The sky had taken on the slate-gray and raspberry hues peculiar to the Gulf Coast in January. High, high up in corridors traveled only by tourist jets and the combat jockeys, wispy cirrus clouds showed the pathway of global winds. But down in Dinkin's Bay it was balmy, warm. ... It was also dinnertime. I owed Janet a dinner . . . owed her a lot more than that for all her work. But I also knew that if I left, I risked missing Hannah. Why hadn't Tomlinson offered a time? Why hadn't I asked? Or he could have had Hannah call me on the VHF . . .

Caught myself and thought: You're a dumb ass, Ford. A familiar charge from a familiar source.

I looked at Janet standing there: solid, pudgy, plain face, short mousy hair, good eyes. Saw that a little light had come back into them after her day with the tarpon.

'You want to go get something to eat?' I was saying it before I had even decided to speak.

'Are you sure you have the time? There's not something else you'd rather—'

I took her by the elbow and steered her toward the boardwalk. 'Mueller, just give me time to grab a shower and change. Twenty minutes?'

Nice smile; a touch of irony in it. 'Make it twenty-five, Ford. I'm the one who's been working. Remember?'

We chose the Lazy Flamingo, near Blind Pass. One of the few restaurants on Sanibel or Captiva that had a kicked-back, shorts-and-thongs, out-island quality to it. Since they'd closed Timmy's Nook, anyway. Heavy raw wood furniture, ceiling fans whirling, some palm thatching for effect. Go to the bar and place your own order, then sit in your booth while the waitress brings beer that is served from buckets of ice.

I chose the raw conch salad, lots of onion and lime juice. Also ordered the grilled grouper sandwich, plus a large Caesar salad—heavy on the anchovies—an order of fries . . . and garlic bread.

Janet said, 'Is that for both of us, or just you?'—her tone pleasantly sarcastic.

I told her that a day spent on a chair watching fish was slothful compared to the day I had had. She ordered the grilled grouper . . . canceled it, just asked for the Caesar—the extra weight she carried was probably on her mind—then we found an open booth by the window. She sat there looking around; I guessed she was wondering what to talk about— there's a limit to how much can be said about fish. So, when I felt the silence become strained, I told her about the Ford-Jackson hell run. Which got her laughing. She said she could just picture us out there, two huge kids lumbering along, both of us too stubborn to quit. I told her about Tomlinson's icebox. She made the appropriate grimace of disgust, but had to add: 'Have you ever looked into his eyes? Tomlinson has the most wonderful eyes. I know he's . . . unusual. Where I'm from? He'd be considered some kind of eccentric up home.'

I said, 'I've yet to find a place that wouldn't consider him eccentric. That's on his quiet days.'

'I know, but... he has the most. . . gentle way about him. Don't you think? You meet him, you feel as if you've always known him. He . . . empathizes with people. No, that's not the word.' She puzzled over it for a moment before saying, 'He feels for people, that's what he does. Not just empathizes, but gives you the impression he actually feels what you are feeling. I don't know how he does it. Telepathy? I'm not sure I believe in that. But somehow he does it, and he seems like . . . such a nice and gentle man.'

I took a sip of my beer; should have considered it longer before speaking, but I asked the question anyway: 'Is that why he's the only one you told why you left Ohio?' Saw the reaction in her face—a nervous, stricken look— and instantly regretted my words. Reached out, patted her hand. Said, 'I'm sorry. It's none of my business. I had no right to ask.'

She sat there for a moment—at least she hadn't pulled her hand away—head down, staring at the table. Finally, she lifted her face to me— the cloudy expression of shell shock had returned—then asked in a small, small voice, 'Tomlinson told you?' as if she had been betrayed.

There have been times in my life—too many times, I'm sad to admit— I have spoken or acted so unthinkingly that I do not doubt that civilized people would be better off if I simply returned to the jungles where I spent so many of my years. Build myself a bamboo hut. Hang a sign over the door: Beware the Big Dumb Shit. Use a stick to bang a hollowed-out log if I absolutely have to communicate.

I took her hand in both of mine, and squeezed. 'No, Tomlinson wouldn't do that. All he told me . . . the only thing he told me was that you and he had had some long conversations. Because I know Tomlinson, I assumed the rest. It's one of my eccentricities—prying into other people's business just to remind myself how rude I really am. Which is a nicer way of saying that I'm way too nosy. I'm sorry. Please believe me, Janet.'

It was a while before she spoke. I sat there feeling helplessly big and clumsy. Finally . . . finally, she patted my hand . . . looked at me with cool, remote eyes and said, 'Of course I believe you. I'd . . . like to tell you about it. But it's not easy for me. It's taken a long time to—'

'Forget it,' I interrupted. 'When you're in the mood, I'm ready to listen. A couple of weeks from now ... or after we finish the tarpon procedure. Or not—you decide.' I glanced around at the busy waitresses. 'Jesus, where is that food?'

A gusty sound of laughter burst from her lips—an emotional release. She said, 'No one would ever say that you have kind eyes. But you're kind. I used to watch you around the marina, and you seemed ... so remote. Like you're there, but you're really someplace else. When I first saw you? That's what I'm talking about. You actually seemed kind of scary.'

'I scare myself,' I put in helpfully. Didn't add: Beware the big dumb shit.

'But then I saw the way you treated that poor man. From the explosion? And the way you are with the others around the marina. Mostly, though, I know you're kind because you let me do all the observations today, and I know—don't tell me otherwise, either—I know you really wanted to do it.'

'Baloney,' I said. 'I took advantage of you. I lazed around on the beach and did other childish things while you worked. Which is why I'm paying the tab.' The food was coming. I was more grateful for the opportunity to change the subject than the chance to eat.

We ate in silence for a time. Good raw conch salad, good sandwich. When we did talk, I was careful to keep the topic within safe borders. Fish, biology, running. She spoke of trying to lose weight—I could hear the frustration in her voice. These are modern times. All men and women are required to fight hard to maintain the preferred