Captiva

rock, the rock has to fall half the distance to the ground before it can fall the remaining half. Right? But then the rock must fall half the distance of that. So on and so on. Logically, the rock should never reach the ground. What his book does is question the existence of distance and motion.'

She closed the book and looked at the dust jacket. The title was: No End in Sight.

'How many copies you think it sold?'

'I think Tomlinson probably gave away more copies than he sold.'

She thought that over. 'Well, my book is going to sell. I want people to know about the kind of people we are. And the mullet fishermen, what's being taken away from us. So I don't want any of that falling-rock bullshit in my book. I'll remind him when I get back. Oh yeah, I almost forgot—' She reached down into her Farmer Johns and handed me a folded sheaf of papers. 'It's the first chapter. Tommy's already working on the sixth or maybe the seventh. He wants to know what you think. He said you'd be a good . . . what'd he call it? ... a good barometer for the average reader.'

I took the sheaf of papers. Said, 'What a nice thing for Tommy to say.'

I opened the papers and looked at the cover page. It read: People of the Same Fire.

Hannah was watching over my shoulder. 'That's Tommy's title idea. He says the Indians up in the Carolinas and Georgia—the ones who moved down to Florida and net-fished?—that's what they called people from . . . not exactly the same tribe, but who were related. Yeah, related. The Creeks, I think he said.'

I started to fold the page over, but she stopped me. 'I was thinking maybe just call it 'The Hannah Smith Story.' Real simple, you know?'

Turning the page, I said, 'You may want to trust Tomlinson's judgment on this one,' and I began to read:

'I am the direct descendant of Sarah Smith, one of four incredible giant Smith sisters who did as much to settle this Florida wilderness as any eight men half their size. They may have not been net fishermen, but they had fishermen's blood in their veins.

'Sarah was my great-grandmother, and was known as the Ox Woman throughout the Everglades. My great- aunt, Hannah Smith, was my namesake. Hannah was called Big Six because of her height. She made her own way in the world until some bad men down on the Chatham River murdered her and, it is said, used a knife to cut the unborn baby from her stomach before they tossed her carcass into the river. But Hannah was stubborn. She still wouldn't sink.

'I am the spiritual sister of both women. But between the two, I probably favor Hannah. So I am well named . . .'

I refolded the chapter, placed it on my writing desk. 'Tomlinson wrote this?'

'I wrote it, then he changed it, then I changed what he wrote. That's the way we're doing it,' she said. 'It's my book. He's just helping.'

'Pretty gruesome story about your great-aunt—'

'Gruesome or not, it's the truth. That's what I mean to do, tell the truth. Sarah and Hannah woulda both wanted it that way. Believe me, I know because—'

'Because you were born with a veil over your face?'

She fixed me with a sly look of appraisal. 'That's right. I know all kinds of things because of that. The gift of second sight—that's what my mama called it. What I'm askin' you is, do you think it'll sell? The book, I mean. From what you read.'

'With your picture on the cover, I think it'll sell a lot better than No End in Sight.'

'Is that like a compliment? Or just a tricky way of sayin' you don't like it?'

'It's a compliment. I'll read more later, but I liked the first page just fine.'

She thought about that. Then: 'So what you're sayin' is you think I'm pretty.' Talking about the cover I had suggested.

'Pretty's not quite the word. Attractive. Very attractive.'

'Dressed the way I am, soaked from fishin'?'

'That's part of your appeal.'

Hannah had a wide, full mouth with sun-chapped lips that didn't seem to hurt her when she smiled. She was smiling now, a kind of sleepy, lazy, amused smile. She put the book down and walked toward me until her bare feet were nearly touching my toes. 'I like you, Ford. You're big enough to look me right in the eyes, only'—-she made her bell-tone chuckling sound—'only you don't spend a lot of time looking at my eyes.'

Which, of course, caused me to stare directly into her eyes: dark, dark eyes; irises flecked with gold beneath the glittering windows of cornea.

Heard her say, 'Is it true?'

'Is what true?'

'What the guys around the docks tell me? They say my nipples show their shape even through a rain jacket.'

I was just starting to reply to that when Hannah touched her fingers to the back of my head, pulled my face to hers. Kissed me very softly . . . then used her tongue to wet my lips . . . kissed me again, harder—until I took her by the shoulders, swung her around, and held her fast against the wall. Smiled at her, and said, 'Hannah, I'm at your service. But before we go any farther, I want to know just what the hell it is you want from me.'

'See? No bullshit.' She was laughing—enjoying it. 'That's just what I told you, Ford; just what I like about you. The way you go right for that little soft part of the throat.'

'With Tomlinson, it was the book. What do you want from me? That's all I'm asking.'

She levered her arms up over mine and freed herself. 'Oh-h-h ... I see what you're gettin' at. You think I screw guys just to get something.' She wagged her index finger at me: Naughty, naughty, naughty. 'That's where you're headed. Well, you're wrong. How many men you think I've taken to bed in my life?'

'That's none of my—'

'Come on, now admit it. Damn right you want to know. You're thinkin', Yeah, I'd like to, but you're not the type to just hop in the sack with any ol' slut.'

'Wait a minute, Hannah, I never—'

'Hell, I don't blame you. The way some women go around jumpin' on any pecker that can stand up and smile. Me? I've had five men, counting Jimmy, which I wish I didn't have to. That don't include the playin' around, touchy- feely make-somebody-happy business. The just-for-fun stuff. Five.' Now she clamped her hands on my shoulders. I was shaking my head—a tough woman to deal with—as I allowed her to pivot me around and press me against the same wall. She pursed her lips, like a teacher questioning a rowdy student. 'Now what about you? More than five?'

'Well, I'm older than you—'

'More than a dozen?'

'I used to travel a lot; never been married—'

'More than twenty?' She saw my expression and hooted, 'So who's the slut, Ford? Men, they're the sluts, and boy oh boy, you don't like it when the tables get turned!' She released me, found the back of my neck with her hand. 'You want to know what I want from you, Ford? Yeah, pick your brain about fish farming. That's what I want. I'll do that, 'cause fish farming's about the only thing left when they ban the nets, and that's the business I'm starting. I can see you up there at Gumbo Limbo, giving me advice on where to dig ponds, what kind'a pumps to use. That'd make me happy, sure. But from me? If banks accepted blow jobs, you'd never have a nickel to your name.'

'So why the strong come-on?'

'Goddamn, Ford! You got to have everything spelled out?'

'Let's just say I'm the shy type.'

'Sure. Like I'm the queen of Paris, France.'

'I want to know what the rules are, that's all—'