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, Variations of the Yavapai Apache Sweat Lodge Ceremony, a determined effort, but failed.
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 become. At first glance, she was just a tall, gawky girl with big hands and a blank, unremarkable face. Then gradually, very gradually, the unnoticed details revealed themselves and soon dominated. It wasn't that she was beautiful. It had nothing to do with beauty. It was in the cat flex of thighs when she moved, the taut, countersync jounce of breasts when she walked. Beneath the blousey shirt and jeans had to be an extraordinary body. Her skin, which initially appeared sun-blotched and salt-dried, was also a peculiar, lustrous shade of gold. I had seen beaches in California with that same sun-burnished coloring. Her hair, her nails, her muscle tone, all exuded the body gloss of a healthy young female, a prime example of her species, who was in the ripest years of her fertile life. It took a while, but Hannah projected that kind of sexuality. A ruddy, musky, robust sexuality. Projected it, at first, on a noncognizant sensory level that was very slow in alerting the conscious. Which was probably why Tomlinson was in the bathroom blow-drying his hair.
"You still listening? Or just thinking with your eyes?" Hannah was sitting there grinning at me, her stare burrowing into me, as if she knew where my mind had been, letting me know it, enjoying my discomfort.
I fought the perverse urge to say something about the man I had held in my arms that morning. . . . Then I didn't fight it anymore. "Sorry, Hannah. I guess I was thinking about the way your husband died."
The grin faded, but her eyes still held me. "Like hell you were. You weren't thinking of Jimmy no more than I was." She let that settle before adding, "And I know what I was thinking about." Then she stretched, fists together, hands over head, breasts arched high, before favoring me with a softer look, the vaguest trace of a smile. "You bite back, don't you, Ford? Go right for that soft vein in the throat."