“What are you doing down there, Mace?’’ Mama joined me, stepping as delicately as the cat across grass still wet with dew. Beads of water clung to the reinforced toe of her knee-high stocking.
“Nothing, really.’’ I trailed my fingers again over the tread before I stood and brushed off my pants. “I was just noticing how big the tires are on this old truck.’’
Bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump.
My tires thumped over the wooden bridge at Himmarshee Park. No matter how bad the day, or how much work waits, driving over the little bridge always gives me a boost. Below, dark water swirled. Above, sunlight slanted through the feathery branches of cypress trees. I inhaled, breathing in the woodsy, organic aroma of the swamp.
Newcomers crinkle their noses and complain of the rotten-egg smell. It comes about as bacteria break down dead plants and animals in the water. That allows them to be consumed by other creatures; which in turn are eaten by larger critters. And so it goes.
To me, the muck and mud of the swamp smells like life itself.
I love the outdoors, but even I’ll admit there are better spots to be in the summer. The nearest coastal breeze is an hour east. If heat stroke doesn’t get you, the mosquitoes will. And park in the full sun, and your car seat will reward you with third-degree burns upon your return. Not surprisingly, our parking lot was nearly empty.
I pulled into the shade of a clump of Sabal palms. Grabbing my purse and two plastic bags full of Ollie’s chickens, I headed in to work.
The park’s office is built of cypress, with tall windows and a wraparound porch. The designer did a good job of making the structure look like it grew up in the woods. But to me, being stuck for too long inside any kind of building anywhere still feels like a trap.
Inside, a phone was affixed to my boss’ ear. Rhonda drummed the pink-polished fingers of her free hand on the arm of her chair. When she saw me in the doorway, she flexed her hand into a yak-yak-yak sign next to the phone cradled on her shoulder.
“Yes, Ma’am. I will tell Mace you called.’’ Rhonda’s fingers hovered over the phone, ready to hang up. She leaned back again, listening. “No, as I mentioned to you, she’s had a bit of family difficulty in recent days.’’ She paused. “No, Ma’am, I don’t know what it’s like to have a panther stalking the pretty red birds that come to your bird feeder.’’
The New Jerseyite! I signaled frantically, pointing at my chest and shaking my head no, no, no. The last thing I needed was her tale of woe about what I suspected was a neighbor’s fat cat. If it was a panther, it’d be after bigger prey, like her obnoxious poodle.
I was tuckered out, mentally. All I wanted was some peace and quiet to try to make sense of recent events: The come-on by the DVD-peddling pastor. The truck at Emma Jean’s. The possible connection—beyond cigars—between Martinez and Big Sal.
I went back outside to the storage room to dump Ollie’s food in the freezer. Rhonda was just hanging up when I returned.
“You owe me.’’ She rubbed at a phone-related crick in her neck. “You owe me big.’’
She stood up to stretch. Not many women are as tall as me, but Rhonda had an inch and a half on me. Nearly six feet, she should be wearing designer clothes instead of government-uniform green. She’s as beautiful as any model, and at least three times as smart.
“I know I owe you, Rhonda. I’m taking you to dinner at the Speckled Perch when all of this is over.’’
She sat back down, a smile spreading from her mouth all the way up to her angled cheekbones. The Perch is famous for its fried hush puppies. Blessed with the metabolism of a marathon runner, Rhonda devours the round corn-meal morsels by the dozen.
“I’ll handle all your unpleasant details for dinner at the Perch, Mace.’’
“Believe me, boss, you don’t want that burden right now.’’
I sat at my desk and attacked some paperwork, separating letters and messages into Soon, Later, and Never piles. A call from a retirement home in Highlands County went into Soon. Sometimes, I’ll take an orphaned possum and a few snakes and give a talk for the old people. They get nearly as big a kick as the kids do out of seeing the animals. A request to speak about wildlife at the country club, not exactly my natural audience, I filed in Later. An invitation to attend a fashion-show? Mama must have gotten me on that mailing list. Never.
When I’d cleared enough paper to see some of the daily squares on my desk calendar, I stood up and stretched. I’d been at it for fifty-five minutes. That was long enough. I needed to breathe some outside air.
“I’m gonna take a look around the park, then hit the vending machine. Want anything?’’
Rhonda looked up from a towering pile of permit cards and requisition forms. If that was management, she could have it.
“No, thanks. Take your time. I can tell from the way you’ve been jiggling your leg that you’re itching to get outside. Say hi to your animals for me.’’
“Will do.’’
“And, Mace?’’ Rhonda’s shift to her supervisor tone stopped me with my hand on the doorknob. “If you see any visitors, please say hi to them, too. It wouldn’t hurt you to be a little friendlier to the park’s humans.’’
Some guy had complained to Rhonda that I was rude to his girlfriend. She was whining about how the brush and the bugs on the nature walk had eaten up her legs. All I said was it was plain stupid to come to the woods in short-shorts and high-heeled sandals, so what did she expect?
“Got it, Rhonda.’’ I pulled open the door. “I promise not to use the S-word, even when people are stupid.’’
Outside, I headed straight for the far corner of the park, where I keep the injured and unwanted animals. I could see Ollie on a sloped bank. He was sunbathing, with his body half in and half out of the water. I leaned over the concrete wall that encloses his pond.
“Hey, buddy,’’ I called down to the gator. “How’s it hangin’?’’
I talk to the animals. A lot. Maddie says it’s a clear sign I need more friends.
“Listen, I just put a dozen plump hens in your freezer. You’re going to be dining fine.’’
Ollie blinked his good eye.
With a brain a little bigger than a lima bean, he’s not much for conversation. I started to push myself away from the wall, when I heard a distant rustle in the brush behind me. I’ve spent a lifetime in the woods, and rarely been afraid. But something about that movement didn’t sound natural. A wild hog will crash through the undergrowth, not caring who all’s around. A deer will pass by, as quiet as a sigh. But the movement I heard sounded different: Sneaky. Stealthy. Big.