Tangerine

  Mr. Costello opened his book once again and addressed the man. "The Sheriff's Department has assigned someone to our case, Sergeant Edwards." He looked at the rest of the homeowners. "For those of you who don't know, five of the houses that were tented for bugs have been robbed of jewelry, watches, and other valuables."

  The man interrupted. "My lawyer tells me that the exterminator is required by law to either post a guard or to arrange for guards to patrol around the houses that are tented."

  "That may be true, Dan. But our local guy says he was not aware of that law."

  "He shoulda been. It's his business."

  "Maybe so. But I've talked to the guy, and his attitude is that you'd have to be crazy to go into a house that's been pumped full of deadly poison. Therefore there's no real threat of anyone doing it."

  "But somebody is doing it. Somebody busted in my patio doors with a baseball bat, too. And whether his attitude likes it or not, he's liable for that and for my missing property."

  Mr. Costello turned his palms upward. He answered patiently, "If you think you have a case against him, then by all means, pursue it. But is it really worth your time and money to hire a lawyer and go to court just to take some guy's dilapidated pickup truck away? Because that's what it'll come down to. That's just the way it is around here."

  The homeowners just sat there glumly until Mr. Costello said, "OK. Somebody move to adjourn."

  I turned back to the computer as the meeting broke up. I took out the disk and got into Dad's personal library, looking for another information service.

  I saw a file listing that had definitely not been there before. I would never have missed seeing this. "Erik—Scholarship Offers."

  I looked around for Dad. He and Mom were saying goodbye to people in the foyer, so I clicked on "Erik—Scholarship Offers."

  The file was two pages long. It was carefully designed, like someone had spent a lot of time thinking about it. Each page was filled with rectangular boxes stacked on top of each other. But get this: The boxes were light green football fields, with white grid lines at ten-yard intervals. Over the green-and-white fields, printed in red, were vital statistics. Each box contained the name of a university, its address and phone number, and the name of its head football coach. The top three boxes on page 1 were set up for the University of Florida, Florida State University, and the University of Miami. Ohio State had a box on page 1. So did Notre Dame, Penn State, and the University of Nebraska.

  It didn't look like any of these schools had expressed any interest in Erik. Not yet. I scrolled to page 2 and found some that had. Rice University, Baylor University, and the University of Houston had sent letters to Erik. From the dates of the letters, they must all have contacted him at the same time—right after his junior-year season in Houston. Dad, apparently, had not written back to any of them.

  I heard the front door close, so I quickly clicked out of the file.

  But I'll be back.

  Thursday, October 5

  Joey didn't come to school today. I wasn't surprised. I know exactly where he was. He was in the office at Lake Windsor Middle School, re-enrolling. It's the right thing for him to do. It's the right place for him to be.

  I never should have talked Joey into coming to Tangerine. He doesn't fit in here. I should have seen that. Joey's not me. Joey fits in with his family; he fits in with his friends; he fits in with Lake Windsor Downs. That's where he belongs. That's where he is now. And that's all there is to say about it.

  Right before science class began, I went up to Theresa and handed her six pages of research. She seemed pleasantly surprised. I said, "So what's up with Tino?"

  She said, "Not much," and started to look at my papers.

  "Does the coach know that he got suspended?"

  "Yeah. I guess so. Everybody else knows."

  "Is he gonna miss tomorrow's game?"

  "No. He's coming back tomorrow."

  "Yeah? I heard he got three days."

  "Luis went in and talked to Dr. Johnson. She said that since Tino didn't actually hit anybody she'd reduce his time out to one day."

  "Oh? That's cool."

  Theresa stopped thumbing through my report. She looked me right in the eye, like she never had before. "Yeah. Look, uh, Paul Fisher. You got to understand one thing. You can't come in here and start talking about Luis any way that you like. Luis means too much to us."

  I nodded quickly. "Yeah. Yeah, I understand."

  "Tino and Victor, they don't play that kinda stuff. I told them last night that they should leave you alone—but you better tell your friend to keep out of their way."

  I thought about that. "I don't think he goes to school here anymore. And I don't think he counts me as his friend. Not anymore."

  "Well, I don't know anything about that. I'm just tellin' you what I'm tellin' you." She pulled a piece of white paper out of her back pocket. "Here. This is a map to our house. Henry's coming over after practice to meet Luis. If you want to meet him, you can come, too."

  I stared at the map, and at the large black X marking their house. As coolly as I could, I said, "So what about Tino?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "He won't be mad if I come?"

  "No. Why should he?"

  I shrugged. "You know. The stuff with Joey..."

  "You're not Joey. Are you?"

  "No. But is he mad about getting suspended?"

  "You're not the one who got him suspended. Are you?"

  I shook my head and said, "No." But I thought to myself, Not this time, anyway.

  I went over to talk to Henry D., and we wound up working out a great plan. Henry's brother was going to drive him from Tangerine Middle School to Theresa's house, come back to get him, and then drive over to Lake Windsor Downs to do a job. Henry said that he and his brother "would be pleased" to drop me off right at my door. I called Mom and explained the plan. She sounded doubtful, but she agreed to let me do it.

  At practice the coach put me in at Tino's position. I played poorly, but nobody seemed to care. It was just temporary; Tino would be back tomorrow. After practice I followed Henry D. to the parking lot. We walked up to a small blue pickup truck and climbed in. Henry said, "This is Paul. This is my brother, Wayne."

  Wayne Dilkes! I knew him right away—the fireman! The young guy who had come to our house about the muck fire. He gave me a friendly "Hi," but I don't think he recognized me. Anyway, he didn't say anything as we drove east toward the groves, listening to a country music station.

  Soon we were flying past perfect rows of citrus trees, and that glorious scent was in the air.

  I saw a large wooden sign that said TOMAS CRUZ GROVES/ NURSERY. Wayne slowed to five miles per hour and turned right onto a dirt road. We bumped along past an oblong pond fifty yards across, ringed all around with tall cattails. Behind the pond, on higher ground, was a grove of trees, hundreds of them, all about ten feet high and six feet wide. Water sprinklers rose tall among the green trees like skinny metal weeds. We bumped to the left, toward several buildings—a house; a separate garage; a small shed; and another, strange-looking building.

  The house was large—two stories high, with old shade trees around it. It appeared to be built of cement blocks covered with a kind of mustard-colored stucco. We rolled in a cloud of dust past the house, pulled up next to the classic green Ford, and climbed out in front of that other building.

  Wayne said, "I'll see y'all in an hour," and backed out, leaving us standing before one of the strangest structures I have ever seen. It looked like a gigantic tin can that had been cut in half, lengthwise, and then pressed down into the ground. I asked Henry, "What is this thing?"

  "It's a Quonset hut. They had a lot of them left over after World War II. Some of the citrus farmers bought 'em up cheap, as war surplus."

  "Yeah? Did you find that out in your research?"

  "Yes, I did." Henry knocked on the wooden door of the Quonset hut. I looked up and figured that the door was six feet tall, and t
he hut was twelve feet tall at its highest point. At its lowest points, the ends stuck right into the ground.

  Tino opened the door and said, "Yo, Henry D." Then he turned back inside without acknowledging me.

  I followed Henry and Tino to the far end of the Quonset hut, about twenty yards down through the cool, dark, window-less building. The sides, where the metal ceiling curved down to the cement floor, were jammed with wooden crates, sprinkler heads, wheelbarrows, and all kinds of equipment.

  We joined Theresa and Luis at the rear door. Theresa pointed at us and said to him, "That one's Henry D.; that other one's Paul Fisher."

  Luis smiled. He had large teeth inside a large head. He had a strange shape, too—bony and muscular at the same time. His arms, his legs, his whole body were like thick rope.

  Luis said, "Good to see you guys." His voice was soft and seemed accented more than Tino's or Theresa's. He walked ahead of us, limping as if his left knee would not bend. He led us out of the Quonset hut toward the weather-beaten trees on a hill north of the house.

  Luis stopped about five rows in, pointed around him, and said, "This is a grove. We grow a fruit here called the Cleopatra tangerine, and we sell it to citrus packers and juice companies. Our family has done that for forty-five years now."

  Luis doubled back, and we followed. We turned left at the hut and soon came to an open space, as long as a soccer field, but square in shape. Here the trees were like babies—only a foot and a half high—and spaced not much more than a foot apart. There must have been a thousand of them.

  Luis sat down next to one of the baby trees, so we all copied him. He said, "Look around you. This is a nursery. The purpose of a nursery is not to grow fruit, it is to grow trees. We then sell these trees to fruit growers." Luis placed a long finger at the base of the baby tree. "This part of the tree is called the rootstock. It is the root and trunk of a rough lemon tree. Believe it or not, every type of tree that we produce here begins its life as a rough lemon tree." His finger rose six inches to the knobby beginning of a branch. "At this spot, we cut a slit into the rough lemon tree, set a new type of bud inside, and close the slit up with tape. Now we have turned the tree into something else—perhaps a Valencia orange tree or a Red Ruby grapefruit tree. The new bud that we grafted onto the rootstock is called a scion. The word scion means, like, a child or a descendent of the tree."

  Luis pointed his arm back to the tall trees. "Check this out: A scion can be any kind of citrus that you want—orange, grapefruit, lemon, lime—and they can all be growing on the same tree at the same time! That means that on one little tree, you could have a branch of white grapefruit, a branch of red kumquats, and a branch of green limes, like some kind of Frankenstein fruit tree, all stitched together." He caressed the trunk of the baby tree. "The rough lemon is totally worthless in the supermarket, and yet there is no more valuable tree out here in the nursery."

  Luis got to his feet, flushed with feeling. He pointed to the thousand baby trees before us. "If you look out here, you'll see that all of these trees are the same. On each there is one scion grafted onto a rough lemon rootstock. That scion is a new type of tangerine called the Golden Dawn."

  Luis stared with us at the field that he had created. Then he turned and led us back through the rows of adult trees. He pointed out different types of citrus trees, including some Frankenstein experiments of his own. He answered many questions for our report.

  All too quickly we were back at the Quonset hut. Henry D. looked out the door and announced, "Wayne's waiting."

  I walked up to Luis and offered my hand to shake. He took it in a powerful, ropelike grip. I said, "Thank you. I'm really interested in this stuff."

  He answered, "Then you should come again."

  I said, "I'd definitely like to." I turned toward Theresa and Tino. "See you guys later."

  Theresa waved; Tino acted like he didn't hear. I followed Henry D. through the door and then stopped short. There, attached to the back of Wayne's pickup truck, was a short trailer. It had a fat, heavy generator mounted on it, with a large fan and a spray nozzle on either side. I said, "What on earth's that?"

  Wayne answered cheerfully. "It's a sprayer for y'all's mosquitoes."

  We bumped along with the sprayer behind us, all the way to Lake Windsor Downs. As soon as we turned into the entrance, Wayne spotted the blue tents along Joey's street. "Look at that, now," he said. "Y'all are having a regular ten plagues of Egypt over here, aren't you?"

  "Yeah," I said. "Ten and counting."

  "How many houses got termites?"

  "It looks like that whole street has them, all along the west side."

  "Then that's where they buried the citrus trees," he said. "This was a grove, you know."

  "Yeah. So I've heard."

  "It was all groves around here. When they cleared this land for houses, they just set fire to all the trees and plowed them under. You see how that whole blue-tent street seems to be on a hill?"

  "Yeah."

  "That hill's made of dead trees—dead tangerine trees. Termites live in all that wood under the ground, but they got to come up to the surface to get water. That's where your problems start. If the wood in your house is in their way, they start eating that."

  I said, "You can stop them, though. Right? You can kill them? You can call the Orkin army or something?"

  Wayne shook his head. "You can't stop 'em. You can put a barrier around your house. That's about it. But you can't stop 'em from eatin' wood any more than you can stop that muck fire from burning or them mosquitoes from suckin' blood."

  We were at the house. I said, "Here it is." I got out and looked at the spraying rig. "You guys gonna turn this thing on now?"

  Wayne smiled. "Yeah. We're gonna let her rip. We'll kill some of them skeeters for you, anyway."

  I said, "Thanks for the ride, Wayne. See you, Henry."

  Wayne waved. He reached under his seat and handed something to Henry. Then, in the same motion, they both pulled black rubber gas masks on over their faces. They sat there for a minute, looking like a pair of ant-men who had stolen a truck. Then Wayne got out, walked back, and pulled the starter cord on the generator. I watched as the rig coughed and sputtered to life. Then I backed away and hurried inside.

  I dropped my stuff in the alcove and went into the kitchen for a drink. Out of the corner of my eye I detected two people in motion, and I heard the Poomph-poomph-poomph sound. I knew that Erik and Arthur were practicing in the back. Would they stop when they smelled the insecticide?

  I got a soda and stood at the breakfast bar, waiting to see what they would do. I saw a billowing white cloud enter the backyard, like an angel of death. It came from the right to the left, in white waves, and quickly filled up the whole yard. But as I watched the scene, it happened again. Just like in Houston. Just like at the gray wall. A feeling came over me, overpowering me. Like I had to remember something, whether I wanted to or not.

  I stared hard into the backyard. First I could see Erik and Arthur. Then I couldn't see them. Then I could see them. Then I couldn't. And I remembered:

  Our backyard in Huntsville. Mom and Dad were standing in front of me. Dad was directing Erik to move in a circle, around and behind me. Dad was saying, "OK, Erik. Pretend that Paul is in the center of an imaginary clock, and that I am standing here at the six o'clock position. I want you to stand at the twelve o'clock position, right behind him. Good. Now move to the eleven o'clock position."

  Then he said to me, "Paul? Can you see Erik?"

  I said, "No. I can't see him."

  "OK, Erik. Move to ten o'clock. Paul? Can you see him?"

  "No. I can't see him."

  "Move to nine o'clock."

  "I can't see him! I can't see him!"

  Mom broke in. "It's OK, honey. It's OK." She said to Dad, "There. I told you. The problem is with his peripheral vision."

  Suddenly I felt the hot breath of a predator on my neck. I screamed in terror. Erik laughed and ran over to Mom and Dad.
He had snuck up on me from behind, from somewhere back around ten o'clock.

  Dad snapped at him, "Erik! Cut that out! Are you here to help us or not?"

  I remember that I started to cry, in the middle of that pretend clock, but Mom and Dad did not notice. They were arguing about my eyes, or about my glasses. Mom finally said, "Well, it won't hurt to try. Will it? I'm taking him back there tomorrow to see what they can do."

  And she did. That was when I got my new glasses. That was when I started to see better. From that day on, I could see things that they could not. I could see Erik posing in front of them, in the shining light of the Football Dream. And I could see Erik lurking behind me, in the shadows of the clock.

  Thursday, November 2

  I used to be aware of every hour in every day. But now, with soccer games, and football games, and school, and cross-curricular projects, whole chunks of time fly by and I'm amazed at what hour it is. Sometimes I'm amazed at what day it is.

  The last four weeks have been like that. They have gone by in a blur. And it's not just me. Each member of our family is now so busy that we don't even eat meals together anymore. But I'm not complaining. I guess none of us are. We are all doing what we expected to do in Tangerine. We are all becoming big fish in this little pond.

  Dad is now firmly in command as the Director of Civil Engineering for Tangerine County. Old Charley Burns didn't survive the avalanche of bad publicity, lawsuits, and criminal charges being hurled at him. He died of a heart attack in his lawyer's office. Dad didn't even go to his funeral.

  Mom is now the head of the Architectural Committee, a block captain for the Neighborhood Watch patrol, and the person most likely to succeed Mr. Costello as president of the Homeowners' Association. No surprises there. Mom knows what she wants for Lake Windsor Downs.

  What of the news in football? Erik Fisher's fortunes have changed. Big time. In four weeks he has gone from local joke to local hero as the placekicker for the Lake Windsor High Seagulls. He is now always surrounded by kids who, I suppose, look up to him. I guess people see what they want to see. Erik kicked field goals of 12 and 25 yards in a 20–0 win over Crystal River. Then he made one from 37 yards to win the Gulf County game 10–7. The following week he was on the front page of the Tangerine Times sports section for making kicks of 40 and 45 yards to beat Flagler 6–0. Yesterday he missed from 50 yards, but he hit from 30 and 38 in a 20–14 win over Suwannee. Everyone in Tangerine County knows him now. Or they think they do.