“So I heard. It was news to me.”
“What was that all about? How does somethin’ screwy like that happen?” He sounded suspicious.
Tom Krome said, “It was another man who died. A case of mistaken identity.”
Trish was intrigued. “Just like in the movies!”
“Yep.” Krome ate quickly.
Demencio made a skeptical remark about the bruise on Krome’s cheek—Bodean Gazzer’s last earthly footprint. Trish said it must hurt like the dickens.
“Fell off a boat. No big deal,” Krome said, rising. “Thanks for the breakfast. I’d better run—JoLayne’s waiting on her cooters.”
“Don’t you wanna count ’em?”
Of course, Krome already had. “Naw, I trust you,” he said to Demencio.
He grabbed the corners of the big aquarium and hoisted it. Trish held the front door open. Krome didn’t make it to the first step before he heard the cry, quavering and subhuman; the sound of distilled suffering, something from a torture pit.
Krome froze in the doorway.
Trish, staring past him: “Uh-oh. I thought he was asleep.”
A slender figure in white moved across the living room toward them. Demencio swiftly intervened, prodding it backward with a long-handled tuna gaff.
“Nyyahh froohhmmmm! Hoodey nyyahh!” the frail figure yo-deled.
Demencio said, sternly: “That’ll be enough from you.”
Incredulous, Tom Krome edged back into the house. “Sinclair?”
The prospect of losing the cooters had put him into a tailspin. Trish had prepared hot tea and led him to the spare bedroom, so he wouldn’t see them swabbing the holy faces off the turtle shells. That (she’d warned Demencio) might send the poor guy off the deep end.
To make sure Sinclair slept, she’d spiked his chamomile with a buffalo-sized dose of NyQuil. It wasn’t enough. He shuffled groggily into the living room at the worst possible moment, just as the baby cooters were being carried away. Sinclair’s initial advance was repelled by Demencio and the rounded side of the gaff. A second lunge aborted when the crusty bedsheet in which Sinclair had cloaked himself became snagged on Demencio’s golf bag. The turtle fondler was slammed hard to the floor, where he thrashed about until the others subdued him. They lifted him to Demencio’s La-Z-Boy and adjusted it to the fully reclined position.
When Sinclair’s eyes fluttered open, he blurted at the face he saw: “But you’re dead!”
“Not really,” Tom Krome said.
“It’s a blessed miracle!”
“Actually, the newspaper just screwed up.”
“Praise God!”
“They should’ve waited on the DNA,” said Krome, unaware of his editor’s recent spiritual conversion.
“Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Lord!” Sinclair, crooning and swaying.
Krome said: “Excuse me, but have you gone insane?”
Demencio and his wife pulled him aside and explained what had happened; how Sinclair had come to Grange searching for Tom and had become enraptured by the apostolic cooters.
“He’s a whole different person,” Trish whispered.
“Good,” Krome said. “He needed to be.”
“You should see: He lies in the water with them. He speaks in tongues. He … what’s that word, honey?”
Demencio said, “‘Exudes.’”
His wife nodded excitedly. “Yes! He exudes serenity.”
“Plus he brings in a shitload of money,” Demencio added.
“The pilgrims, they love it—Turtle Boy is what they call him. We even had some T-shirts in the works.”
“T-shirts?” said Krome, as if this were an everyday conversation.
“You bet. Guy who does silk screen over on Cocoa Beach— surfer stuff mostly, so he was hot for a crack at something new.” Demencio sighed. “It’s all down the crapper now, since your girlfriend won’t sell us them turtles. What the hell use are T-shirts?”
Trish, in the true Christian spirit: “Honey, it’s not JoLayne’s fault.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said her husband.
Krome eyed the linen-draped lump in the reclinen Sinclair had covered his head and retracted into a fetal curl.
Turtle Boy? It was poignant, in a way. Sinclair peeked out and, with a pallid finger, motioned him closer. When Krome approached he said, “Tom, I’m begging you.”
“But they don’t belong to me.”
“You don’t understand—they’re miraculous, those little fellas. You were dead and now you’re alive. All because I prayed.”
Krome said, “I wasn’t dead, I——”
“All because of those turtles. Tom, please. You owe me. You owe them.” Sinclair’s hand darted out and snatched Krome by the wrist. “The inner calm I feel, floating in that moat, surrounded by those delicate perfect creatures, God’s creatures … My whole life, Tom, I’ve never felt such a peace. It’s like … an epiphany!”
Demencio gave Trish a sly wink that said: Write that one down. Epiphany.
Krome said to Sinclair: “So you’re here to stay?”
“Oh my, yes. Roddy and Joan rented me a room.”
“And you’re never coming back to the newspaper?”
“No way.” Sinclair gave a bemused snort.
“You promise?”
“On a stack of Bibles, my brother.”
“OK, then. Here’s what I’ll do.” Krome pulled free and went to the aquarium. He returned with a single baby turtle, a yellow-bellied slider, which he placed in his editor’s upturned palm.
“This one’s yours,” Krome told him. “You want more, catch your own.”
“God bless you, Tom!” Sinclair, cupping the gaily striped cooter as if it were a gem. “Look, it’s Bartholomew!”
Of course there was no face to be seen on the turtle’s shell; no painted face, at least. Demencio had sponged it clean.
Tom Krome slipped away from Sinclair and lifted the aquarium tank off the floor. As he left the house, Trish said, “Mr. Krome, that was a really kind thing to do. Wasn’t it, honey?”
“Yeah, it was,” Demencio said. One cooter was better than none. “JoLayne won’t be pissed?”
“No, I think she’ll understand perfectly.”
Tom Krome told them goodbye and carried the heavy tank down the front steps.
The two women arrived in Grange on Tuesday night, too late for Katie Battenkill’s sightseeing. They rented a room at a darling bed-and-breakfast, where they were served a hearty pot-roast supper with a peppy Caesar salad. Over dessert (pecan pie with a scoop of vanilla) they tried to make conversation with the only other guest, a well-dressed businessman from Chicago. He was taciturn and so preoccupied that he didn’t make a pass at either of them; the women were surprised but not disappointed.
In the morning Katie asked Mrs. Hendricks for directions to the shrine. Mary Andrea Finley Krome pretended to be annoyed at the detour, but truthfully she was grateful. She needed more time to rehearse what to say to her estranged husband, if they found him. Katie was confident they would.
“In the meantime, you won’t be sorry.”
“Should we bring something?” Mary Andrea asked.
“Just an open mind.”
The visitation was only a few blocks away. Katie parked behind a long silver bus that was disgorging the eager faithful. They carried prayer books and crucifixes and umbrellas (for the sun) and, of course, cameras of all types. Some of the men wore loose-fitting walking shorts and some of the women had wide-brimmed hats. Their faces were open and friendly and uncluttered by worry. Mary Andrea thought they were the happiest group she’d ever seen; happier even than Cats audiences.
Katie said, “Let’s get in line.”
The Virgin Mary shrine was on the lawn of an average-looking suburban house. The four-foot icon stood on a homemade platform beyond a water-filled trench. A cordial woman in a flower-print pants suit moved among the waiting pilgrims and offered soft drinks, snacks and sunscreen. Mary Andrea purchased a Sn
apple and a tube of Hawaiian Tropic #30. Katie went for a Diet Coke.
Word came down the line that the weeping Madonna was between jags. The tourist ahead of Katie leaned back and said, “Cripes, I hope it’s not another dry day.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s what happened last time I was here, in the spring—she never cried once, not one darn teardrop. Then the morning after we leave, look out. Some friends mailed us pictures—it looked like Old Faithful!”
Mary Andrea was diverted by a weather-beaten woman in a bridal gown. Perched on a stool beneath a tree, the woman was expounding in low tones and gesticulating theatrically. A half dozen of the bus tourists stood around her, though not too close. As an actress Mary Andrea had always been drawn to such colorful real-life characters. She asked Katie Battenkill to hold her place in line.
Shiner’s mother was alerted by the click of high heels, for the typical pilgrim didn’t dress so glamorously. The brevity of the newcomer’s skirt also raised doubts about her piety, yet Shiner’s mother wasn’t ready to pass judgment. Couldn’t redheaded rich girls be born again? And couldn’t they, even as sinners, be generous with offerings?
“Hello. My name’s Mary Andrea.”
“Welcome to Grange. I’m Marva,” said Shiner’s mother, from the stool.
“I love your gown. Did you make it yourself?”
“I’m married to the Word of the Lord.”
“What’ve you got there,” Mary Andrea inquired, “in the dish?”
Other tourists began moving in the direction of the Madonna statue, where there seemed to be a flurry of activity. With both arms Shiner’s mother raised the object of her own reverence. It was a Tupperware pie holder; sea-green and opaque.
“Behold the Son of God!” she proclaimed.
“No kidding? May I peek?”
“The face of Jesus Christ!”
“Yes, yes,” Mary Andrea said. She opened her handbag and removed three dollar bills, which she folded into the slot of the woman’s collection box.
“We thank you, child.” Shiner’s mother centered the Tupperware on her lap and, with a grunt, prized off the lid.
“Behold!”
“Isn’t that an omelette?” Mary Andrea cocked her head.
“Do you not see Him?”
“No, Marva, I do not.”
“Here … now look.” Shiner’s mother rotated the Tupperware half a turn. Instructively she began pointing out the features: “That’s His hair … and them’s His eyebrows …”
“The bell peppers?”
“No, no, the ham … Look here, that’s His crown of thorns.”
“The diced tomatoes.”
“Exactly! Praise God!”
“Marva,” said Mary Andrea, “I’ve never witnessed anything like it. Never!” Not since the last time I ate at Denny’s, she thought.
The omelette looked like absolutely nothing but an omelette. The woman was either a loon or a thief, but who cared?
“Bless you, child.” Shiner’s mother, slapping the lid on the Tupperware and burping it tight. In this manner she announced that the high-heeled pilgrim had gotten her three bucks’ worth of revelation.
Mary Andrea said, “I’d love for my friend to see. Would you mind?” Waiving gaily at Katie, she thought: At least it beats sitting alone at the HoJo’s.
“Katie, come over here!”
But Katie Battenkill was otherwise engrossed. The queue at the weeping Madonna had dissolved into a loose and excited swarm, buzzing toward the moat.
Shiner’s mother shrugged. “Crying time. You better get a move on.”
Mary Andrea found herself feeling sorry for the wacko in the wedding dress. It couldn’t be easy, competing with a weeping Virgin. Not when all you had was a plate of cold eggs in Tabasco. Mary Andrea slipped the woman another five bucks.
“You wanna see Him again?” Shiner’s mother was aglow.
“Maybe some other time.”
Mary Andrea began working her way to the house. She walked on tiptoes, trying to spot Katie among the surging pilgrims. Even in their fervor they remained orderly and courteous; Mary Andrea was impressed. In New York it would’ve been a rabid stampede for the shrine; like a Springsteen concert.
Suddenly Mary Andrea found the sidewalk blocked—a tall man lugging, of all things, an aquarium filled with turtles.
Boy, she thought, is this town a magnet for crackpots!
Mary Andrea stepped aside to let the stranger pass. He was lifting the tank high, at eye level, to protect it from the jostle of the tourists; apologizing to them as he went along.
Through the algae-smudged plate of aquarium glass Mary Andrea recognized the man’s face.
“Thomas!”
Curiously he peered over the lip of the tank. Her husband.
“I’ll be damned,” he said.
Cried Mary Andrea Finley Krome: “Yes, you will! I believe you will be damned!”
Angrily she snapped open her pocketbook and groped inside. For an instant, Thomas Paine Krome wondered if irony could be so sublime, wondered if he was about to be murdered for real, with an unexplained armful of baby cooters.
30
Leander Simmons and Janine Simmons Robinson were miffed to learn Bernard Squires had withdrawn his offer for their late father’s property. In a conference call with Clara Markham, the siblings said they didn’t appreciate getting jerked around by some fast-talking Charlie from up North. They’d gotten their hopes sky-high for a bidding war, and now they were stuck with one buyer and one offer.
“Which,” Clara reminded them, “is more than you had two weeks ago.”
She didn’t let on that JoLayne Lucks was sitting in the office, listening over the speakerphone.
Leander Simmons argued for rejecting the $3 million offer, as the old man’s land obviously would fetch more. All they needed was patience. His sister argued strenuously against waiting, since she’d already pledged her share of the proceeds for a clay tennis court and new guest cottages at her winter place in Bermuda.
They went back and forth for thirty minutes, the bickering interrupted only by an occasional terse query to Clara Markham on the other end. Meanwhile JoLayne was having a ball eavesdropping. Poor Lighthorse, she thought. With kids like that, it was no wonder he spent so much time skulking in the woods.
Eventually Janine and Leander compromised on a holdout figure of $3.175 million, to which JoLayne silently assented (flashing an “OK” sign to Clara). The real estate agent told the siblings she’d bounce the new number off the buyer and get back to them. By lunchtime the deal was iced at an even three one. The new owner of Simmons Wood got on the line and introduced herself to Leander and Janine, who suddenly became the two sweetest people on earth.
“What’ve you got in mind for the place?” the sister inquired cordially. “Condos? An office park?”
“Oh, I’ll leave the land the way it is,” JoLayne Lucks said.
“Smart cookie. Raw timber is one helluva long-term investment.” The brother, endeavoring to sound shrewd.
“Actually,” JoLayne said, “I’m going to leave it exactly the way it is … forever.”
Baffled silence from the siblings.
Clara Markham, brightly into the speakerphone: “It’s been a joy doing business with all of you. We’ll be talking soon.”
Moffitt was waiting outside. He offered JoLayne a lift, and on the way apologized for searching her house.
“I was worried, that’s all. I tried not to leave a mess.”
“You’re forgiven, you sneaky little shit. Now tell me,” she said, “what happened between you and Bernie boy—how’d you scare him off?”
Moffitt told her. With a grin, JoLayne said, “You’re so bad. Wait’ll I tell Tom.”
“Yeah. The power of the press.” Moffitt wheeled the big Chevy into her driveway.
“How about some lunch?” she asked.
“Thanks, but I gotta run.”
She gave him a kiss and to
ld him he was still her hero; it was a running gag between them.
Moffitt said, “Yeah, but I’d rather be Tom.”
Which gave JoLayne a melancholy pause. Sometimes she wished she’d fallen for Moffitt the way he’d fallen for her. He was one of the best men she’d ever known.
“Hang in,” she said. “Someday you’ll meet the right one.”
He threw his head back, laughing. “Do you hear yourself? God, you sound like my aunt.”
“Geez, you’re right. I don’t know what got into me.” She slid from the car. “Moffitt, you were sensational, as usual. Thanks for everything.”
He gave a mock salute. “Call anytime. Especially if Mister Thomas Krome turns out to be another sonofabitch.”
“I don’t think he will.”
“Be careful, Jo. You’re a rich girl now.”
Her brow furrowed. “Damn. I guess I am.”
She waved until Moffitt’s car disappeared around the corner. Then she jogged up the sidewalk to the porch, where the mail lay stacked by the front door. JoLayne scooped it up and unlocked the house.
The refrigerator was a disaster—ten days’ worth of congealment and spoilage. One croissant, in particular, had bloomed like a Chia plant. The only item that appeared safe for consumption was a can of ginger ale, which JoLayne cracked open while thumbing through letters and bills. One envelope stood out from the others because it was dusty blue and bore no address, only her name.
Ms. Jo Lane Lucks was how it had been spelled, in ballpoint.
Inside the blue envelope was a card that featured a florid Georgia O’Keeffe watercolor, and tucked inside the card was a piece of paper that caused JoLayne to exclaim, “Oh Lord!”
And truly, devoutly, mean it.
Amber kept the engine running.
“You feel OK about it? Tell the truth.”
Shiner said, “Yeah, I feel pretty good.”
“Didn’t I tell ya?”
“You wanna come in? It don’t look like she’s home.” All the lights were off, including upstairs.
Amber said, “I can’t, hon. Gotta get back to Miami and see if I’ve still got a job. Plus I’ve already missed way too much school.”
Shiner didn’t want to say goodbye; he believed he’d found his true love. They’d spent two more nights together—one at a turnpike rest stop near Fort Drum, and the other parked deep in the woods outside of Grange. Nothing sexual had occurred (Amber sleeping in the back seat of the Crown Victoria, Shiner in the front) but he didn’t mind. It was rapture, being so near to such a woman for so long. He’d become intimate with the scent of her hair and the rhythm of her breathing and a thousand other things, all exotically feminine.