“Mama,” I started to say. And then I heard Mrs. Budnick in the background.
“Sadiebelle, you know I don’t allow the help to use my personal telephone.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Mama murmured to Mrs. Budnick. To me she said, “I have to go, baby. I’ll write you.”
Mrs. Budnick could give old Mr. Scrooge a run for his money.
Aunt Minnie’s voice rings through the hot air: “Ker-mit! Ker-mit!”
She’s striding down the lane, Buddy stumbling to keep up with her.
Kermit freezes midstep, closing his eyes as she bears down on him.
Aunt Minnie’s like a lawyer interrogating a witness. “Look at you! All sweaty! Were you running around playing that wild game?”
“No, Ma,” he says, looking down at his bare feet. “It’s just the heat.”
“You know Doc Parrish said you’re not supposed to run around!” She turns and looks at the other boys. “Was Kermit running around?”
All the boys shake their heads, eyes wide as saucers. There’s a chorus of “No, ma’am”s.
“Honest, Mrs. Curry,” Pork Chop says, his voice so sincere that I almost expect a halo to pop up over his head.
“Honest? You boys are about as honest as a drunk in a tavern.” She whirls on Kermit. “If I so much as catch you walking fast, I will box your ears, you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kermit says, looking chastened.
“Your heart can give out at any minute,” she adds.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Buddy saves Kermit from the rest of Aunt Minnie’s lecture.
“Ma! Ma!” Buddy says, hopping up and down. “I gotta go! I really gotta go!”
“Oh, come on, Buddy,” Aunt Minnie says, and she walks off, pulling Buddy behind her. “You better make it to the outhouse this time.”
Kermit sits down next to me on the porch and groans.
“Sometimes I think it would have been better if I’d just died in the first place.” He looks at me. “You want to go to Duval Street?”
“All right,” I say, and we get up and start walking.
We’ve just turned the corner of Curry Lane when I ask, “Would your heart really give out from running around?”
“I don’t know,” he says with a mischievous grin. “Want to find out?”
And he takes off down the street.
Duval Street’s like a different Key West. It’s nicer. Kermit tells me they’re trying to get tourists to come down here to vacation. There are all sorts of businesses: Gardner’s Pharmacy; Einhorn’s Grocery; the Plaza Restaurant; the Blue Heaven, which serves “refreshments and beer;” a big building called the Cuban Club; and a fancy hotel called the Key West Colonial Hotel. There’s even a movie theater. Too bad it’s playing a Shirley Temple picture.
It seems like everyone on this island has a funny nickname, because the whole time we’re walking, Kermit’s greeting this person and that one: “Hi, Cheap John! Hi, Too-Too Mama! Hey, Kitty Gray! Hiya, Fat Rat, you try the doughnuts today?”
He’s like the mayor, except he’s nine.
We pass folks left and right who are speaking Spanish. It’s the second language here because of all the Cuban folks. Even Aunt Minnie speaks it a bit.
“Say, you know anywhere I could get a job?” I ask Kermit.
“Girls ain’t allowed in the Diaper Gang,” he says.
“A real job,” I say. “I need to make some dough.”
“What for?”
“So Mama and I can buy the Bellewood,” I say.
“What’s the Bellewood?”
I pull out the catalog page and show it to him.
“‘Monthly payments as low as thirty to forty-five dollars,’” Kermit reads, and gives a low whistle. “That sure is a lot of dough.”
“Got any ideas?”
Kermit looks thoughtful. “Why don’t you ask Johnny Cakes? I hear he’s always looking for help.”
“What kind of business does he have?”
“He’s a rumrunner. He’s got a fast boat!”
“He likes to run around with bottles of rum?”
Kermit gives me a funny look. “No, he runs it. He brings it in from the Bahamas.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “It’s illegal.”
“Where can I find this Johnny Cakes fella?” I ask.
“He’s probably at Pepe’s.”
Kermit takes me to a little café that’s crowded with tables and folks sitting around drinking coffee.
“There he is,” Kermit says, pointing at a handsome man wearing a smart white linen suit. There’s another man at the table, a big fella with a mustache. They’re drinking leche out of condensed-milk cans. Leche is Cuban coffee with a lot of milk. Everyone seems to drink it down here, even kids. I saw a toddler sucking down a leche a few days ago.
We walk over to the table and Kermit says, “Hi, Johnny Cakes!”
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t our Kermit,” the handsome man says with a broad smile. “And who’s this lovely lady?”
“This is my cousin Turtle.”
“Pleased to meet you, sweet cheeks,” Johnny Cakes says.
“I hear you got a fast boat,” I say.
“Fast enough,” he says, smiling.
“You hiring?” I ask.
He looks a little uncomfortable. “I don’t normally hire kids.”
“I don’t mind illegal activities, long as I get paid,” I say.
Johnny Cakes blanches. “What is it you think I do?”
“Kermit says you’re a rumrunner,” I say.
“I’m not a rumrunner, sweet cheeks,” Johnny Cakes says, his voice smooth. “I’m a businessman. Import-export.”
Kermit looks confused. “But Cousin Dizzy said last Saturday you brought in a haul of the best rum he’s ever tasted!”
“He’s got you there, Johnny!” the other man says, bellowing with laughter.
“You a rumrunner, too?” I ask the man.
Kermit says, “Nah, he’s just a writer.”
“You write anything good?” I ask.
“What do you mean, ‘good’?” the man says.
“You know, like for the funny pages.” I tick off my favorites on my fingers. “I like Little Orphan Annie, and Terry and the Pirates, and Flash Gordon.”
“Me too!” Kermit adds. “I love Flash Gordon!”
Slow Poke walks up and puts an envelope on the table in front of Johnny Cakes, who picks it up and slides it into his suit pocket without looking at it.
“Maybe you should start writing for the funny pages, Papa,” Slow Poke says, and the writer fella grunts.
“You like the funny pages?” I ask Slow Poke.
“Terry and the Pirates is my favorite,” he says.
“You got good taste,” I say.
Johnny Cakes asks Slow Poke, “You hear about the auction?”
“Must be a war coming,” Slow Poke says.
“Who’s fighting?” I ask.
“That’s just an old sponger saying, honey,” Slow Poke says. “Sponges are used to clean wounds. So if someone’s buying a lot of them, we say they’re getting ready to start a war. There’s a sponge auction coming up soon. I’m heading out tomorrow to catch what I can to sell at it.”
“You need any help?” I ask. “’Cause this fella won’t hire me to run his illegal liquor.”
Johnny Cakes groans in exasperation.
Slow Poke looks at me for a long moment and then says, “I suppose I could use another hand, honey.”
“All right!” I say.
Slow Poke laughs. “Meet me at the docks at dawn. My boat’s The Lost Love.” Then he tips his hat and walks off, whistling.
“Been out fishing with Slow Poke once or twice myself,” the writer fella says. “He’s a first-rate sailor.”
“You know, you’ll never get famous unless you write for the funny pages,” I tell him.
He gives me a stern look. “You in the habit of giving grown folks advice, young lady?”
&n
bsp; “Sure,” I say. “You’re the ones who need it most.”
7
Terry and Pat
As I walk to the docks through the gray early-morning light, I feel just like Terry Lee heading off with Pat on an adventure to the Far East. Except, of course, I’m going to be looking for sponges, not a gold mine. But I don’t care; I’m excited. Also it doesn’t hurt that Beans was burned up when he found out Slow Poke had hired me and not him.
“Why’s he taking you if he needs another hand?” Beans asked.
“Maybe he needed a smart hand,” I said.
Slow Poke waves when he sees me. “Hey there, honey,” he says. “You ready to work?”
“You bet I am,” I say.
“Waves are kicking up a little. You know how to swim, right?” he asks, helping me onto the boat.
“Like a fish,” I lie.
Slow Poke gestures to another fella who’s on deck. He’s younger, maybe eighteen, with soft brown hair and an easy smile.
“This is Ollie. He’s my new first mate,” Slow Poke says.
“Welcome aboard, Miss Turtle,” Ollie says, tipping his cap.
“What happened to the old first mate?” I ask.
“Got bit by a shark,” Ollie says.
“That happen a lot?”
Slow Poke chuckles. “Only after a few rounds at Sloppy Joe’s. The shark was a lovely lady named Margaret.”
“Shark ever bite you?” I ask.
He looks away. “A long time ago.”
It’s a hot day, but the combination of the wind and the salt water spraying cools off my skin. Key West disappears behind us, and the ocean spreads out like a glassy blue road.
The men maneuver smoothly around the boat, adjusting sails, tightening lines. They don’t even need to talk to each other; they’re like the sailing version of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers doing a dance number.
Slow Poke takes off his straw hat and puts it on my head. It’s too big.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
“Your pretty face is gonna get burned up,” he says, squinting up at the sun. “It’s a lot hotter than it looks.”
“Mama said Key West was hot, but I didn’t think it would be this hot,” I say.
He looks at me sideways. “So how is your mother these days?”
“She’s working as a housekeeper for a mean rich lady who hates kids and won’t let her talk on the telephone,” I say.
“Besides that?” he asks.
“Besides that, she’s fine,” I tell him. I look out at the horizon. “Say, you think we’ll be attacked any time soon?”
“Attacked?”
“That’s what always happens in Terry and the Pirates,” I say.
Slow Poke nods. “I’ve noticed that kid gets in a lot of scrapes. But I don’t think we have anything to worry about.” He looks across the boat. “Ollie here will beat ’em off.”
“You bet I will, Cap!” Ollie says, and holds up his fists. “Just let ’em try and get past me!”
“So where we headed, Pat?” I ask Slow Poke.
“Pat, huh?” His eyes crinkle in amusement. “I don’t know. What do you think, Terry?”
“How about China?” I suggest.
“China’s pretty far away. Might not be home for supper.”
“I don’t mind. I had a big breakfast.” I look at him closely. “You ever been to China for real?”
“’Fraid not. But I’ve been to Cuba. And the Bahamas.” He touches my nose. “Your people are from Green Turtle Key. Mine too.”
“Are we related?” I ask. “Seems like everybody here is someone else’s cousin.”
He stares at me. “I don’t know, honey.”
There’s something about him that tugs at me. He’s so kind. And, of course, he’s got good taste—he likes the funny pages.
“I wish we could go to China,” I say, “just like Terry and Pat.”
Ollie appears at Slow Poke’s shoulder. “Pat’s a lot more handsome than the cap here.”
“I think I might need to get myself a new first mate,” Slow Poke says, and makes a face.
“Just as long as it’s not Beans,” I say. “Or else you’ll have a mutiny on your hands.”
Ollie tosses in the anchor and Slow Poke and I climb down into a little dinghy. Slow Poke picks up a jug of some kind of liquid and pours it onto the surface of the water.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Shark oil,” he says. “You spread it out on the water, and when you look through the bucket, you can see better. Helps you spot the sponges.”
He picks up a glass-bottomed bucket and holds it on the water, looking down intently. Then he takes a long pine pole that has a three-pronged hook on one end and sticks it in the water, hook end first. He fishes around and then drags the pole up. Stuck on the hooked end is a black sponge.
“Good size. It’s no loggerhead, but they can’t all be,” Slow Poke says.
I help by pointing out sponges, and Ollie and Slow Poke fish them out. After a few hours, we’ve got a nice pile of sponges.
“That’s a good day’s work,” Ollie says, wiping the sweat off his forehead and looking at Slow Poke. “What do you think, Cap?”
“I see one more,” I say.
“You want to try for it, Miss Turtle?” Ollie asks, holding out the pole.
“All right,” I say.
I maneuver the pole, and Slow Poke smiles at me.
“You’re a born Conch,” he says.
I’ve almost snagged the sponge when I lose my footing and go tumbling over the side of the dinghy. The next thing I know I’m underwater and I try and take a breath but I choke. All I can think is that Beans is gonna be happy that I’m dead because he’ll get his room back. Then I feel a strong arm go around my waist and pull me to the surface.
“I got you, honey!” Slow Poke says, and then I’m being handed up into Ollie’s arms and laid on the bottom of the dinghy.
“Spit it up, Miss Turtle!” Ollie says, and I do.
“Good girl,” a dripping Slow Poke says, brushing the wet hair gently from my forehead. “Took ten years off my life!”
“She went over so fast, Cap,” Ollie says, his face anxious.
“I thought you said you could swim like a fish,” Slow Poke chides me.
“A dead one,” I say, and cough.
“Honey,” Slow Poke says, shaking his head, “dead fish float.”
We’re sailing for home when we pass a slip of an island with a shack. Slow Poke turns to Ollie and says, “I want to check on the cistern.”
“Aye-aye, Cap!” Ollie says, and drops anchor close to the little island. The men row the dinghy to shore. I follow Slow Poke to the shack.
“Does someone live here?” I ask, peeking inside. It’s tiny and smells like something died in it.
“Spongers leave their sponges here to cure sometimes. There’s a cistern out back that catches rainwater that we use, too. Want to help me check on it, Terry?”
“Sure, Pat,” I say.
Slow Poke lifts the lid off the big barrel, and I see a dead rat floating in the water.
“This is why we check it,” he tells me.
“I hate rats,” I say.
He empties out the cistern and sets it up again. Then he says, “Speaking of Terry and the Pirates, there’s something you might like to see.”
He leads me over to a big rock near the water’s edge. There’s an iron spike in it.
“Do you know what this is?”
“An old spike in a rock?”
His voice goes low. “It’s a genuine pirate death trap. Pirates would shackle rivals to this rock and let them drown in the incoming tide. That spike held the iron shackles.”
I look down at the rock and back up at Slow Poke.
“You’re pulling my leg,” I say.
“You got me,” he says with an admiring laugh. “Not much gets past you.”
“I’m smart,” I say.
“But there were pirates arou
nd here a long time ago,” he says.
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. See those keys?” he asks, pointing at the little islands in the distance. “There’s hundreds of them. That’s where pirates used to hide their ships, and their loot.”
“Anyone ever find any treasure?” I ask.
“Everybody’s always looking for Black Caesar’s treasure. Especially after Old Ropes up and disappeared.”
“Who’s Black Caesar? Who’s Old Ropes? Why’s everybody got such funny nicknames around here, anyway?”
Slow Poke laughs. “It’s just the Key West way, Turtle.”
“Humph,” I say.
He looks out at the water. “Black Caesar was a ruthless pirate who buried his treasure here in the Keys.”
“And Old Ropes?”
“An old-time sponger. People said Old Ropes spent so much time on the water that he had webbed feet.”
I laugh at the image.
“One day Old Ropes came back from a sponging trip. He had a drink at the bar, and the next morning he was gone. Nobody ever heard from him again. Left his house full of furniture, food in the icebox. Even left his cat.”
“How could he leave his cat?” I ask.
“Rumors started going round that he’d found one of Black Caesar’s stashes and was living rich as a hog somewhere in South America. After that, everyone and their mother started crawling over this key looking for gold.”
“Do you think he found treasure?” I ask him.
“I think he found trouble. Old Ropes liked to gamble. I suspect he owed someone money and he had to get out of town fast.” He looks up at the darkening sky. “Speaking of which, we better start back now, or your aunt will run me out of town.”
“How’d you get the name Slow Poke, anyhow?” I ask.
“Guess you could say I’ve always taken my own sweet time doing things. My mother said I was late for my own birth.”
“Just as long as you don’t take your time paying me,” I say, and I hold out my hand.
He shakes his head and digs into his pocket.
8
A Big, Happy Family
Maybe it’s because it’s only ever been Mama and me, but I don’t understand what’s so wonderful about having a big family. Someone’s always fighting, or not talking to someone else, or scrounging around trying to borrow money. Far as I can tell, relations are nothing but trouble.