Randy White: Gone

“Tomlinson called it that,” I remembered, then walked to join my mother at the window. “He still stops by?”

“Tomlin-who? Oh… you mean Tommy . Tommy Scarecrow, that’s his Indian name. Him, me, and Billie Egret, we’ve done three ceremonies to purify what those stupid fools have done. Build a big fire in the ceremonial plaza, chant, and smoke the pipe. Billie, he’s teaching me the Green Corn Dance. In return, I tell him secrets the ancient king says in my ear at night. The king gives me orders sometimes.”

Smoke? The news hit me harder than her claim of conversing with dead royalty. My mother had never smoked in her life. Could the contents of that ceremonial pipe explain why she had been so spunky of late? According to some things I’d heard about Tomlinson, it was possible. Before I could ask, though, she made enough room at the window for me to view the structure that had decapitated three thousand years of Florida history. The concrete walls had been too dark to see when I’d arrived that morning. Now I could.

“My Lord,” I moaned. “Not again, Loretta!” Instead of Day-Glo orange, she had used a brush and the same color of citrus yellow I had paid painters to use on the porch.

“You try refusing a dead Indian king!” the woman pouted, but then took the offensive. “Besides, Scarecrow held the ladder for me, so it was safe. Tommy’s got backbone! He’s the one you should be wearing skimpy dresses to impress. That man’s as smart and sweet as they come-plus he’s got ways of making a woman smile.”

My bawdy Aunt Hannah had felt the same about Tomlinson, from what I’d read in her journal. But I’d also read interesting details about my date, Dr. Ford, that made me want to reply something tart.

So I did. But not before hugging my mother close and steering her to the porch to get a clear view of the dock. “I’ve stopped settling for second best,” I explained, meaning Tomlinson, then nodded toward the water. “Why would I?”

Moored to the dock, the hull of my new home glowed midnight blue in the fresh sunlight, floating weightless as an orchid, as free as a swan.

Randy Wayne Whiteis the author of twenty-three Doc Ford novels, most recently Deep Blue ; the Hannah Smith novels Gone , Deceived , and Haunted ; and four collections of nonfiction. He lives on Sanibel Island, Florida, where he was a light-tackle fishing guide for many years, and spends much of his free time windsurfing, playing baseball, and hanging out at Doc Ford’s Rum Bar & Grille.

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