Randy White - Seduced

“Because he did. I saw him do it. Well… saw it in his truck. This was just before your skiff pulled up.”

“It would take a backhoe and a trailer to cart off one those trees,” I said, and studied my mother’s face. Was this an exaggeration intended to badger me or did she believe it had actually happened?

Loretta sensed my seriousness. Always careful not to cross the line-it would have meant a night nurse-she decided to retreat. “Guess you’re right,” she said in a careful, uneasy way. “But Hannah? Personally? I wouldn’t trust the bastard-even if he didn’t steal a tree small enough to hide in that Silverado he drives.”

Now I didn’t know what to believe.

I heated up the dinner Mrs. Terwilliger had prepared and left wrapped in foil, then returned to my boat to shower and change.

Sunset was around six-thirty. It would be dark by seven, which is when Kermit said he would call. If he called… if I answered-or even if I didn’t-I needed the truth about Loretta’s claim. As tired as I was, I changed into boots and hiked back to the citrus orchard. Sarah had left a book there on a towel, which I collected, but there was no sign of a missing tree, including seedlings I hadn’t noticed.

I felt better… but then remembered the wild orange seeds my Uncle Jake had planted on land that was no longer ours. Kermit had seemed keenly interested. I hadn’t revealed where the tree was (only one had survived), but he might have assumed it grew on an adjoining property, which it did.

The sky was a swirl of saffron and arctic blue, but there was still some light. I skirted the remains of a canal dug by the same ancient people who had built mounds in the area, then slipped through a fence. It had been five years since my uncle had died, or since I’d tried to find that young tree, but I knew the acreage well. Childhood memories of building secret huts or dreaming away in secret places are slow to fade. Even so, I found a dozen spots that looked familiar, but not what I was looking for. Possibly, the new owners had cleared the land for building or pasture.

It was nearly dark. There was comfort in the fact that a five-year-old citrus tree would be too big for one man to handle, so I headed home.

At seven sharp, Kermit called. I was alone, sitting in my cabin’s settee booth by then. I don’t know why the ring startled me so-perhaps because I’d thought about little else while the minutes dragged past. Sarah’s book-which, in fact, was a sketchbook-was an acceptable excuse to answer. The drawings inside, however, provided a dozen reasons why I should not. Her stick-figure people showed angry women, but only smiling, oversized men. Trees exhibited anger, too, with canopies that boiled like smoke. Sometimes, beneath Sarah’s pencil, the paper had torn. When a girl with stick-figure braids was the subject, she was always by herself, and dwarfed by trees or a smiling man. Only when the girl was swimming, or paddling a canoe, did the artist grant her a beaming, stick-figure smile.

I didn’t answer the phone. I chose to sit immobile and stare as it buzzed on the same table where I had shared the married man’s touch last night. When the buzzing ceased, I waited through several more slow seconds, hoping for the ping of a voice message.

There was none, but I grabbed up the phone and checked anyway.

It was Saturday night. On every island where lights blossomed, people weren’t alone and lonely. They were living their lives, having fun.

I began to pace… until I realized I could call Kermit back. That was perfectly acceptable-as long as I didn’t wait too long. There were many believable excuses: I’d been in the shower, the phone was buried in my purse, I’d switched it off and forgotten the darn thing. If it was business he wanted to discuss, then returning a missed call was the polite thing to do. Oh-by the way, had he stolen the young tree my uncle had planted?

My finger hovered above the Redial button…

I couldn’t do it. The drawings of a lonely child prohibited the risk of confusing her more. No one understood that better than I.

He’ll call back, I thought, then scolded myself for entertaining such a thought as hopeful. Worse, how would I react if, tonight, he surprised me yet again by truck?

No more tests for me. A wiser choice was to reactivate my plan for the previous evening. This time, I made it to my skiff, and my skiff carried me safely to Dinkin’s Bay on Sanibel, where I found the biologist playing chess with his friend Tomlinson. With me, I brought a sour orange for discussion, along with questions about the drug my mother had been smoking.

Fearing that Yosemite Sam and his boat might still be stranded in the backcountry, I stuck to well-traveled channels both ways.

That story was something else I shared with my friends.

Monday afternoon, after another enjoyable charter with the Gentrys, I drove inland to the Agricultural Research Station in Immokalee and presented a box of tree leaves and fruit to citrus pathologist Roberta Daniels. We’d gone to high school together-one of those pleasant coincidences that wasn’t so coincidental. We’d also been in the same 4-H club.

“I was little surprised to get your call,” she said, greeting me in her office. “Farming never struck me as an interest of yours.”

My interest in citrus had blossomed during the last two days but was still secretly fueled by suspicion. Profit, however unlikely, was another motive, thanks to my fishing clients. The Gentrys knew a great deal about genetics and biotech patents.

I accepted a chair, saying, “I raised leghorns my first year in 4-H, then rabbits, but switched to clams. It’s what the state wanted us island kids to do, but, fact is, I got so attached to those rabbits, I couldn’t bear to sell them to a butcher. Eat a clam, though, it’s almost like you’re doing them a favor. Can you imagine the monotony of hanging underwater in a bag?”

Roberta had turned into an attractive, confident woman, yet still had her easygoing manner and farm-girl laugh. “That’s why I quit showing Holsteins and took up that-” On the wall, a photo showed her as a teen in the cockpit of a crop-dusting airplane. “We got free lessons, and flying got me interested in Ag science. You know, ways to protect crops without using poisons. There are days, I don’t know whether to thank the program or cuss it.”

“Four-H, you mean.”

“Head, heart, hands, health,” she nodded. “I bet you still remember the oath.”

We both did; the hand gestures, too. We were still laughing when Roberta pulled an orange from the box I’d brought, then inspected a couple of leaves. “What do we have here?”

“That’s sour stock my grandfather planted way back. There’re a couple of grapefruits in there, too, I picked on one of the islands. They grow wild, some places.”

“Feral citrus,” she said, correcting me, while she viewed the leaves under a light. “Well… these have a few canker lesions, and some leaf-miner activity-see the wormy-looking tracks? There’s psyllid damage, too, but not bad… not bad at all. The yellow dragon blotches jump out, if you’ve toured as many dying groves as I have.” She consulted her phone. “That’s why I don’t have much time. There’s a grove near Arcadia I have to inspect. The owner’s battling his butt off to save his crop. He knows this will probably be his last year in business if we don’t come up with an answer fast.”

Her attention returned to the box while she brought out a paper plate and a knife. “Are you asking if this fruit’s okay to eat? Looks okay… but there’s only one way to find out. Or is there something else on your mind?”

The hall wasn’t busy, but the occasional person strolled by. “Can we speak privately?” I asked.