Randy White - Seduced

I didn’t understand what she was talking about but had listened with a feigned intensity as if I did:

Spanish rootstock couldn’t possibly make a difference for one simple reason: it no longer existed. On the other hand… many citrus varieties were nucellar . This meant they might produce clone seedlings. Clone seedlings might be virtually identical to trees first sprouted five hundred years ago.

In the space of one conversation, the woman had gone full circle, first dashing my hopes, then fanning them to life. Now here she was again, determined to impeach her previous conclusion.

“Okay, okay, here’s another problem. Not all citrus varieties are nucellar. Some are zygotic -two entirely different things. Their seedlings are produced sexually through pollination, so they inherit genetic material from both parent trees. With me so far?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, though I was sure-I had no idea what she was getting at.

“But here’s what really throws a wrench into the mix: zygotic and nucellar citrus embryos can occur in the very same seed. Isn’t that crazy?”

I conceded, “Which is bad news, I guess. Okay, that much I understand.”

“No! What I’m saying is, your biologist friend might be right. If-and this is one heck of a big if-if seedlings from the original Spanish stock still exist, they could only be found in a spot so remote that there is zero chance of cross-pollination.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I said. “You’re telling me what you call feral citrus-oranges or grapefruit I find on islands that were once farmed-they are definitely not the same as the original Spanish citrus. Is that right?”

“Zero chance,” she said. “That doesn’t mean older rootstock isn’t heartier. It’s worth checking into. But, aside from a few feral trees, face it, Florida’s too populated for a genetically pure ancestor of those trees to survive.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “I might know just the place. My uncle and I picked oranges there years ago-if I can find the spot again. It won’t be easy. He never used a GPS, or even a chart.”

“Not so fast,” Roberta countered. “One”-she held up a finger to keep count-“I don’t think it’s possible the original stock hasn’t been genetically altered in some way no matter how remote. Two, aside from the samples you brought, there’s no reason to believe older sour rootstock is more resistant to the disease. We’ve got nothing to compare the samples to. That’s the tragedy. Know why? Because after the last big hurricane, some idiots in Tallahassee decided all the old citrus had to be destroyed-including our oldest pioneer trees.”

“Roberta, hold on,” I said. “I feel like I’m in a Ping-Pong match here. The Gentrys want me to see this thing through, and I will-unless you tell me it’s pointless.”

“Oh, but I didn’t! What gave you that impression?”

I had to smile at the look of innocence on her face. How in the world could I possibly be so confused?

I said, “When the weather improves, I plan on trailering my skiff to Marco Island and do some exploring from there.”

“In the Keys or Florida Bay?”

“At the edge of the Everglades,” I said, intentionally evasive.

“I understand why you can’t be too specific-and I’m not asking-but you need to watch yourself, Hannah. You wouldn’t go alone, would you?”

“It’s a rare day I don’t spend time on the water on my boat alone,” I replied. “Are you offering to go with me?”

“That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about the Everglades. I know a couple of rangers and they say the snake population down there has gone insane. They’ve seen pythons, even some anacondas, that could swallow a man whole.”

The imagery she used, and the question I was about to pose, required me to maintain a brave front. “The place I have in mind isn’t a saw grass area,” I said. “It’s more to the west; a backcountry, brackish area where mangroves begin at the edge of the Gulf. Or-I’m thinking out loud here-we could tow my skiff and use my bigger boat as a sort of base camp. I live on a thirty-seven-foot Marlow I restored myself. It’s really nice inside; plenty of room to sleep two. We could take our time; do an overnight, and anchor off somewhere where the bugs wouldn’t be too bad.”

It took the woman a moment. “We?”

“I hope so.”

“You’re inviting me? I don’t know what to say.”

“I’d invite your husband, too,” I said, “but my boat doesn’t have that kind of privacy. We need someone who understands citrus, and I’m convinced I don’t qualify. I spoke to the Gentrys a few minutes ago. They’re all for it. I doubt if we’ll make a cent, but you and I would split whatever-”

“Wait… you told Dr. Gentry about me? She said it was okay?” Roberta was flattered, this woman who worked in a small government office with a view of tomato fields on the outskirts of tiny Immokalee.

“I call her Mrs. Gentry. She’s already read a couple of your research papers.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. What do you think?”

“I’d love to. Of course I would. It’s not about the money, although, lord knows, we could use it. But I only get weekends off. How many days would we be gone?”

“Depends on my memory,” I replied. “It could take a while. The area I have in mind, there’re more mangroves than water, so it might be slow-going in a boat. We can work around your schedule, but it would be nice to have at least three days. Otherwise, there’d be a lot of driving back and forth.”

“I’ve already used up my vacation time,” Roberta said, and sounded genuinely disappointed. A little later, she added a couple of more reasons she couldn’t go, including lessons of some sort she taught on Sundays.

This seemed to settle the matter.

We went to a nearby processing plant. A foreman equipped us with hard hats, safety glasses, and ID badges. Inside was a noisy assembly line of stainless steel rollers, pumps, and pasteurizing vats, from which exited a robotic battalion of juice cartons, all streaming toward destinations around the world. The building was gymnasium-sized and smelled of Christmas cookies and orange cake.

We left hungry. A short drive away was Mary Margaret’s Tea and Biscuit in the old downtown area of Arcadia. The nineteenth-century name matched the décor. I ordered an orange scone, and was sipping hot lemon-lavender tea, when I happened to mention the biologist Marion Ford, who owned a seaplane.

“A plane like his would be ideal for narrowing down the search area,” I said, “but the timing’s bad. He left on a trip yesterday. No idea when he’ll be back. You’ve never met such a man, when it comes to disappearing.”

The long silence that followed caused me to look across the table at Roberta. She was staring at me in mild disbelief. “You said there wasn’t much water where you’re going.”

“There’s not. But if the tide’s right, there would be enough to land, I suppose.”

“Could you afford it?”

“To what, buy a plane?”

“No, rent one for a day. Planes aren’t cheap, but I’d be willing to split the fuel just to keep my hours up. As it is, it’s a struggle to log enough time to keep my instructor’s license. That’s what I teach Sundays-flying-to kids in 4-H.”

I remembered the photo in her office. “That’s nice, giving back to an organization that helped us both, but I don’t mean a crop duster. We’d need a plane with floats.”

In reply to the woman’s matter-of-fact nod, I asked, “Are you telling me you can fly a seaplane?”

We left three days later, a Friday morning; packed everything we could possibly need into a Cessna with pontoons-except one simple item.