Randy White - Seduced

When wearing headphones, speaking into the stem of a voice-activated microphone, there is always a delay.

“You, too,” she said. “There’s no telling what kind of germs were in that thing’s mouth. At least let me do a better job of dressing it. We’ll need sterile gauze and medical antiseptic.”

I said, “Most doctors keep that stuff handy, so how about this? Call when you get a signal and I’ll drive you straight to the closest clinic. With a story like ours, doctors would wait in line. You can have your pick of obstetricians.”

Roberta realized I knew about her condition. “You’re a smart one. Was it because I was worried about bug spray?”

“That and your mood swings,” I said, hoping to lighten the mood. “Thank god, I was with a pregnant woman. No one else would be crazy enough to charge into that mess and ask for the loan of my machete.”

That got a smile, at least. “I just found out-my first trimester. I must’ve snapped.”

“Snapped?” I said. “You went batshit crazy.”

Suddenly, we were both laughing as if we really were crazy.

“Damn right I did,” Roberta said. “Never, ever squeeze a constipated woman with sore boobs-although, who knows, maybe it helped. I haven’t felt a cramp or the need to pee since the damn thing nearly crushed me to death. I’m afraid to check my panties.”

I roared at that, while she added, “I have a sonogram on Monday, but, yeah, you’re right-we both need to get checked out.”

Her smile faded. My friend waited through some air traffic garble, staring straight ahead, serious again. “I froze back there. That’s what really happened and I’m embarrassed. The thing wanted to kill me. Crush the life out of me and swallow me-my baby, too. That… that filthy sonuvabitch, and it would have if it hadn’t been for you. Hannah”-she glanced over-“there’s something I want to talk about when we get on the ground.”

We were conversing on an intercom system, so privacy wasn’t the problem.

“Swear all you want to, I don’t care. After what we just went through?”

“It’s about my husband.” she said. “And the Spanish oranges. I want to be involved, but I can’t go back there. Ever, ever, ever. He’d go nuts. Python Island, the place should be called.”

“Constrictor Bay,” I suggested. “No… Choking Creek. That’s what it is, a narrow river, because of the way mangroves crowd in, and the mood of the place, that sulfur smell. Didn’t you find it hard to breathe?”

The look she gave me replied No shit. “You can’t go back, either. Not alone, you can’t. So let’s figure out an alternative. You said you know other places where feral citrus grows?”

“Islands that used to be farmed,” I said, “all within an easy ride from my dock. But I wouldn’t call them remote-not compared to where we just came from.”

“Thank god. I’m thinking maybe sour rootstock from the last century would do. All I need are samples, lots of samples, and plenty of good photos, plus some other information. I can teach you how-if you’re willing.”

“Split up the workload,” I said. “Good idea. You shouldn’t be bouncing around in a boat anyway.”

My pal from high school gave me an appreciative look. Some of her confidence returned. “What we have to do is, we have to find a couple more feral trees that are resistant to the disease. If they’re resistant. Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t. That’s only the first step, because-well, there are a lot of factors. DNA testing might show there’s a significant difference between… Hang on a sec.” She reached, changed radio frequencies, and contacted Immokalee Regional to advise them we were inbound.

“Call your obstetrician,” I said when she was done. “We’ll talk about it on the way.”

Choking Creek. The name settled into my head as we landed.

The waiting room at Immokalee Pediatric Clinic was full, but the receptionist hurried us in when she heard our story. Unfortunately, people sitting near the window heard, too. Roberta’s doctor wasn’t on call, so a staff M.D. took her to a separate examining room while a male nurse tended to me.

“I’ve never seen a python bite,” he said. “You sure it was a python?”

“Unless you know of another snake that’s fifteen feet long and tries to crush you…” I reached for my phone. “I might have a picture.”

I did. It was a blurry shot framed by the seaplane’s window. The nurse, looking over my shoulder, said, “Holy shit. That looks more like the Loch Ness Monster. They swim with their heads up?”

“Those trees in the background,” I said, “are black mangroves or buttonwoods. See how thick the trunks are? That gives you some idea of the size. The snake’s girth, at least. This isn’t the one that bit me. This one’s bigger by about half.”

“My god. Mind if I see that?” The nurse took the phone and zoomed in, saying, “I weigh a little over two hundred pounds, and this thing could swallow me whole. Did you contact the sheriff’s department or the FWC? You should. A snake that targets people needs to be destroyed. Where, exactly, did it happen?”

Until then, I had considered the possibility that, by seeking medical help, I might have to reveal the location of my uncle’s secret spot. “East of Marco Island,” I said. “All those islands look the same. It would be hard to say for sure.”

That seemed to satisfy the nurse. “In the Everglades, yeah,” he said. “I’ve read pythons have killed off just about everything, so I guess we shouldn’t be surprised, huh? You know-surprised they’re going after hikers. Or were you fishing?”

“Exploring,” I said, switching off my phone. “Our mistake was trying to wade ashore.”

He changed gloves, lowered a magnifying visor, and focused a lamp on my bicep. “Hmm… looks more like a bobcat tried to sink its claws but couldn’t get a good hold. You’re one lucky girl, know that? I’ll numb you up-a debridement brush is no fun, believe me. When’s the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

Roberta was still with the doctor when I was done, so I decided to wait in my SUV. A woman who looked too old to need a pediatrician followed me out. Gray-haired, dressed for golf in shorts and a yellow blouse. She was animated and chatty, which seemed okay because she did volunteer work as an advocate for migrants who came annually to pick tomatoes, melons, and citrus. “I couldn’t help overhearing what happened,” she said. “A python, of all things. My goodness, that had to be terrifying. What I worry about is children who live on the outskirts. Some parents let them run around wild-or they’re both working and can’t afford child care. How far from here did it happen?”

The woman was pleasant, articulate in a probing, gossipy way, but she cared about a segment of the population that, for most, remains comfortably invisible. In my eagerness to reassure her, I let my guard down and slipped into an easygoing seesaw of questions and answers. I didn’t realize my mistake until she said, “I sure hope Mrs. Daniels is okay. Was she bitten, too?”

“You know Roberta?”

“My husband’s family has been in the citrus business since I don’t know how long. She wouldn’t remember me. My husband-Elmer Lee Ogden is his name-we were both widowed and met only two years ago. Now we split our time between my condo on Marco and his ranch. I have to admit, when he told me Immokalee, I cringed, which only proves how little I knew about Florida. It’s some of the most beautiful country you’ve ever seen. Why don’t you come visit some afternoon?”

She produced a card. Abigail was her name. We chatted a while longer, then she returned inside to check on a teenage mother she was helping.