Randy White - Haunted

Fortified by my new freedom, I indulged myself by confirming that the rope was attached to; actually paused to note a few details. Only then did I rocket to the surface and inhale big, balmy, wonderful gulps of October air.

Belton had started the engine-how had I not heard a 225 horsepower outboard fire up? It didn’t matter. I was alive. And only midway through another lazy, uneventful day in Florida. I felt like laughing but didn’t. It was because of the gentlemen rushing to my rescue. Belton’s face was white with a fixed look of terror until he spotted me. Then he visibly sagged and let Carmelo take the wheel.

I shouted, “Is Belton okay?”

Carmelo, standing with his hard, stunted eyes fixed on me, tapped the throttle forward and didn’t respond.

I watched for a moment, then yelled, “Slow down,” because the boat was already so close, I would soon disappear under the bow. Run me over, I’d be lucky to escape the skeg or spinning propeller.

Carmelo didn’t seem to hear. I shouted again: “Put the engine in neutral!” That’s when a horrible thought entered my head: Carmelo had done something to Belton. Now he was coming for me. He wanted to hurt me, perhaps kill me, for no other reason than I had whapped him in the face with a plastic snorkel.

But I was wrong-half wrong, at least-because Belton rematerialized at the wheel and switched the engine off while the stern swung so I could climb aboard. His coloring was still bad, but he showed some life by scolding me. “Young lady, you stayed under way too damn long. My heart can’t take that sort of thing.”

With a weak smile, he tried to make light of the comment, but what he had said was true and I knew it. That changed everything. I wanted to confront Carmelo and demand an explanation, but I couldn’t risk more upset. So I, too, made light of what had happened. I replied, “I must have lost track of time. But I know what’s down there now.” I tossed the mask into the boat and got my rump on the transom.

From the way Belton rambled on about how worried he’d been, I feared he actually had suffered a stroke, but then he regained his composure. “Carmelo-help the lady up and into a dry towel. I think a cup of that red wine is in order. Hannah, then and only then can you reveal the mystery to the old fool who should have never let you dive to begin with. My god, girl, I stopped keeping track at ninety seconds.”

Only ninety? I felt like I’d been trapped underwater for five minutes-and a full minute is a long dive for me. But I only laughed and waited until I was aboard to say, “Don’t get your hopes up, Belton. It’s not a boat from the Civil War.”

I expected a theatrical groan of disappointment. Instead, for an instant, his old blue eyes glittered with the focus of a younger man. It was those eyes that bore into me when he responded, “Really? That’s too bad. Then I suppose it’s one of these hopped-up bass boats. Or a motorboat. Probably stolen, so we’ll make a pile when we tell the insurance company.” A joke, but something cold at the source of it.

“Not even close,” I said.

His expression asked Are you sure?

I nodded. “What’s down there is-”

Belton interrupted, “Not until you’re seated with a towel. I can wait for the big news.”

His indifference was a lie, I sensed that. He’d already told me he didn’t trust Carmelo, but this was different. Something had happened, an incident or reckoning that had taken place recently. So I made a few glib remarks while I dried my hair and sought Belton’s eyes for an explanation. Within seconds, though, those youthful eyes faded into the face of an eighty-year-old man who had suffered a fright.

He asked, “Didn’t you say you brought a change of clothes? You can’t stay in those wet things. Carmelo”-Belton, from his chair, was giving orders again-“we will stand with eyes to the front while Hannah changes. And if you so much as peek, I will have you arrested and thrown into prison for the rest of your unnatural life.” An old man’s laughter should have dulled the sharpness of his words but it didn’t.

If it was an act, Carmelo accepted it. Or pretended to. He handed me an inch of wine in a plastic cup and said, “Right away, Mr. Matás,” but started the boat as if he’d misunderstood.

Now I didn’t know what to do. What I had found anchored to the bottom wasn’t shocking, but it was unusual. Was there a reason he didn’t want Carmelo to know?

Belton’s behavior became more confusing when he made the decision for me. “Shut off that damn engine. Maybe Hannah wants to take another look before she tells me. Or”-he remembered his recent offer-“would you rather change into dry clothes and forget it?”

I decided to share a half-truth. “It was a big chunk of pipe,” I said. “That’s what it looked like. But it must have flotation because it’s anchored about six feet off the bottom or maybe snagged on something. I banged into it as I was surfacing.”

Carmelo busied himself getting a beer from the cooler, but Belton was concerned. “Did you hit your head? Let me see.”

I was thinking about what I’d actually found: a canoe-an aluminum canoe-old with dents. “No, it couldn’t have snagged,” I amended. “It’s floating parallel to the bottom, so there has to be at least two anchors. Which means someone sunk it intentionally.”

“A chunk of drainage pipe? That makes no sense whatsoever.” Finally Belton looked at me long enough to understand what I was doing. “On the other hand… I guess it could be some kind of fish trap or turtle trap, possibly. Damn bad luck, it not being a boat.”

I said, “Fish collect around structure, don’t they, Carmelo?”

Our guide was smart enough to know drainage culverts don’t float. Even so, he replied, “Lots of junk in this river.”

I looked toward the spot where seedpods and twigs were gathering. “One thing’s for sure, it’s not worth going back in the water.”

Belton picked up on that, too, and changed the subject. “What about that bottle you found? It looked like it was covered with coral. But not in fresh water, I wouldn’t think.”

The bottle was gone, but I patted my pockets anyway. I didn’t mention the salt spring either. All I said was, “Sorry.” That’s how uneasy I felt.

“Then the two of us should drown our sorrows in wine.” He touched a plastic cup to mine. “One of these days I’ll make a major archaeological discovery-but not here, I’m afraid. And not today.”

“You don’t want to come back here no more, Mr. Matás?” Carmelo was testing for something else. I sensed that, too.

The older man shook his head. “We didn’t find any more unbroken bottles either. The whole darn day is a bust-but thank god Hannah wasn’t hurt. All for a lousy piece of junked pipe.”

We made small talk after that, but I kept an eye on Carmelo, who had gathered a bagful of mimosa seeds. I wasn’t going to ask why. But when he felt me watching, he leaned over the side and pointed at one of the apple-sized fruits. “Them things is bad. ’Bout bad as it gets. But these things here”-he held up a mimosa pod-“they good. Not to eat. But they still good.”

Belton had already asked about the seeds, apparently. “He starts seedlings and sells them. I guess the trees here are unusual. Expensive, if you’re a landscaper.”

That’s not what Carmelo meant. “No, them little apples is poison. And them apple trees, you touch them, they burn you bad.” He checked with me to see if I understood.

Suddenly, I did. Behind us were two waxy-leafed trees mixed in with towering mimosas. I had noticed them peripherally but hadn’t made the connection with the apple-sized fruit. I asked, “Is that why you wouldn’t get in the water?”