Randy White: The Mangrove Coast

I stopped, took a step back and said, “Hey… are you okay?” Then I said, “Hello…?” and stood listening in the heavy air.

I’m ashamed to admit how often I say idiotic things and ask dumb questions. This was one of my dumber questions. The guy definitely wasn’t okay.

But it was a startling scene to discover: A stranger’s clay gray face wedged against custom cabinetry… copper pots and skillets suspended from hooks above rows of stainless burners… a mottled black swash of blood on the cupboard which marked where flesh and bone had impacted marble countertop, then wood.

The man was wearing green swim shorts, no shirt or thongs.

He had fallen heavily. Big men in their forties always do.

Standing there looking at the body, I could hear Frank Calloway’s stepdaughter, Amanda, tell me, “Frank loves to cook. He studies it, like a gourmet. If he invited you over and he likes you, he’ll probably want to make dinner. If his ditzy new wife-he calls her ‘Skipper,’ for God’s sake. If Skipper will let him.”

But there was nothing cooking on the stove. Nothing to account for the weightiness of atmosphere…

I stood beneath the cathedral ceiling, aware of a silence amplified by the sound of skittish palm fronds outside and the slow collapse of waves on sand. A little-known fact: Waves do not move horizontally; only the disturbance that creates them does. Like fog in a breeze, water only illustrates energy.

Even so, on this summer-bright afternoon in April, the Gulf of Mexico seemed a gelatinous membrane that was part of a greater respiratory system. I could look through the kitchen, through the shattered sliding glass door and beyond the pool and patio furniture to the beach: Wave after low jade wave sailed shoreward… one long exhalation followed by another… another… another.

The waves made a hissing sound that gathered volume then deteriorated, gasped in the spring heat, gasped again and collapsed.

Just one more dazzling beachfront day in the village of Boca Grande. Yet the sound of waves underlined something else that I had noticed: The man on the floor did not appear to be breathing…

In movies, blood and a body cause the fainthearted to scream and the brave hearted to rush to the fallen’s assistance.

That hasn’t been my experience.

Nope. The more common reaction is a mixture of atavistic dread and a reluctance to get involved.

Most people do exactly what I did: we look, take a step back, then look again. Basically, we act like dopes.

Maybe there’s a reason. It is in the milliseconds of shock that the brain has time to charge the flight-or-fight instinct with adrenaline, preparing to take control. Are we in danger? Has the predator struck and run? Or has the predator lingered?

Then we stare; a stare interrupted with quick animal-glances over our shoulders and to our unprotected flanks. We draw closer, still staring. Is this death? Is this the thing we fear above all else in life?

For most, death is a spiritual concept, not a chemical process, and the flesh-and-fluid reality of it cleaves a hole, a momentary hole, in our illusions.

Death must be approached cautiously like an abyss… or like disease.

I am not fainthearted, but neither am I brave. I stood for a moment, alert to the possibility that I was not alone in this stranger’s house. My eyes reconfirmed that the sliding glass door which opened to the pool had been knocked off its tracks and shattered.

It was a big door. Lots of wrought iron and storm glass. It had required some animal force to tear it free of its casing. Calloway was big enough to do it. But why would he have done it?

I noted the beach towel dropped in a heap on the kitchen floor. It appeared to be dry; no blood. There was a deliquescent sheen of water on the copper-red Mexican tiles.

I turned my head enough to see the high-beamed great room behind me and a winding staircase that spiraled to a beach loft. Stained-glass windows-bottle-nosed dolphins leaping-allowed tubular blue sunlight through the hipped roof.

In the living room below were islands of white leather furniture on an acre of white carpet.

About her stepfather, I remembered Amanda telling me, “When my mom married Frank, he was a clinical psychologist. Her psychologist after my real dad was killed; that’s how they got together. Financially, I guess he did okay, but then he began to invest in land. Money, money, money, if you’re smart enough. And Frank’s pretty damn smart when he’s not thinking with his testicles.

“Finally, he gave up his practice completely to organize Florida land syndicates. He had a knack for knowing what people wanted before they actually wanted it. It must have been the shrink in him. He got really rich just in time to divorce my mom and marry his secretary. Jesus, Skipper. Can you believe he calls her that?”

Sure, I could believe it.

What was a little harder to accept was that I would be the one to find Frank Calloway, the former psychologist who’d made all the money even though he occasionally thought with his testicles, but who was now lying in the glaze of his own blood, dead on the floor of the kitchen where he might have cooked me a gourmet dinner had he decided he liked me.

The type of house in which I stood is becoming a fixture on Florida’s west coast: a passive totem of wealth reconstituted as imitation Old Florida architecture. It had the obligatory tin roof, the Prohibition-era lines, the driftwood coloring.

Inside, though, it was diorama-neat, a model of interior design, a place through which to tour admiring guests. Note the terra-cotta tiles, the polyester and acrylic fabrics, the recessed lighting and beveled glass, the breakfast room in red cedar, the Monticello tubs and gold faucets, the saxony cut carpet, the imitation pecky cypress made of some kind of Du Pont synthetic.

It was not a home. It was an emblem in which to live.

Not even that anymore for Frank Calloway.

I crossed the kitchen and knelt, cupping my hand around the man’s wrist: skin cooler than the tile beneath me, no pulse.

I changed my position, considered the dried blood on the man’s face and neck. Something else: Streaking along the jugular area were two parallel red lines.

What could have caused something like that? Had he somehow scratched his own neck as he fell?

I gave it a few seconds before I touched fingers to the carotid area: coated hair bristles, skin dry as a mushroom, still no pulse.

What I felt was relief. He was dead. Yeah, he was dead.

Not a very admirable reaction. But I am seldom as admirable as I would like to be. Still, personal ethics are the measure of one’s own self-image, one’s own self-respect. Had I noticed normal body warmth, a hint of heartbeat, I would have done what was required. I would have rolled him over, checked to make sure his airway was clear and then performed the required CPR. Two breaths to five chest compressions.

So, yes, I felt relief. But some regret, too: Death may be solitary, but it reverberates. In a few hours, somewhere, someplace, unknown people-probably good people-would be in shock, crying, perhaps shattered with loss.

As Tomlinson says, and quite accurately, all life forms are symbiotic. Each life is interlaced.

I pictured Amanda: the skinny, mousy woman and her New Age tough-guy feminist attitude. Was she too aloof to shed tears for her stepfather?

It was something I would have to find out…

I’d never met Calloway, but I’d spoken with him a couple of times on the telephone and Amanda had sent me a photograph. Black curly hair, styled neat. Nose and narrow chin that suggested Italian antecedents. Jowly middle-aged face, bright, aggressive brown eyes behind oval-rimmed designer glasses that made a calculated statement: taste, intellect, money-powerful but in tune; youthful.