Carl Hiassen - Lucky You

He grabbed the corners of the big aquarium and hoisted it. Trish held the front door open. Krome didn't make it to the first step before he heard the cry, quavering and subhuman; the sound of distilled suffering, something from a torture pit.

Krome froze in the doorway.

Trish, staring past him: "Uh-oh. I thought he was asleep." A slender figure in white moved across the living room toward them. Demencio swiftly intervened, prodding it backward with a long-handled tuna gaff.

"Nyyahh froohhmmmm! Hoodey nyyahh!" the frail figure yodeled.

Demencio said, sternly: "That'll be enough from you."

Incredulous, Tom Krome edged back into the house. "Sinclair?"

The prospect of losing the cooters had put him into a tailspin. Trish had prepared hot tea and led him to the spare bedroom, so he wouldn't see them swabbing the holy faces off the turtle shells. That (she'd warned Demencio) might send the poor guy off the deep end.

To make sure Sinclair slept, she'd spiked his chamomile with a buffalo-sized dose of NyQuil. It wasn't enough. He shuffled groggily into the living room at the worst possible moment, just as the baby cooters were being carried away. Sinclair's initial advance was repelled by Demencio and the rounded side of the gaff. A second lunge aborted when the crusty bedsheet in which Sinclair had cloaked himself became snagged on Demencio's golf bag. The turtle fondler was slammed hard to the floor, where he thrashed about until the others subdued him. They lifted him to Demencio's La-Z-Boy and adjusted it to the fully reclined position.

When Sinclair's eyes fluttered open, he blurted at the face he saw: "But you're dead!"

"Not really," Tom Krome said.

"It's a blessed miracle!"

"Actually, the newspaper just screwed up."

"Praise God!"

"They should've waited on the DNA," said Krome, unaware of his editor's recent spiritual conversion.

"Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Lord!" Sinclair, crooning and swaying.

Krome said: "Excuse me, but have you gone insane?"

Demencio and his wife pulled him aside and explained what had happened; how Sinclair had come to Grange searching for Tom and had become enraptured by the apostolic cooters.

"He's a whole different person," Trish whispered.

"Good," Krome said. "He needed to be."

"You should see: He lies in the water with them. He speaks in tongues. He ... what's that word, honey?"

Demencio said, " 'Exudes.' "

His wife nodded excitedly. "Yes! He exudes serenity."

"Plus he brings in a shitload of money," Demencio added. "The pilgrims, they love it – Turtle Boy is what they call him. We even had some T-shirts in the works."

"T-shirts?" said Krome, as if this were an everyday conversation.

"You bet. Guy who does silk screen over on Cocoa Beach – surfer stuff mostly, so he was hot for a crack at something new." Demencio sighed. "It's all down the crapper now, since your girlfriend won't sell us them turtles. What the hell use are T-shirts?"

Trish, in the true Christian spirit: "Honey, it's not JoLayne's fault."

"Yeah, yeah," said her husband.

Krome eyed the linen-draped lump in the recliner. Sinclair had covered his head and retracted into a fetal curl.

Turtle Boy? It was poignant, in a way. Sinclair peeked out and, with a pallid finger, motioned him closer. When Krome approached he said, "Tom, I'm begging you."

"But they don't belong to me."

"You don't understand – they're miraculous, those little fellas. You were dead and now you're alive. All because I prayed."

Krome said, "I wasn't dead, I – "

"All because of those turtles. Tom, please. You owe me. You owe them." Sinclair's hand darted out and snatched Krome by the wrist. "The inner calm I feel, floating in that moat, surrounded by those delicate perfect creatures, God's creatures ... My whole life, Tom, I've never felt such a peace. It's like ... an epiphany!"

Demencio gave Trish a sly wink that said: Write that one down. Epiphany .

Krome said to Sinclair: "So you're here to stay?"

"Oh my, yes. Roddy and Joan rented me a room."

"And you're never coming back to the newspaper?"

"No way." Sinclair gave a bemused snort.

"You promise?"

"On a stack of Bibles, my brother."

"OK, then. Here's what I'll do." Krome pulled free and went to the aquarium. He returned with a single baby turtle, a yellow-bellied slider, which he placed in his editor's upturned palm.

"This one's yours," Krome told him. "You want more, catch your own."

"God bless you, Tom!" Sinclair, cupping the gaily striped cooter as if it were a gem. "Look, it's Bartholomew!"

Of course there was no face to be seen on the turtle's shell; no painted face, at least. Demencio had sponged it clean.

Tom Krome slipped away from Sinclair and lifted the aquarium tank off the floor. As he left the house, Trish said, "Mr. Krome, that was a really kind thing to do. Wasn't it, honey?"

"Yeah, it was," Demencio said. One cooter was better than none. "JoLayne won't be pissed?"

"No, I think she'll understand perfectly."

Tom Krome told them goodbye and carried the heavy tank down the front steps.

The two women arrived in Grange on Tuesday night, too late for Katie Battenkill's sightseeing. They rented a room at a darling bed-and-breakfast, where they were served a hearty pot-roast supper with a peppy Caesar salad. Over dessert (pecan pie with a scoop of vanilla) they tried to make conversation with the only other guest, a well-dressed businessman from Chicago. He was taciturn and so preoccupied that he didn't make a pass at either of them; the women were surprised but not disappointed.

In the morning Katie asked Mrs. Hendricks for directions to the shrine. Mary Andrea Finley Krome pretended to be annoyed at the detour, but truthfully she was grateful. She needed more time to rehearse what to say to her estranged husband, if they found him. Katie was confident they would.

"In the meantime, you won't be sorry."

"Should we bring something?" Mary Andrea asked.

"Just an open mind."

The visitation was only a few blocks away. Katie parked behind a long silver bus that was disgorging the eager faithful. They carried prayer books and crucifixes and umbrellas (for the sun) and, of course, cameras of all types. Some of the men wore loose-fitting walking shorts and some of the women had wide-brimmed hats. Their faces were open and friendly and uncluttered by worry. Mary Andrea thought they were the happiest group she'd ever seen; happier even than Cats audiences.

Katie said, "Let's get in line."

The Virgin Mary shrine was in the lawn of an average-looking suburban house. The four-foot icon stood on a homemade platform beyond a water-filled trench. A cordial woman in a flower-print pants suit moved among the waiting pilgrims and offered soft drinks, snacks and sunscreen. Mary Andrea purchased a Snapple and a tube of Hawaiian Tropic #30. Katie went for a Diet Coke.

Word came down the line that the weeping Madonna was between jags. The tourist ahead of Katie leaned back and said, "Gripes, I hope it's not another dry day."

"What do you mean?"

"That's what happened last time I was here, in the spring – she never cried once, not one darn teardrop. Then the morning after we leave, look out. Some friends mailed us pictures – it looked like Old Faithful!"

Mary Andrea was diverted by a weather-beaten woman in a bridal gown. Perched on a stool beneath a tree, the woman was expounding in low tones and gesticulating theatrically. A half dozen of the bus tourists stood around her, though not too close. As an actress Mary Andrea had always been drawn to such colorful real-life characters. She asked Katie Battenkill to hold her place in line.

Shiner's mother was alerted by the click of high heels, for the typical pilgrim didn't dress so glamorously. The brevity of the newcomer's skirt also raised doubts about her piety, yet Shiner's mother wasn't ready to pass judgment. Couldn't redheaded rich girls be born again? And couldn't they, even as sinners, be generous with offerings?