Randy White - Shark River

“Wild about me,” Tomlinson echoed. “Describes our relationship perfectly.”

I said, “My mother was Tuck’s younger sister. Much younger. She and my father were killed in an accident a long time ago. But you and I are fairly close to the same age. So see? It’s impossible. If we are related, Ransom, you’d be my cousin.”

She turned away then paused, that familiar cowboy actor pose. Toyed with the big gold ring on her right hand, thoughtful, then shook her head.

Why was it so difficult for her to accept?

We were aboard my twenty-four-foot trawl boat, dragging nets and culling the catch so I could finish my fish survey. Tomlinson and the woman had agreed to help because I was temporarily one-handed and couldn’t operate the trammels alone.

It was a winter-blue morning with a light chop out of the south. The breeze was balmy, scented with jasmine and mown grass. We were less than a hundred meters off Guava Key, both outriggers down, nets in the water. They created a brown swale that, if seen from above, would be an expanding vortex contrail as I steered us in wide circles and the rollers pressed themselves along the bottom.

I hadn’t called Harrington yet. For one thing, I dreaded it. Talk to a man about a one-night stand with his daughter? For another, my work took precedence-or so I told myself.

My trawl boat is a specialized vessel, built to drag shallow water, and ideal for collecting on the flats around Sanibel Island and the Gulf littoral. It is made of cedar planking and painted gray on gray, with a gray wheelhouse.

No, it is not built for style, nor is it maintained for looks.

I’d bought her used in Chokoloskee a couple years ago and single-handedly chugged up the inland waterway past Mango and Naples and Fort Myers Beach, and put her to work. It’d paid for itself in less than a year. When a university or lab sends me a big order for a species of plant or animal that I can’t collect by hand at low tide, or with a cast net, I fire up the net boat and rumble out into the bay.

“Rumble” is the appropriate word. It is powered by an old standard six-cylinder engine. The name brand is Pleasure Craft but it is actually made by Ford. Plugs and points, and no computer gizmos of any kind. In the little pilot house is a wheel, a throttle and the minimum of gauges-water pressure, oil pressure, and temperature. Above the pilot house, folded like the wings of a pterodactyl, is a complicated rigging of wires and steel booms to raise and lower drag nets, port and starboard. On the stern, a plywood culling table runs across the transom, with a twelve-volt light system so I can work at night. There are two huge live wells and a storage hatch on the port side built the size of a bunk, so I’ve got a place to doze if I get sleepy or just choose to lay out late, looking at the stars.

The trawler is slow, dependable, and about as graceful and easy to maneuver as a floating slab of cement.

But it’s functional-all I care about-and easy to use.

Tomlinson had been out with me enough to know how to set the nets while I steered. Ransom stood next to me in the wheelhouse, talking, not wanting to believe that I was telling her the truth.

She illustrated a component of the human quandary: When you have wholeheartedly accepted one vision of reality, it is very difficult to have that reality challenged, then replaced by another.

She was still shaking her head as if perplexed. “Whenever he mentioned you, I could hear the daddy sound in his voice, him telling me about the brother I had back in Florida. Like the sun rose and set on you. Tell me about how you so smart and big and strong, jes’ about the best at everything you did. From what I saw out there on the dock yesterday, the way you handle yourself with them bad men, sweet Jesus, he tol’ me the truth, he did. Get yourself shot and you act like, hey, it no big deal. Like you knew exactly what to do, zoomin’ around out there on that fast boat.”

That was surprising to hear. Tucker was prone to criticize and denigrate, particularly when he was drunk-which he usually was.

I said, “No matter what he told you, what he said, it doesn’t change the simple fact that I am not your brother.”

“Uh-huh, that what you keep sayin’ only I don’t understand the reason. I saw my daddy six, maybe seven times in my life, but I know he cared about me, and I know he cared about you. What so hard to believe?” She thought for a moment, making a show of it. Swung her braids for effect, red beads rattling, then touched an index finger to her face. “Maybe it because of my color. Yeah, maybe that the thing. Daddy, he used to tell me, ‘I got me a big ol’ ’Merican boy and a sweet little Island girl. Some white folk, they don’t like that. That the reason? You fault daddy for lovin’ a black woman, my brother?”

I groaned. She was as maddening as Tucker had once been, and seemed to have the potential to be as transparently manipulative. I said, “Oh, please. Tomlinson, would you explain it to her?”

He was standing, watching the trail of the nets, alert for unexpected snags. Hook an unseen engine block or sunken tree, and the entire superstructure could tumble down if you didn’t back the throttle.

He made a noncommittal wave with his hands-don’t put me in the middle of this. “Doc, all I’m going to say is, you two have exactly the same eyes. You and her both, the same color, just like Tuck’s. You didn’t realize that? Hah! No, I can tell you didn’t. It’s true. Take a look in the mirror, compadres. But a racist? Nope, Ransom, the label doesn’t fit. Racism requires lots and lots of dumb emotion, plus a dose of stupidity. Doc has a first-rate intellect, and the average rock has more emotional sensitivity. Your brother just doesn’t have the tools.”

“You’re so helpful,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”

Tomlinson nodded toward her. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but this happens to be one of the rare, spectacular ones. Living proof that a controversial assertion of mine is accurate: The most beautiful women in the world are always over thirty-five. Always. Why? Because, like great art, beauty requires fabric and depth. When it comes to beautiful women, Doc, you know my motto: Ingratiate yourself any way you can, then do whatever it takes to win them over.” He touched his fingers to his lips. “You are stunning, Ms. Ebanks.”

That earned him a dazzling smile. She said, “Thank you, Mr. Thomas. You a very nice person and speak lots of pretty words,” before she returned her attention to me. “Know what you should do? When we get back to land, you read Daddy’s letter like I asked, then you understand. The one sent me last month by that attorney man, the one Daddy Gatrell used. Judge Lemar Flowers, he the one. When I stopped at the marina, your place on Sanibel, them friends of yours knowed right away who Judge Flowers was. He famous around that island. Took one look at the letter, the handsome man behind the counter, the one who got the stutter, he told me where to find you.”

She’d taken a Greyhound bus north, then sat around on the mainland, awaiting permission to board the private ferry to Guava Key. After several hours without a response, she’d borrowed a canoe and paddled the five miles alone.

Her determination, at least, was impressive. And Tomlinson was right: Ransom was physically spectacular, no doubt. She had a sprinter’s long legs and dense muscularity, but her body was unmistakably, sensationally feminine. This morning, she wore the same yellow canvas shorts, but she’d traded in her tie-dye for one of Tomlinson’s black, sleeveless Harley Davidson T-shirts. The black shirt lengthened her and lightened her skin, so that she looked as if she was made of very, very firm and sculpted pale chocolate. But I’d already identified too many of Tuck’s mannerisms and genetics to see her now separately, as her own attractive entity.