Randy White - The Man Who Ivented Florida

Ford was laughing; couldn't help himself. Picturing Jeth down there in Central America, the hero of some island republic where he probably couldn't even speak the language. Being hosted at dinners, getting his name in the papers and considering an ambassador's post-though that couldn't be true. Not that Jeth wasn't smart, he was. But ambassador to France? Tomlinson and Ford played with the idea while dinner sputtered in the cast-iron skillet; exchanged different scenarios as gray dusk absorbed orange sunset, then faded to darkness, with stars sparkling beyond the stilt house's windows. They were still talking about it, just finishing dinner, when the telephone rang.

Ford said, "Boy oh boy oh boy."

Tomlinson was already up, headed for the phone. "Probably Jeth's social secretary. Doing phone gigs while someone feeds Jeth grapes." But when Tomlinson picked up the phone, he said, "Nope, this isn't Duke. There's no Duke- Oh! Hey, wait a minute-" Tomlinson put his hand over the mouthpiece, looking at Ford. "Does your uncle call you Duke? It's an old guy-"

Ford said, "I knew it."

Into the phone, Tomlinson said, "You want Doc Ford? Hah! You call 'em Duke?" To Ford, Tomlinson said, "Tucker Gatrell. It's your uncle, right? Why's he call you that?"

Ford thought, Because he's crazy as a loon, that's why. He was standing, taking his time while Tomlinson said, "Sir, you don't mind me asking, why do you call him Duke?"

As Ford took the phone, Tomlinson was laughing, repeating what he'd heard: "Said because you sit on your butt all the time, read books, and act like an asshole!"

Ford said, "Good to talk to you, too, Tuck. But don't call me Duke," talking into the phone but giving Tomlinson an evil look.

Ford listened, then he said, "Some drugged-out old hippie who hits me up for free meals. Uh-huh, probably a draft dodger. Commie drug fiend, yep, no doubt. Yeah, that's him laughing. Kind of a hyena sound. Uh-huh. Firing squad, you bet, they probably shoulda. Machine-gunned the whole bunch."

Ford was listening, still looking at Tomlinson. Then he said, "I know, I know, you already said… great discovery, amazing stuff. Why wouldn't I believe something like that?" He was silent for a time, then said, "Your horse, Roscoe, right. Sounds like quite an animal. But I'm a biologist, not a vet. Besides, I don't have the facilities to test water. Not the kind of tests you're talking about."

Ford listened a while longer, and Tomlinson's eyebrows raised a little when Ford said, "But I'm not the guy for the job. You need a real scientist for that. Cellular regeneration, fascinating stuff, but way out of my league. I just don't carry that kind of weight-"

Tomlinson waited patiently, moving dishes to the sink, listening, until Ford hung up the phone. Then Tomlinson said, "That's the crazy old man? He sounded full of vinegar to me. What's he want?"

Ford swung down into his chair, turning his attention to the shortwave radio. "I don't know what he wants. Tuck never comes out and says what he wants." Being uncommunicative again.

"Ah, come on, he was telling you stuff-"

"He didn't tell me anything."

"Sound carries in a room this size. Cellular regeneration. I heard that."

Ford said, "He likes to steer people. Like his cows. Turn them this way and that. A Florida cowboy, that's what he was. A fisherman and a cow hunter. Tuck never comes right out and says what's really on his mind. He wants to use me somehow. It was bad enough when he wasn't crazy. I mean, senile."

Tomlinson said, "I like the guy and I never even met him."

From the old radio's speaker, a voice said through the static: "You are listening to the Voice of Romania." Still looking at the radio, Ford said, "Here's an example. What Tuck told me was…"

"What? Come on."

Ford said, "He says his horse found an artesian well way back in the mangroves, and his testicles grew back. The horse, because he was drinking the water. He'd been gelded."

"Yeah?" Tomlinson sat beside Ford, noticing the radio for the first time, thinking, Romania? That's some powerful rock station. To Ford, he said, "Uh-huh? The water healed the horse. So what's the weird part?"

When Tucker Gatrell hung up the telephone, he thought, That nephew of mine. I shoulda whacked his pants back when I had the chance.

He needed to get Marion Ford involved in things; needed an outside helping hand with a little respectability up there in the county seat. Not that Marion hung out with those shitheel politicians, but at least he was a scientist-or so Tucker had heard-and them dim bulbs who always got themselves elected might pay attention to a scientist. Give him a little time, at least. Which was something they wouldn't do for an old person who had no money to speak of. When politicians looked at old people, all they saw was saggy skin wrapped around a voting finger.

Tucker stood tapping his big worn fists together, then he pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. Little after seven, so what the hell? Why not just go ahead and keep things moving? Lord knows, he'd spent enough time talking to his attorney, old Lemar Flowers. And reading all that little bitty print in all them books and papers. Then flying all over creation with his buddy Ervin T. Rouse; 'bout froze his butt off in that ratty little plane. Now he had to start putting the rest of his ducks in a row, so to speak, find himself a helper, and he knew just the man-well, knew just the Indian, anyway. Joseph Egret, if he hadn't gone wacky up there in that rest home. Get Joseph and a few others,-hell, start having some fun for a change. He still had-what?- nearly four weeks before that meeting old Lemar had finagled for him.

Yeah, about that. Three weeks and a few days till the state park people came down and tried to take his land.

So there was plenty of other stuff to keep him busy while Marion came around. Marion would, too. Say what you want about that nerdy kid, he was dependable. Good man in a fight; always was-at least until the navy people sent him off to college and made an egghead out of him. Goddamn navy. Marines, now there was an outfit. Not that the marines weren't shortsighted at times-like not drafting him during the big war because of his age. But he'd joined up anyway just to have the chance to meet those hula girls down there in the South Pacific.

Tucker rambled across the plank floor of his little ranch house, into the room that had once been Marion's, back when Marion was in high school. Cramped room with a window. Tuck kept his own clothes there now. In a pile on the cedar chest or on the floor, where they were easy to get to. There was still plenty of time to make the thirty-mile trip into town, but he wanted to look presentable. Find some clothes that weren't wrinkled or didn't smell like his horse, Roscoe.

Sorting through the clothes, Tucker was thinking, It's about nigh damn time I start looking respectable and make something of myself.

He'd been moping around that damn ranch, dirt-poor and lonely long enough. Yep, get off his ass and make a last-ditch effort to get the upper hand on those wormy bastards trying to run him off his own land. And that's just about exactly what he was going to do.

He stopped for a moment and looked beyond the window glare outside. He could see the silhouette of his bam-that needed fixing!-and the silhouette of Roscoe standing beneath a gumbo-limbo tree, probably asleep. A little ways farther was the jumbled form of his junk pile: boxes, car parts, a busted refrigerator, trash… and the rotting fly bridge of an old boat.

I hate seeing that damned old boat, so why the hell have I kept it around so long?

Talking to himself, Tucker answered his own question. "Because I'm a screwup, that's why."

It was true enough. He'd been screwing up his whole life,- that's the way he felt. No wife, no children, no accomplishments, unless he wanted to count a bunch of inventions and other schemes that never worked out. Which he didn't. Didn't count any of them. They didn't deserve credence, he'd messed them up so bad.