Randy White: Tampa Burn

A valid point Darwin didn’t make but could have made: In most dimorphic species, males are interchangeable, and so expendable. Perhaps that’s why only primate males seem to inherit the war gene.

As I waded toward the marina, steering the tarpon along, I called to Pilar, “I’ll meet you at the house. The boardwalk’s to your left through the mangroves. Doors are open, there’s mosquito spray on the railing, and there’re drinks in the fridge. So make yourself at home.”

Because I spoke to her in English, she replied in English. It was lightly accented, her tone more formal because the language was less familiar. “I’ve always been interested to see how a man like you lives, Marion. It’s been a long time.”

Emotional indulgence or not, silly or not, that made my heart pound even harder.

Not all fish have scales, but all fish produce slime-a glyco-protein called mucin, actually-and the mucin produced by tarpon has all the adhesive charm of super glue mixed with axle grease.

I’d been wrestling with the fish. Tomlinson had not. So, while he played host inside, I stood outside, showering, sluicing off the slime and mud and salt. The southwest coast of Florida had been having some spectacular lightning squalls during our tropical-bright afternoons. So the rainwater pouring out of the cistern was fresh and warm.

Florida has two seasons-the winter dry and the summer wet. It was a Tuesday, the sixth of May, the very front edge of the rainy. So I lathered and rinsed over and over, using all the water I wanted. It was an extravagance not to be enjoyed come fall.

As I washed, my brain bounced back and forth from topic to topic. I seldom have trouble concentrating. Just the opposite. Friends accuse me of tunnel vision. Of being hermitlike in my work habits to the point of excluding the realities-and the conveniences-of a modern world.

Things they see as conveniences, anyway. Such as television, and VCRs. Add to the list: cellular phones, shopping memberships, Palm Pilots, DVDs, Internet dating services, all varieties of cable and satellite interconnectings, and magic pills that cure ancient ills.

I was having trouble focusing now, though. My attention kept shifting from the sedated tarpon to Pilar. The tarpon was in its tank on the bottom deck of my house, which is built on stilts in the shallow water of Dinkin’s Bay. Before my shower, midway through it, and while I was still drying off, I jogged down the steps, towel around hips, to reconfirm that the fish was still holding itself upright, gills working slowly but steadily in its metomidate-laced pen.

More than once, I also paused to listen to the bell tones of Pilar’s voice and occasional laughter coming from inside. An individual’s voice is as distinctive as a pheromone signature. It caused me to think of the way it had been with her. The emotional and physical intimacy. The way it had been when we were alone, clothed or naked, our bodies and our minds coupled.

In her e-mail, and then on the phone, she hadn’t told me what she wanted to discuss. Just that it was personal and important.

Because she’d assured me it had nothing to do with our son, I didn’t feel any great anxiety. Anticipation-that better describes it.

As I showered, I tried not to admit to myself what it was that I secretly hoped, because, once again, it was silly and out of character. Still, the feelings were there. Truth was, I hoped that she’d come to tell me that she wanted to give us a try. That she was tired of living without the father of her son, and there was no longer any reason for us to be apart.

Which generated in me a nagging guilt. Guilt because I was now in a full-time relationship with a great lady by the name of Dewey Nye. More than just a relationship, really. It’s the closest I’ve come to what Tomlinson calls “instinctual testicular disobedience.”

By that, he means domestication, plus sexual exclusivity-a combination he has successfully avoided over the years.

Dewey and I’d been splitting our nights between my stilt house and her home on Captiva Island-a sacrifice on her part. I have an outdoor shower and a propane cooking stove. In her designer home, she has a bathtub the size of a swimming pool and a gourmet kitchen.

Even so, I think she was enjoying the change. I was, too-a surprise to many, including me. But true.

Every morning, I’d make breakfast before sending her off to her new job teaching golf and tennis at South Seas Plantation, a classy Captiva resort. In the afternoons, we’d work out, then take turns cooking dinner. We’d even discussed opening a joint bank account to pay household expenses.

Something else that I had accepted with surprising calm: The lady had hinted more than once that she’d give marriage serious consideration if asked, because she wanted to start a family before she hit her late thirties.

“If I can just get enough beer into a certain thick-head, half-blind nerd to get him to pop the question,” she once whispered in my ear.

So, yes. I was in more than just a relationship. I had a partner and a mate. A spectacular one, at that. Infidelity has as much to do with the brain as the body, so my guilt was not misplaced.

Tomlinson has pointed out on more than one occasion that I maintain such tight control over my emotions that it has stunted me spiritually-not that I much care about spirituality.

I knew now, though, how wrong he was. When it came to Pilar, I seemed to have no control at all.

“MARION. You look good. Healthy. But you’ve lost weight. Too much.”

I was walking toward her as she spoke, arms outstretched, but she surprised me by giving me the briefest of hugs and pulling away. Then she seemed to study me for a moment before adding, “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, I realize that maybe I’d always imagined it. Our son. That I could see him so clearly in your face.”

There may have been a touch of nostalgia in her voice. But there also seemed to be an undertone of cool reserve. Or was I imagining it?

Even so, I didn’t trust myself to speak. I felt too big and clumsy and inarticulate to have someone like her even briefly in my arms. Like I might stumble, fall, and break one of her ribs or something.

I said, “I’ve been working out a lot. Swimming and running,” and realized, as I spoke, what a stupid, inane thing to say after so much time apart.

I tried to rally. “You remember Tomlinson? He’s the friend who was with me in Central America when I got the concussion.”

Idiotic. Of course she remembered. They’d not only spent a couple of days together, they’d been here the last twenty minutes talking while I showered.

Pilar seemed not to notice what a bumbling fool I’d become. She stepped farther away from me, as if requiring distance, her eyes a liquid sheen; eyes that seemed aloof and wise and penetrating.

Her clothing was crisp; her hammered silver bracelet and jade necklace simple, elegant. She wore beige slacks and a white blouse. The starched collar provided a classic pedestal for her classic face. Pilar’s is the face of the pure Indio, though she is not pure Indian. It is the face of royalty you see carved into the pyramid walls and stone stelae of Mexico, Guatemala, and Peru. High cheeks, black eyes, and black Mayan hair. But her hair was cut and styled so that she looked like a successful, modern business executive. Or a high-level politician-which she’d once been.

In the time I knew her, she’d always worn her combed hair long. It had added a softness to her appearance that wasn’t now evident.

Except for some additional wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, though, and delicate sun lines on her forehead, she hadn’t otherwise changed. She stood there looking up into my face, not smiling. She seemed a stranger. A person whom I’d once known, but no longer knew.