Peter Matthiessen - Shadow Country

Lucius is six but Papa picked him up like he was two to gayze into his face. I have not seen this feller since he was in diapers he told Erksin Tomsin setting him back down. Hes turned out fine. Lucius gave Mama a shy look to see if she thought hed turned out fine like Papa said.

Erksin Tomsin shook hands all around. He looked clean and did not smell too bad. His hand was very hard and callised. I hung on an extra second so I could watch him serch the sky again but I let go quick when I saw Papa watching. And this said Papa is my oldest son Master Robert Watson.

Sonborn Rob wispered.

Rob? He was only teasing Mama said.

When Erksin Tomsin put his hand out Rob yanked him off balance but he did not fall. He gripped Robs hand and looked over at his boss. Papa put his arms behind his back and looked toward the gulf and hummed a toon.

The boy yanked Robs arm around behind and twisted it up hard til Rob squeeked. We knew Rob would not squeek again not even if his arm got twisted off like a boyled chicken wing. But this boy did not know that yet so Mama said gently Erksin? Please. Let him go.

Rob jammed his hands into his hip pockets. He looked from Erksin towards our father and then back noding his head like he was ploting his ravenge. I knew what he was thinking and felt sorry for him. If Papa had only sent for us a few years ago his oldest son would be his scooner captain not some skrawny cracker.

Like most Island families, what we called home weren’t nothing but gray ol’ storm boards flung together, palmetta thatch for roof and a dirt floor, but when Mister Watson learned his family was coming, he had new lumber for a honest-to-God house shipped down from Tampa Bay. Two carpenters came, too. Used Dade County pine, which is workable when green but cures so hard you’d be better off driving a nail into a railroad track. Best construction wood they is. When the house was finished, he painted her white and that white house stood so high up on that mound you could see her over the mangrove tops, sailing upriver. Except Storters at Everglade, there weren’t no home close to her between Fort Myers and Key West, and we got her finished just in time.

Sailing north to Punta Gorda, Mister Watson and me hit rough seas in the Gulf right up to San Carlos Bay. Punta Gorda at that time was the end of the South Florida Railroad, so unless we come for ’em by sea, the family had to go on south by horse and hack, five hours overland on the old cattle trails to the Alva ferry across the Calusa Hatchee. The railroad train was gone back north when we come in. This made me sorrowful. That train was the first I ever would of saw.

Mister Watson and me walked over to the depot. Miss Carrie was real pretty and her smile put me in a haze. Mrs. Watson was kind to me, they was all friendly except Robert, who was a year older than me and didn’t look nothin like them others. He was black-haired and pale, like the sun couldn’t figure no way to get at him. Mister Watson got mad at him, called him Sonborn or something, made him cry.

We stayed that night at the Henry Plant Hotel. Ordered up our grub right in the restaurant. Set sail at daybreak bound for the Islands with a following wind and put in after dark at Panther Key, named by Old Man Juan Gomez for that time a panther swum across and ate his goat. Johnny Gomez boiled ’em their first Florida lobster. Never took that broke-stemmed old clay pipe he called his nose-warmer from between his teeth and never stopped talking. The Watson kids heard every one of that old man’s tales, how Nap Bonaparte bid him godspeed in Madrid, Spain, and how he run off for a pirate. Mister Watson got some liquor into Johnny, got him so het up about them grand old days on the bounding main that he got his centuries mixed up, that’s what Mrs. Watson whispered, doin her best not to smile. Bein a schoolteacher she had some education and advised me to take Senor Gomez with a grain of salt.

One thing there ain’t much doubt about, that man were old. Claimed he fought under Zach Taylor at Okeechobee, 1837, way back in the First Seminole War. And that could be because one day there at Marco, Bill Collier Senior told the men how he had knew that rascal Johnny Gomez even before the War Between the States, said he was a danged old liar even then.

Old Gomez carried on into the night and Mister Watson done some drinking along with him, slapping his leg and shaking his head over them old stories like he’d waited for years to get this kind of education. He was watching the faces of his children, winking at me every once in a while, I never seen him so happy in my life. He were a stately man for sure, setting there right in the bosom of his family. In fire light under the stars over the Gulf, Miss Carrie’s eyes was just a-shine with worship, and mine, too: I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

When I went outside the fire light, Mister Watson followed me, we was standing shoulder to shoulder back of a bush. In a whisper he warned that his Carrie weren’t but only ten years of age and here I thought she must be going on fourteen which is mostly when girls marry in the Islands. I like to perished out of my embarrassment and slipped my pecker back into my pants as quick as possible. The coony questions I’d been asking about his daughter were maybe not as coony as I thought.

Sailing down the coast next day in a fair breeze and the spray flying, Mister Watson’s family all got seasick, and I had to hold Miss Carrie by the belt to keep her from going overboard. Miss Carrie got slapped hard and soaked by a wave that washed up along the hull, but that girl was delighted, she was laughing and her face just sparkled. That was when my heart went out to Carrie Watson and I ain’t so sure I ever got it back.

I rigged ’em bait lines. Eddie was eight and Lucius six and them little green-faced brothers had some spunk. They was all puked out but trolled like their lives depended on it, and their sister, too. We was flapping big silver kingfish and Spanish mackerel onto the deck until their red-burnt arms wore out, they couldn’t pull no more. Mrs. Watson called ’em forward to see the dolphins play under the bow. I stared, too, wherever that lady pointed. For the first time in my life, I really looked at my own home coast, the green walls broken here and there by a white strip of beach. Back of that beach rose a forest of royal palms and back of them palms the towers of white clouds over the Glades.

Rob was watching very careful how I done my job. I hardly noticed him, I was so busy showing off for that dark-eyed girl. That day at sea was the happiest I ever knew and I never forgot it.

All the way south, Mister Watson told his plans for developing the Islands. Watching him pound his fist and wave his arms, Mrs. Watson said, “He’s still waving his arms in that boyish way.” She kept her voice low but he heard her all the same. “No, Mandy,” he said, “I only wave my arms when I am happy.” He spoke real tender, reaching over from the helm to touch her. She smiled a little but she looked worried and wishful.

Mister Watson warned Netta before we left that she better be packed up ready to go by the time we got back. Said already gone would be okay, too.

She had not left. She had not swept up nor even done the dishes. She stood in the front door of the house with her ginger-haired baby, waving Little Min’s fat arm at the visitors. Seeing Mister Watson’s face, she begun to dither, said her brother Jim never come. He knew she was lying. She had stuck around out of her spite, knowing he would not harm her in front of company.

Mister Watson went up close, put his hand on her collarbone near her neck. We couldn’t see his face but hers went white. Then he lifted his hand, turned around, and introduced her as the housekeeper, but his family was staring at Min’s hair, which in the sun showed the dark rust color of his own.