Peter Matthiessen - Shadow Country

Because of the favorable reception of his History, Lucius had been offered a small advance on the Watson biography by the university press. At the last minute, however, the press had stipulated the use of a pen name for the biography lest the author appear less than objective. Refusing to hide behind a pseudonym, Lucius threatened to withdraw the book, whereupon Attorney Dyer fired off a furious letter, reminding him of his responsibilities: without the enhancement of E. J. Watson’s reputation in “our book”. said Dyer, there was little hope that the Chatham land claim would survive on its merits in court.

The person who persuaded Lucius to cooperate was Sarah Harden, who came by one day to inspect his “houseboat,” walking all the way from the county road. The twin braids of long cornsilk hair were gone and the worn overalls but she looked wonderful in a red blouse and gray skirt. Told of his dilemma, Sarah reminded him of how important it had always been to mend his father’s reputation: a pen name was certainly preferable to wasting so much work. Having fun, they devised a composite “family” name, “L. Watson Collins.” Smiling happily, delighted to see him again, she celebrated his new name with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Before he could ask after Owen, Sarah told him what he’d already suspected, that she’d left her husband. Despite all her warnings, threats, and pleas, he had given up fishing to work with Crockett Daniels. “Rum-running, moonshine, poaching gators, any ol’ darn thing to make a buck! And hemp-you ever smoked a reefer? Anywhere there’s smuggling involved, you’ll find Speck Daniels, and he never gets caught. Owen says he pays off Sheriff Tippins.

“Owen couldn’t feed us-no fish, no work, no money. He’s too proud to live like that. Owen is a good kind man who works with redneck criminals. He’s not one of them and if it comes to trouble, it’s Owen who’ll wind up in the state pen. He kind of knows that but he’s stuck in his old code, some old Island way of thinking. Except for the money, he has no use for those men, and no respect, because they’re dead ignorant and lazy. Too bad you don’t know that well enough to quit, I said, cause you don’t respect Owen Harden, neither, or you wouldn’t work with ’em. And he thought a minute and then he said that he reckoned he respected himself well enough, it was his wife who disrespected him. That wasn’t true-he only said that because he got jealous of you at Lost Man’s-but I thought it might be good for him to think that way, at least for a while, so I shut up. Then Speck branched out into running guns south to the Spanish countries, and Owen started to feel guilty, but even then, he didn’t give it up, just went to drinking-well, that finished it. I didn’t aim to live with a damned drunk who made his money peddling deadly weapons. I warned him I would leave and I finally did.”

When Lucius said he was truly sorry and hoped things would work out, she only shrugged. “I’m sorry, too, I reckon. I sure tried.” Though she said nothing more, she raised her eyes and returned his gaze for one dangerous second too long. Both nodded then, smiling a little as they cast their eyes down. Not sure what all this meant-or if it meant anything at all-he was careful not to touch her. As Nell had said, Lucius Watson knew little about women’s ways, and since he tended to agree, he was afraid that if he took this high-strung Sarah in his arms at the wrong moment, she might fly to pieces.

She stood up, straightened her dress, brushed off her bottom. He said, “Miss? May I help with that?” and laughed out of jangled joy and nerves. “Not today, thank you,” she answered flatly, without the flirtatious inflection he’d expected. Love-besmirched, he dusted off his own inconsequential ass before taking her home to her cousin’s house in Naples.

Weeks later, having thought about little else, he went to find her. Forgetting what he’d come to say-and knowing how feeble this must sound-he cried, “How are you?” She led him into the front room and sat down beside him on the thin settee before answering sadly, “I don’t think I know.”

To comfort her, he took her hand and she took his in both her own and settled the three hands in her lap. Her impulse seemed innocent enough, yet feeling her warm lap through the light cotton-God have mercy! His hand was a mere inch from what his father, in affectionate reference to Josie Jenkins, had once referred to as “milady’s honeypot.” His fevered brain must have sent these rude vibrations, for Sarah abruptly tossed his hand into the air as if freeing a wild bird. She lifted her arms to pin her hair, releasing a light captivating scent of perspiration. Edgy, she said, “Let’s go somewhere.” They had not mentioned Owen.

In a booth at Rusty’s, his spilled-beer-and-sawdust roadhouse on the Marco road, Lucius repeated his staid hope that his old friends might find their way back together. Sarah looked away when she raised her glass to acknowledge his kind wishes. Unspoken was the shameful knowing on both sides that he coveted that old friend’s wife, and that she, too, was confused by mixed emotions, confessing now that she and Owen were negotiating her return; he understood that she was not yet ready for another man. Saddened but perhaps also relieved, they consoled themselves with Sarah’s flask and the unhappy rewards of love virtuously relinquished.

“Here’s something you white-boy historians don’t generally put in books,” she teased him, wisely detouring their thoughts onto a safer path. “Learned this from Owen, whose grandma was descended. Chief Osceola was a breed named Billy Powell ashamed of his own blood, only he was ashamed of the white blood, not the other-not like some! Most of his warriors were black Seminoles, what they called maroons, and later on, he took black wives along with a few red ones, had offsprings on every doggone one, which accounts for the mixed-up bunch that’s running around south Florida today. Some of our so-called Injuns got a nap so thick you couldn’t put a bullet through it!” Her hoarse smoker’s laugh had a deep rue in it, and he laughed with her, she delighted him. Her barefoot toes, seeking his foot under the table, shot small honeyed arrows into his groin.

“It’s mighty fine to see ol’ Lucius laugh this way!” Sarah cried happily. But pointing out laughter put it to death, and she looked cross. “Course folks weren’t too particular in frontier days. Some of my kin at Chokoloskee who are so mean about nigras better not go poking around too much in their own woodpiles. Might be some red boys in there at the very least.” Her bare foot kicked his calf under the table. “Don’t laugh. I know what I’m talking about. Better’n you.”

In the car again, she smoked one of her “funny smokes.” When she proffered a second, raising it to his lips-“Come with me!” she breathed, comically mysterious-he held on to her warm fingers and drew on his first reefer. At her whispered instruction, he held the smoke a long time in his lungs, then swallowed on it, suffusing it all the way up to his temples. When he exhaled at last, the smoke seemed to drift out through his ears. His brain swam and his mouth slid toward a grin. “Reefer madness,” she laughed, her mouth so close to his that he longed to fall into it and close it after him.

Right beside him sat the lovely Sarah Harden of Lost Man’s River-how had this happened? Why was Sarah sitting so close to Lucius in his old Model T, smiling at him in this soft, beguiling way? He cleared his throat, determined to counsel Owen’s sweetheart against leaving a fine man: was she really so sure it was all over? Couldn’t they patch it up? However, no voice came.