Florida Son Read online

  It was a big cemetery. We drove for at least three minutes before we finally reached the urn garden. I found a parking spot.

  Julie led me down a slope and through a grove of banyan trees and along a curved walkway. Grave markers dotted the green grass.

  She stopped at one of the markers. She sat on her heels in front of it. She put her hand on it. Her eyes squeezed shut and her chin tilted toward heaven and her lips moved in prayer.

  I huddled inside my windbreaker, bit my lip, looked away.

  It hurt just to watch. Her pain must have been unbearable. She had laid her son to rest years before. She had known she would never see him again. Never hold him again. She had known it. Had accepted it.

  Until the video had given her hope.

  Now she was torn between hope and despair. Now she wondered whether her son was dead or alive.

  In the distance I saw a bicycle leaning against a huge banyan tree at the top of a steep hill. It was a mountain bike with fat tires and upright handlebars. I hadn’t noticed it before. But now it was there. As if it had materialized out of thin air.

  A tap on my shoulder diverted my attention.

  “I’m done,” Julie said. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Whenever you are.”

  We started toward my motorcycle.

  Something made me stop.

  Something made me look over my shoulder.

  I saw a man staring toward us. Maybe at us. I couldn’t tell.

  He stood near the mountain bike at the top of the hill. He was a silhouette against the setting sun. His face was shadowed but something about his figure was familiar.

  He stood as still as a statue.

  Seconds drifted by.

  His glasses glinted in the sun.

  We were in an isolated part of the cemetery. Nobody else was around. Just the three of us.

  Normally I would have ignored the guy. I would have paid no attention to him whatsoever. But things weren’t normal.

  I waved to him.

  No reaction.

  His glasses glinted again.

  “Julie, stay here a minute.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To check something out.”

  I began to walk toward him.

  He remained frozen.

  “Hello?” I shouted.

  Silence.

  Thoughts raced through my mind as I made my way up the steep hill: Who the hell was this guy? Was he the one causing all the trouble? Was he somebody we knew? Had he followed us to the cemetery? Was he going to follow us home too?

  Okay, Rip, no need to get paranoid.

  The guy was probably just visiting the grave of a loved one.

  Then why the hell was he staring like a zombie?

  I thought about the boy I had chased through the mall. He had turned out to be the wrong boy. My assumption had been wrong.

  Maybe I was making another faulty assumption. Maybe the guy on the hill wasn’t somebody I should chase. Maybe I was just a big bully who liked to chase people.

  I thought about it: Do I like to chase people? I do. But only when they are bad guys. It is the reason why I joined the U.S. Marshals Service.

  Does that make me a big bully? Only to the bad guys.

  I took another look at the guy on the hill. Was he going to run from me? I hoped not. I didn’t want to chase him down. Not through a cemetery. And I didn’t want to catch the wrong person again.

  Lawn mowers buzzed somewhere nearby. Wind rustled through trees. Mockingbirds mocked. Bugs shrilled.

  Halfway up the hill I turned and glanced back at Julie. She waved. I waved back.

  When my eyes returned to the top of the hill the guy was gone. And so was the bike.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement. Quick movement.

  I turned my head and saw him on the bike. He was riding downhill. He was riding fast.

  He was gone.

  CHAPTER 30

  JUNIOR MESSY TRIED to bounce a basketball. I watched him. He couldn’t dribble worth a damn. I suspected he couldn’t shoot either. Or pass.

  If he were my kid, he would know how to do all three. I would teach him how. I would take the time.

  But he wasn’t my kid.

  I have no kids.

  And I like it that way. I am happy. No complaints.

  Some people would call me selfish. Self-absorbed. Immature.

  Fine. I can live with that.

  Rip, the selfish jerk.

  I have been called worse. A lot worse. Often.

  Society isn’t completely happy with me. It tries to pressure me. It tries to bulldoze me. It wants me to want to have children.

  But whatever societal pressure I feel is nothing compared to what women who don’t want children must feel. Some of them have shared their feelings with me. They said they are often viewed as traitors to their sex. And they always hear the same question: What is wrong with you?

  Maybe these women want to live their lives unburdened by confused schedules and drab routines and endless carpools and frantic frenzies and hissy fits. Maybe they want to live free of projectile vomiting and sleepless nights and spilled milk and sticky fingers and underwear skid marks.

  Maybe they want to spend their lives in a different way. Maybe they want to follow their hearts, pursue their dreams, reach for the stars.

  Or maybe . . . they just don’t want children.

  There are a lot of people like that. Including me.

  Will I have regrets later in life? Will I worry that nobody will give a damn when I die? Will I wish I had made better choices?

  Maybe.

  Or maybe not.

  There is no way to predict.

  In the meantime I will live my life in pursuit of the pleasure principle. I will enjoy the ride.

  That is my choice. And I will have to live with it.

  I watched Junior Messy some more. He was no Harlem Globetrotter. His dribbling skills were terrible. His big feet kept getting tangled and the ball kept getting away from him.

  But he did have one skill: He knew how to dribble loudly.

  The noise bothered Mr. and Mrs. Neat. I saw them peering out from behind the freshly ironed curtains of their sparkling Keystone travel trailer. Mr. Neat’s bulldog face snarled and began to turn red. I half expected him to gnaw the curtains to shreds.

  The loud ball went up and down, up and down, up and down.

  Bounce bounce bounce.

  Junior was oblivious to the noise he was making. So were his parents. They were seated nearby. Mr. Messy sat clipping his toenails. He squinted as he did it. Mrs. Messy picked at her teeth and nursed a beer.

  Bounce bounce bounce.

  The Neats watched from their window. Mr. Neat shook his enormous fists. Tendons in his neck tightened like steel suspension cables. His jowls trembled with rage. He sprayed spittle as he fumed with fury. His blood pressure must have been through the roof. Mrs. Neat tried to calm him down. She reached out and patted his hand.

  Then it happened: The ball hit their RV.

  It hit with some force. It made a loud sound. It might have done some damage. Not much. A dent maybe.

  Mr. and Mrs. Messy never even looked up from what they were doing. They remained lost in the world of personal grooming.

  Their son seemed to realize what had happened. He could see the angry faces in the window. He could hear the profanity spewing from those faces. He could sense the coming trouble.

  He stood frozen. Unable to move.

  Everything got quiet.

  No balls bounced. No bugs chirped.

  The angry faces were gone from the window.

  I set down my coffee and stood up from the picnic table. Something was about to happen. I didn’t want it to get out of control. I would step in if necessary. But only if it escalated into a physical confrontation.

  The basketball lay on the pavement. It was no more than three feet from the Neat’s RV. It lay there as if it were a projectile shot from a cannon.
A projectile that would begin a war.

  Mr. Messy clipped his nails. Mrs. Messy picked her teeth. Junior stood like a deer in headlights.

  I kept my eyes on the door to the Neat’s RV.

  I didn’t have to wait long.

  The door swung open. Mr. Neat burst out. His wife followed.

  The door banged shut.

  Mr. and Mrs. Messy looked up from their grooming.

  Junior looked as if he were about to wet his pants.

  I stood ready.

  Mr. and Mrs. Neat moved like lightning. She went to check on the damage to their RV while her husband stalked over to Junior.

  “You little shitbird!” he shouted. “Why can’t you stay the hell away from our property? What’s the matter with you? You stupid? Huh? You some kind of moron? You have to bounce the ball right here? You can’t do it somewhere else? This look like a basketball court to you? You better hope you didn’t damage our trailer, you little shitbird.”

  Junior swallowed.

  His parents shot out of their lawn chairs and rushed over to their son’s side. The shouting began immediately.

  “You don’t talk to my son that way!” Mrs. Messy yelled, jabbing her finger toward Mr. Neat. “You don’t talk to him at all. You understand? My husband will kick your ass. He will kick it up and down the street.”

  I wondered if I was going to have to step in. I moved a bit closer.

  Mr. Neat looked quietly amused as he eyed Mrs. Messy.

  “Kick my ass?” he said. “You think Magnum PI here’s gonna kick my ass?”

  Not likely. Mr. Neat was a big man. Massive chest. Wide body. Broad shoulders. Bulging muscles. He was quick too. Especially for his size.

  He folded his arms, grinned down at Mr. Messy, stared at him.

  A hard stare.

  Mr. Messy blinked.

  “Look,” he said, “we don’t want trouble with you.”

  “Who would?”

  “Exactly. This has already gotten out of hand. No need to make matters worse. Why don’t we just leave each other alone.”

  “Or else what?”

  “What?”

  “What if I don’t wanna leave you alone? What’ll you do? You gonna huff and puff and blow me down?”

  “He will kick your ass,” Mrs. Messy said. “That’s what he’ll do. Isn’t that right, honey?”

  A bead of sweat glistened on Mr. Messy’s forehead. He looked uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. He glanced at his wife and he glanced at his son. Both stared at him expectantly.

  The pressure was on. It was his move.

  He cleared his throat again.

  He had just opened his mouth to speak when Mrs. Neat walked over. She handed the basketball to Junior. Then she frowned up at her husband.

  “Bad news, dear. The ball dented our trailer.”

  Mr. Neat made a face. He shook his head slightly. Big fists clenched. Thick knuckles turned white.

  From where I stood I couldn’t see any damage to the RV. It couldn’t have been much. Nothing to get worked up about.

  After a long moment Mr. Neat leaned forward and whispered something into Mr. Messy’s ear. I couldn’t hear what he said and I couldn’t read his lips. But I could hear Mr. Messy’s response.

  “Is that a threat?” he said.

  “That’s a promise.”

  “You can’t threaten us like that.”

  “I just did. You gonna do somethin bout it?”

  “Bet your ass.”

  That stopped Mr. Neat. But only for a moment.

  “You gonna fight me?” he said. “That what you gonna do?”

  He brought up his fists, kept them near his face. His elbows were in. His feet were planted. He was ready to do some damage.

  It was my cue. It was time for me to step in and stop it. Before somebody got hurt. Before Mr. Messy got stomped.

  But before I could react Mr. Messy spoke up.

  “I’m not going to fight you. I’m going to call the cops.”

  And he did.

  CHAPTER 31

  THE PATROL CAR rolled to a stop. Two cops got out. They looked around as if they were getting their bearings. Then they began to walk toward the ratty-looking Montana fifth-wheel trailer. They had almost reached it when Mr. and Mrs. Messy flew out the door.

  “Officers,” Mr. Messy said. “Boy are we glad to see you.”

  Complainants are always glad to see the cops arrive.

  “Sir, tell us what happened.”

  “See that trailer over there? The Keystone travel trailer? The man in there threatened us. Threatened me and my whole family. He said he would kill us. He meant it too. You should have seen the look in his eyes. His eyes looked like rattlesnake eyes. Dark and beady and evil. He put up his fists and he was ready to fight. It happened right over there. Boy are we glad to see you.”

  “You do something to anger him?”

  “It was just a small incident.”

  “What happened?”

  “My son was out here bouncing a ball. It accidentally hit their trailer. But it didn’t cause any damage to it. Look at it. You can’t see any damage. Can you?”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Then they come flying out of their trailer as if the ends of their hair were on fire. He goes up to my son and yells at him. Scares him half to death. Calls him names. He called my son a shitbird.”

  “Your son around here now?”

  “In our trailer. He pissed his pants. He’s putting on a new pair right now. Are you going to want to talk to him?”

  “Is he injured in any way?”

  “Not from anything that happened today.”

  “So he has prior injuries?”

  Mrs. Messy spoke up.

  “Look, officers. Aren’t you going to go arrest that man? He threatened us. He threatened our lives. He needs to be put in jail.”

  “Ma’am, please calm down.”

  “Calm down?”

  “Here’s what happened,” Mr. Messy said. “Our son recently got bit by their dog. We asked them to pay the medical bills. They refused. So we’re taking them to court. And they’re not too happy about it. I think they just flew off the handle today when the ball hit their trailer. To tell you the truth, officers, they seem like uptight people. Anal-retentive. Orderly. Fussy. You know the type.”

  “Calm down?” Mrs. Messy said again, fists on her hips, head tilted. “Did you really tell me to calm down, officer?”

  One of the cops came over to talk to me. She asked if I had heard the threat. I told her no. Then I gave her a detailed account of what I had witnessed. She thanked me and left to rejoin her partner.

  Mrs. Messy was mad as a hornet. Her arms flailed as she ranted.

  The cops allowed her to mouth off in their presence. They were obviously experienced cops. They knew how to get information. They knew that in moments of anger people often reveal information they would otherwise withhold. Both cops stood listening patiently until Mrs. Messy had quieted down.

  “Ma’am, we understand your concerns.”

  “So you’re going to arrest that man for threatening us?”

  “Ma’am, it’s your word against his. Nobody else heard him threaten you. Nobody outside your family.”

  “So you’re not going to do anything about it? Nothing at all?”

  “We can only do so much. We need proof a law was broken. Otherwise there’s nothing we can do.”

  “Can you patrol the area? Can you at least do that?”

  “Our department’s seriously undermanned. We wish we could do it all. But we can’t. We have to make priorities.”

  “So what are we supposed to do? Fend for ourselves?”

  “Ma’am, we don’t want you to think we’re not cooperating with you. Because we are. We’re doing everything the law allows us to do.”

  “Which is nothing.”

  “Have a good day, ma’am.”

  CHAPTER 32

  “I’M FINALLY READY to confront my mother,”
Julie told me. “This old photo I found in her jewelry box makes me feel . . . I don’t know . . . I guess it makes me feel angry and betrayed and disgusted. All three emotions at the same time.”

  “Understandable,” I said.

  “I mean what kind of mother would do something like this? Was she living some secret life she kept hidden from our family? Did my father know about it? Did he accept it? What was Mom thinking?”

  “You can ask her.”

  “I plan to,” she said, and stared down at the photo. “What if she lies about it? How would I even know? She must be a good liar: She lied to me for years and I never even knew it. My own mother—the person I trusted most in the world. I don’t know how she could do that to me. It makes me wonder what else she lied about.”

  “How old’s that photo? Any idea?”

  “According to the date on the back it was taken six years ago.”

  “So it was taken one year before the hit-and-run accident.”

  “One year. Yes. It was sometime before Mom became disabled.”

  “Was your father still alive then?”

  “Let’s see . . . He died when Max was two and a half. And that was almost six years ago. So yes. Dad was still alive when this photo was taken.”

  I had hoped for a different answer. It would have made a difference. Maybe not a big one, but big enough.

  Julie swung her legs off the sofa and sat up.

  “Are you ready to go, Rip?”

  “Go where?”

  “To talk to my mother. I already told you I’m ready to confront her about this photo.”

  “And you want me to go with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  “For support.”

  “But it’s a personal matter between you and your mother.”

  “So?”

  “It’d be awkward.”

  “For you?”

  I nodded.

  She grabbed my hand and pulled me up from the sofa.

  “I guess I don’t get a vote?”

  “You don’t get a vote. Let’s go.”

  We stepped out of the icy air-conditioned comfort of my RV and into the sweltering heat of Florida. A dozen steps later we were in Julie’s mildly cool RV. But things were about to heat up.