Chapter Three
The truck bucks and shakes Vincent out of a fitful sleep. He stretches and rubs a kink from his neck. The humidity envelops him like a wet blanket making the air hard to inhale. The sun casts an eerie green glow over the swamps and a thin veil of mist hovers just above the brown, murky waters teaming with herons searching for fish, frogs croaking, turtles paddling about and gators lying on the banks in anticipation of the sun’s warming rays. In the distance, Vincent can make out the gleaming tin roof of the local trading post where they will board a skiff and make the half-day journey by water to Watson’s Island.
The truck stops in front of the Smallwood Store, where a group of trappers have gathered, anxiously awaiting the opening of the post so they can trade their fur pelts for goods. John opens the truck door and instructs Vincent to join him. John approaches the trappers and stops in front of a tall, thin man he introduces as “String Bean.” His unruly beard is sprinkled with tobacco spittle. He smiles down at John and slaps him on the shoulder, “Good to see you John, it’s been a coon’s age since you showed up in these parts.”
John chuckles and says, “I have been away for a while, true enough, but I had business to tend to and needed to recruit some more hands.”
John motions in Vincent’s direction. “This here is one of the new hires. Why don’t you introduce yourself son?”
Vincent shoots a piercing stare toward John as he extends his hand, “Yeah, nice to meet you.” String Bean grabs Vincent’s hand with a bony claw and pumps his arm up and down.
“Nice to meet you, you got a name?”
“Yeah, they call me Buddy.”
“Nice to meet ya’ Buddy.”
John turns and asks String Bean to fill his new hand in on makin’ it in these parts while he speaks to Ted Smallwood who is about to take off on his mail run. Vincent looks at String Bean in anticipation. The more he knows the better he figures his chances of surviving in this God forsaken place. String Bean and Vincent walk toward a wooden picnic table shaded by the leaves of an ancient Live Oak. String Bean extracts a piece of animal bone from his pants pocket and withdraws a worn Bowie knife from a pouch secured around his waist with a frayed piece of hemp rope. He motions for Vincent to sit next to him as he begins whittling a watery landscape on the bony canvass.
In a slow, deliberate tone, String Bean points his knife toward the expanse that lies beyond the water’s edge and says, “White men began comin’ to the 10,000 Islands I reckin’ a hundred years ago. Men couldn’t resist the plume, hide, and furs in these parts and soon those men would bring their families here where they try to carve out an existence for themselves.”
Vincent can’t imagine how difficult it must be to raise a family in such an inhospitable place. Sensing his thoughts, String Bean continues, “If it weren’t for the Smallwood’s coming here and building this trading post, a lot of folks would have called it quits. But Ted built this here trading post in 1906 and settlers and Indians finally had a place to sell their animal hides, fur and farm produce and buy the supplies needed to survive the Everglade’s harsh conditions.”
Vincent begins to question the wisdom of his decision to seek refuge in this place, but feels he has no choice and drops his head in resignation. String Bean turns and spits a wad of brown juice onto the ground. He haphazardly wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the brown, gooey spittle half way up his wrist before wiping his arm on his filthy, flour bag pants. A buzzing fills Vincent’s ears as a swarm of mosquitoes the size of dragonflies swarm around his head. He swats at them when String Bean grabs his hand and says, “That’ll only make it worse. Use this.”
String Bean hands him a brown bottle with a skull and cross bones plastered on the front. Vincent unscrews the cap and sniffs, yanking his head backward as the smell smacks him in the face.
“What the hell is that?” Vincent asks as he holds the foul-smelling liquid as far away from his nose as possible.
“That there is my secret recipe for keepin’ them pesky skeeters at bay.”
“Damn, I’m thinkin’ it will keep more than skeeters away.”
“You get used to the smell after a while.”
Vincent can’t imagine ever getting use to the horrific odor. “What’s in it anyway?”
String Bean continues to stare at his whittled bone as he recites the ingredients, “It’s got a little Kerosene, Neem bark, basil, lemon balm, some mint and that’s about it.”
Vincent can no longer defend himself against the onslaught of attacking mosquitoes and decides to dab the noxious elixir behind each ear. The mosquitoes immediately sound the retreat. John emerges from the trading post and marches over to Vincent and String Bean. As he approaches, his nose crinkles as he picks up a whiff of the homemade mosquito repellent.
“Smells like this old timer gave you some magic mosquito repellent. Shit stinks to high heaven, but it works; no denying it. Come on boy, we’re burnin’ daylight and need to get to the island ‘fore nightfall. This ain’t no place to be at night or at low tide.”
String Bean chimes in, “Low tide, yeah, best not be in Oyster Bay at low tide less you want to gouge a hole in the side of your boat on those ragged oyster shells.”
String Bean eyes the two men as Vincent follows John as he heads toward a flat bottom skiff tied to the Smallwood dock. Vincent spots a payphone mounted outside the backdoor of the trading post. He glances at John who says, “Go ahead, make your call, but be quick about it.”
Vincent isn’t sure who he should call, so he decides its best to call his sister Lucretia. He shoves a dime in the slot and waits for the operator to place the call.
Lucretia answers on the second ring, “Hello?”
“Sis, is that you?”
“Oh my God, Vincent?”
“Yeah, speak up I am havin’ a hard time hearing you.”
“Where the hell are you? I have been worried sick about you!”
“Look, I don’t have much time. I got mixed up in some trouble when I was in Chicago and had to leave town. I met up with a fellow looking for a farmhand to work on a sugar cane plantation in the Everglades.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Vincent”
Vincent sees John approaching. He quickly turns and whispers, “Sis, don’t worry about me, I just called to check in is all just wanted to let you know where I was headed.”
Just as his sister starts asking a question, static crackles across the line and the call is disconnected. Vincent replaces the phone’s handset in the cradle and follows his new boss down the dock toward the small wooden skiff.
As the skiff drifts away, the man known as String Bean picks up the phone, inserts a coin and says, “Operator, can you connect me to the last number called? We were disconnected.”