Flush - Carl Hiaasen [30]
“Meaning …”
“Aw, don’t tell me.” Abbey slapped a hand to her forehead.
“That’s right,” my mother said. “Paine, you didn’t need to escape. They were getting ready to evict you.”
Dad slumped in his chair. I looked over at him and gave a sympathetic shrug. “Bad timing,” I said.
“But are they allowed to do that?” he asked miserably. “Can they kick a person out of jail, even if he refuses to put up bail? I don’t think so.”
Mom said, “In this county they can. Trust me.”
For several moments we all stared at our cold eggs and pancakes and thought about the absurdity of the situation. Eventually my father said, “Oh well. It all turned out the same anyhow. No harm done.”
“Wrong,” Mom said crossly. “The judge hadn’t signed your release papers yet, so technically you did commit a jail break. That’s a felony, Paine—worse than sinking Dusty’s casino boat! This time they could send you to a real prison.”
Dad folded his arms thoughtfully. “So I am a fugitive after all.”
“Congratulations,” Abbey muttered.
My mother was thoroughly exasperated. “No harm done? Are you kidding me?” she said to my father.
“Donna, all I meant was—”
He was spared by a knock on the door—the TV-dish repairman, waiting to be paid. Mom wrote him a check and returned briskly to the table.
“Paine, here’s what we’re going to do now,” she said, plucking the phone off its cradle. “We’re going to call Mr. Shine and tell him to arrange for you to turn yourself in. Then, if the sheriff is in a generous and forgiving mood, he’ll go ahead and release you—legally, quietly, and without further embarrassment.”
The word “embarrassment” hung in the air like a foul smell. Still, Dad didn’t seem to comprehend how much trouble he was in with Mom.
He said, “Honey, I’m not sure I can turn myself in to these people. There are principles at stake, basic human rights.”
My mother turned to me and Abbey. “Could I speak to your father alone, please?”
Outside, a car door slammed. Dad stiffened up.
My mother put down the phone. “Noah, see who that is.”
Abbey was already at the window. “It’s a cop,” she reported anxiously.
“No!” my father blurted, and hightailed out the back door.
Mom was so calm that it was spooky. She picked up Dad’s plate and placed it in the sink. When the deputy rang our doorbell, she told us to stay in the kitchen while she went to talk with him.
Abbey and I quickly cleared the rest of the table and started washing the dishes. We were so nervous that we worked like robots—she scrubbed, I dried and stacked.
The deputy didn’t stay long, which was a relief. I’d figured he would tear the house apart searching for Dad, but he never even stepped inside.
When Mom walked back into the kitchen, she smiled in a sad and tired-looking way. She was carrying some folded clothes, a toothbrush, and the paperback chess book that I’d brought to Dad in jail.
“The officer was simply returning your father’s belongings,” Mom said. “Apparently the sheriff is delighted that he escaped and has no intention of pursuing him—as long as he goes back and gets the paperwork straightened out.”
“You want me to look for him?” I asked.
“I’d appreciate that,” Mom said. “Abbey, could you run outside and water my orchids?”
My sister eyed her. “You’re trying to get rid of me. How come?”
“Because I need to speak with Noah privately.”
“The orchids died last January,” Abbey said with a smirk, “during the freeze. Remember?”
“Then go water the roses,” said my mother.
I found him at Thunder Beach. He was barefoot and hatless, sitting in the sunshine by the water.
“This is the place where you learned to swim,” he said.
I sat down in the sand beside him.
“Abbey, too,” he added. “Your mom and I used to bring you here almost every weekend. By the time you were three, you could dive to the bottom all by yourself and pick up a conch shell. You remember?”
“Not really, Dad. I was too little.”
“Know how this place got its name? A man was killed here in 1947 by a bolt of lightning. Bright clear day, not a cloud in the sky. All of