Flush - Carl Hiaasen [8]
“After the trial,” he replied.
The plan was to use his big day in court to expose Dusty Muleman’s illegal polluting.
“But Mom says you can bail out and come home and still have your trial later,” I said.
“No, I need to stay here and show I’m totally committed to the cause. You know how many jails around this world are full of people who spoke up for what they believed in and lost their freedom? Lost everything they had? Look at Nelson Mandela,” my father said. “He spent twenty-seven years in a South African prison. Twenty-seven years, Noah! A couple of weeks won’t hurt me.”
“But Mom misses you,” I said.
That seemed to catch him off guard and take the steam out of his big speech. Dad looked away.
“It’s a sacrifice, I know,” he said. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this.”
I didn’t say anything about Mom and the plaid suitcase because she’d put it away. That morning I’d peeked in their bedroom closet—her clothes were still hanging there. So were Dad’s.
When I stood up to leave, my father perked up slightly. He said, “Oh, I almost forgot. A reporter from the Island Examiner might drop by the house. It’s all right for you to speak with him.”
“About what?” I asked.
“My situation.”
“Oh. Sure, Dad.”
His “situation”? I thought. Sometimes it’s like my father lives on his own weird little planet.
In July the days get long and stream together. I try not to look at the calendar because I don’t want to think about time passing. August comes way too soon, and that’s when school starts in Florida.
Summer mornings are mostly sunny and still, though by midafternoon huge boiling thunderheads start to build over the Everglades, and the weather can get interesting in a hurry. I’ve always liked watching the sky drop down like a foamy purple curtain when a summer storm rumbles across Florida Bay. If you’re on the ocean side of the islands, it can sneak up on you from behind, which happens a lot to tourists.
That’s where we were going, to Thunder Beach, when a squall rolled through after lunch. Thom, Rado, and I hunkered in the mangroves and held our skateboards over our heads, to keep the raindrops out of our eyes. It took like half an hour for the leading edge of the storm to pass. Then the wind dropped out, and the only sound was a soft sleepy drizzle.
We crawled from the tree line and brushed the leaves off our arms. Not surprisingly, the lightning had spooked everyone away from the park except us.
Before heading to the water, we scanned the shoreline for pollution warnings. Whenever the biologists from the health department find too much bacteria, they post DANGER! signs up and down Thunder Beach—no swimming, no fishing, no anything. Only a certified moron would dive in when the beach was posted.
I was glad to see that the water was okay, especially when a big loggerhead turtle bobbed up to the surface. The three of us stayed real quiet because we thought the turtle might be coming ashore to lay her eggs, although usually they waited until dark. Loggerheads have lousy eyesight, so we were pretty sure she didn’t notice us sitting there, but she didn’t swim any closer.
We wouldn’t have bothered her if she’d decided to crawl up and dig a nest. Most of the Keys are made of hard coral rock, and there aren’t many soft beaches like you find up the coast at Pompano or Vero. The momma turtles down here don’t have lots of options, so we leave them alone. It’s the law, too.
After the loggerhead swam off, we jumped in and goofed around until Thom cut his ankle on a broken beer bottle that was buried in the sand. Rado and I helped him hop back to shore, where we tied his Dolphins jersey around his foot to keep the cut from getting dirty. Rado took him home while I skated alone down the old road, back toward Lice Peeking’s place.
Nobody answered the door, and I was already down the steps when Shelly appeared from behind the trailer and nearly scared the you-know-what out of me. She was barefoot and carried a long rusty shovel.
“What’d you want now?” she asked. She wore cutoff jeans and a sleeveless top that showed off her