She didn't. She dated occasionally, but not much. What she did was wait . . . and wait . . . and wait until just the right man came along. Four years ago, he finally did. His name was Roger Mueller. Roger worked for some state agency, and he was assigned to the northwest section of Ohio. Roger was good at his work. He also played bluegrass music—even made his own instruments—and had personal interests that were far-ranging. He liked to read. He liked to laugh. True, he was no screen idol. What he was was an average-looking but very kind and decent man. Janet fell madly in love with Roger; he fell madly in love with her.
"From the moment we met, it was like we were meant to be together," she told me. "Roger felt the same way. All those years, he'd been waiting for just the right person to come along too. Then, to finally find each other . . ."
They married. They bought a small farmhouse north of town, which they completely remodeled. Did all the work themselves after dinner, on weekends. Because they both wanted to start a family, part of the remodeling included a nursery just off the master bedroom. The first year it didn't happen, but the second year it did. Janet was pregnant. "Up to that point, I'd had a good life," she said. "Pretty well-adjusted and happy. Then to find Roger and get pregnant, too. . . . I'd never imagined that kind of happiness."
And that's when the big hammer fell.
Roger was driving home late after work one snowy night. On the same road, coming from the opposite direction, was a woman who had no license because of her long history of alcohol abuse.
All that Janet could remember from that night, and the week that followed, was a highway patrolman coming to the door . . . then a nurse crying with her, at her bedside, because of the miscarriage.
Janet tried to resume her teaching duties, but couldn't function in the classroom. She took sick leave, but couldn't function at home. Finally, she ended up in a hospital, then a mental health facility.
"Learning how to deal with the panic attacks," she said, "was the thing that finally convinced me I wasn't completely crazy. When I'd feel one coming I'd keep reminding myself what the doctors told me: The attacks were unpleasant as hell, but they were harmless. All that fear was being manufactured by my own brain. I didn't have to control it. All I had to do was learn to wait it out, and it would leave. That's when the attacks began to go away, and I began to get better."
We were walking north now, quartering into wind. Janet had cried herself dry. Her voice was weary, but solid; it had an even timbre that I liked. The woman was a survivor. She would be okay.
"I came to Florida because they suggested I have a complete change of scenery," she said. "They said I was well enough for it. I'd had enough solid weeks in a row. Buying the houseboat ... I don't know—living on a boat was something I'd wanted to do since I was a girl. I had the money from the insurance, so . . ." She shrugged. "It still isn't easy. I feel myself getting scared sometimes, all the old fears coming back. But I've learned to ignore it, and it doesn't last. I'm glad I ended up in Dinkin's Bay. The people there are . . . such a funny little group." She chuckled. "I think the other night— at Perbcot?—was the first time I'd really laughed in a long, long time. But the best thing . . . the best I've felt since it all happened, was taking notes on your tarpon today. It was all so . . . focused, watching those tarpon ... so analytical that I didn't have time to feel any emotion. You know? Those tarpon, the way they behave. Every movement is so strong and sure. Perfectly alive, no regrets, no fears. Right there in the tank, living and so damn . . . pure.
We had been walking side by side. Now she laced her arm through mine. "What happened to Roger and our . . . our family . . . was a terrible, senseless, tragic thing. I know that, yet there's nothing in the world I can do to change it. But Roger was no quitter, and neither am I."
I said, "I think you're going to be fine, Janet."
"Maybe. No, I will be okay. I don't let myself think about the future. I take it one day at a time. I wake up in the morning and try to think good thoughts. Do the same when I go to bed at night. I miss him. I miss them both. It will be a long, long time before I'll be able to get involved with anyone else emotionally or physically." She looked up at me and added quickly, "That's not bitterness, Doc. It's what I know is best for me. I'm going to live a constructive life. As soon as I can, I'll go back to work. I miss my kids. For now, though"—she put a fist to her mouth and stifled a yawn—"what I need now is a lot of time. And probably the same thing you need after listening to all my blubbering—some sleep."
We walked on in silence. For some reason, I started thinking of this looney old uncle of mine, Tucker Gatrell, who lives down in the Everglades. Tuck had an old gator-poaching and drinking partner by the name of Joseph Egret. It was Joseph who once told me that life was scary enough to make a sled dog shiver. How an Everglades Indian knew anything about sled dogs is impossible to say. But Joseph was right. I couldn't relate to Janet's account of psychological problems—Tomlinson often claims that emotion is the only quality I lack as a human being. However, I could relate to her sense of loss, and I was impressed by her determination. The good ones do not always die young; neither do they ever, ever quit. They keep finding ways to create and construct, struggling all the while to endure, because we are, above all else, a species of builders—though it seems that more and more aberrant destroyers live among us.
Janet was one of the good ones. The good ones always find a way.
When we got to the truck, I leaned down and kissed her on the top of the head. Told her, "Just don't be late for work in the morning."
Chapter 12
It was a little after eight p.m. when Hannah Smith arrived to get Tomlinson's gear. I was in the lab, futzing around with a box of old slide plates that I had collected over the years. Some people keep scrapbooks; I acquire slides. One of my favorites is of a newly hatched tarpon that is still in the eellike leptocephalus stage. Beneath the lowest power of my Wolfe stereomicro-scope, the tarpon resembled a thread of translucent ribbon that was attached to a set of dragon jaws spiked with needlelike teeth.
If tarpon continued to grow in that form, if they did not metamorphose into an entirely different animal, no human being would have the courage to go near the water.
I had the goose-necked lamp on, clamped to the stainless steel lab table. In the next room, I had a new selection of Gregorian chants on the stereo. As I tinkered with the slides, I also |J deliberated over my decision to provide Ron Jackson with whatever information I could gather. I had agreed to help him, of course. I am not the Rotarian type; one who attends meetings, then volunteers for good causes. Nor am I a political animal. My previous work left me cold on politics. But I do believe that if you live in a community, you are obligated to contribute what you can. Jackson's offer was an opportunity to play a small part. Maybe I could help, maybe I couldn't, but I would try.
I had already spoken with Felix and Jeth about their armed patrols. They were tired of doing it anyway, they said, and agreed that it was a bad idea. They said they would try to talk some sense into Nels, and the other guides around the island.
Other than that, I had provided Jackson with the first names of the two troublemakers I knew about: Julie and J.D., whereabouts unknown. Gave him the name of a Sulphur Wells man that I remembered Hannah mentioning in association with boat thefts: Kemper Waits. Also told him about the sportfishermen in the big-wheeled truck who, presumably, had tried to vandalize my aquarium.