Fathom

Lake Wales, Florida

It’s as if you’ve asked me to build an ark. Only this . . . this is even stranger. It’s not that I don’t believe you, and obviously it’s not the money."

Edward shielded his eyes against the gleaming, glaring afternoon sun. Below the hill where he stood, the scorched gray-green tops of live oaks and winged elms stretched as far as he could see in every direction. Here and there, the view was pocked with low, swampy places and trailing streams of tepid water thick with algae.

"It’s just this place. And I should tell you, he continued, this is the highest point on the peninsula. Can you believe that? This little mound is as high as the landscape ever climbs away from the ocean."

He rubbed at the grass with the shiny black toe of his shoe, pushing past the topsoil and into the gritty red dirt just beneath it. But you say this isn’t clay? It looks like clay. Except . . . He jabbed at a clod and it disintegrated like sand. Except it’s awfully dry. And that color, it’s much redder than clay.

The broken clod looked like an injury, there on the ground.

It isn’t clay, his companion said. It’s iron.

Edward nodded. Iron, he echoed. Through and through. A small mountain made of it, and God knows why. But this is the place, you say?

This is the place. Build it here, as tall as the earth will stand it. Send it into the sky. Make it a sanctuary.

Edward tugged at his collar, wiping at the sweat he found underneath it. He gazed across the landscape and then back down at his feet. He did not look over his shoulder. It was one thing to hear that voice made of gravel and mulch; it was another thing to see the speaker, both oddly shaped and terribly misshapen.

Edward found it easier to listen than to look. And you’ll be here? You’ll stay here, I mean?

I’ll stay, and I’ll watch. I’ll wait in your sanctuary.

I like the sound of that, yes. A sanctuary. I’ll buy out the land as far as we can see from this point, and we’ll reshape it. I know a man who does great work with landscaping. Edward was warming to the idea, building momentum as he pushed it around in his head. We’ll make it into a proper garden. We’ll plant orchards. We’ll have birds, and butterflies, and how do you feel about swans? We should have at least a pair of them. There’s plenty of water to keep them happy, and we could import fish, too. Do you like fish?

For a long moment, there was no answer. It depends.

Edward was afraid that he’d asked an inappropriate question, but his escort did not offer a formal objection or complaint. Well, all of that—the fish, the swans—it’s all a ways off yet. This will take several years, if not longer.

A man with your resources should be able to speed things up considerably.

Money can accomplish only so much. You’re talking about tons upon tons of stone and metal. I’ll need to hire workers, arrange for the transport of materials, and contact my friend the landscaper—and that will only be the beginning. I’ll do my best, I assure you. But I’m only human, he said. "Perhaps there’s something that you could . . ."

I’ll assist you any way I can. But my abilities are better suited to breaking things down than building them up.

But there are others like you, aren’t there? Is there someone else who can help? Edward had always wanted to know, and here was a perfect window for asking.

His companion laughed, and it was a bitter, raspy sound. Yes and no. There are none who would answer any call of mine, if that’s what you want to know. The ones who remain despise me. I chose this exile because I was tired of their scorn. I was exhausted by their contempt, and I would rather bury myself in the Iron Mountain than endure it another day.

Edward Bok did not know how to respond. It had been several years since he’d first met his strange friend, and in that time he’d rarely heard anything so revealing or personal. He was acutely aware that he knew precious little about the creature that stood behind him.

But he was not a stupid man, and he’d inferred a thing or two. He’d gathered that the creature was alone, and that it was angry. He’d surmised that it was very old, and that it was suffering terribly as a result of some punishment. But the thing was selective about the questions it answered, and Edward had grown careful about what he asked.

Exile, Edward repeated, wondering how best to ask more.

They won’t come after me here, if that’s what’s bothering you.

Edward shook his head. No, I’m not worried. I trust you.

Why is that?

I beg your pardon? Edward wanted to turn around, but only shifted his head to peer over his shoulder.

Why would you trust me?

Do I have a choice?

Everyone has a choice. You have more at your fingertips than most people do.

Because of the money? Edward frowned. I do my best to share the wealth. I build libraries and fund schools. I—

Don’t defend your expenditures to me. I’m not your god, and not your accountant. I don’t care where or how you spend your funds, so long as we agree in this one great venture.

We agree, Edward said quickly. Of course we do. I gave you my word, didn’t I? I’ll build your tower, and I’ll cast your bells. I’ll make your sanctuary according to whatever directions you see fit to give me.

Don’t do it for me, you ridiculous man. Do it for yourself, and for your children and grandchildren. You have a grandchild now, yes?

I have two.

That’s twice the reason to build the tower, then. You’re building it for them, and for everyone else you love. You’re preparing to save the world, Bok. Don’t behave as if you’re doing me a favor.

Edward withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to swab his forehead. The air was dense with humidity, and the sun felt too close; it cooked the sweat on his face and seared pink burns into his skin. I didn’t intend it that way. I only wonder, sometimes, why you’re going to the trouble.

From behind him, there came the muffled crackling noise of rocks being tumbled in sand. And when he finally twisted on his heels to look, he saw no one and nothing there.

All right, he told himself. I’ll get started.

He began by purchasing fifty acres, including the Iron Mountain itself. He declared his intention to create a wildlife preserve; he arranged for the pipe-work and water system installation, and imported nourishing topsoil by the ton. The iron-rich sand and dirt could hold only so much life, and it had to be supplemented. The landscaper, Frederick Olmsted, would not even visit the site until that much had been prepared.

In 1924, once the groundwork had been established, Olmsted came down from Massachusetts with an army of gardeners, stocked with native and imported flora of every stripe. He believed deeply in conservation, and he applauded Bok’s plans.

Mr. Olmsted also wanted to save the world.

The landscape architect plotted the grounds, set down trails, and laid out the gardens. He arranged the oaks, pines, and geometrically styled orange groves. He planted date and sabal palms, papyrus, creeping fig, and hollies. Wafting up through the clattering ruckus of construction and digging came the sweet, light scent of jasmine and camellias.

So when the land had been cleared, and the pipes had all been laid, and the gardens were under way, Bok turned his attention to the sanctuary’s centerpiece: the Singing Tower. His friend Milton Medary designed it.

Medary drew his inspiration from the best of art deco and Gothic overindulgence. He looked to the great European cathedrals and he liked what he saw there; he wondered how it might be shaped to better fit the heat, the sun, and the shifting, sandy earth of the peninsula.

He brought cream and lavender marble from Italy and pink coquina from St. Augustine by the cartload, by the truckload, by any kind of load that would carry it deep into central Florida, through heat that could bake or kill anything that breathed.

It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t quick.

Foot by foot, year by year, the ornate tower stretched itself up to the clouds.

While the tower grew, and while the gardens sprawled, and while tidy rows of orchards were groomed around the Iron Mountain, sixty great bells were cast in bronze. Shaped like cups and designed to work with a special clavier, the bells ranged in size from sixteen pounds to twelve tons.

The largest bell could have hidden a horse.

On February 1, 1929, Calvin Coolidge dedicated the property as Edward Bok’s gift for the visitation of the American people. The ceremony was well attended and highly publicized, but only one spectator watched from the very top of the carillon.

It watched in silence, and in pain. The bells burned its skin, and the noise of the crowd made its head itch. But it watched, and it was pleased with the results.

Less than a year later, Edward Bok died. He was buried at the foot of the tower, directly in front of the big brass door, in accordance with his final request.

The Orchard and the Island

According to Marjorie’s letter, her daughter, Bernice, was not adjusting very well to the move. Marjorie was aware that Bernice and Nia had barely seen each other in recent years, but since they were cousins—and almost the same age—they might enjoy each other’s company for a few months.

And wouldn’t Nia like a break from working in the orchard?

She could come out to the island, where the new house was only a few yards from the beach. She could have her own room, and swim at her leisure. She and Bernice could even catch the ferry over to Tampa and see the Gasparilla parade if they liked. The city was not so far away.

Nia’s mother and grandmother balked at the idea, but Nia was tired of climbing ladders and picking oranges like a field hand. A sunny beach on a distant island sounded like a much better way to spend the summer than working for free on the family farm; and anyway, she was eighteen and she could go if she wanted to.

She didn’t remember much about her cousin. When she thought on Bernice’s name, all she could muster was a memory of someone small and fast with curly blond hair and a smile that could cut glass.

She knew that her cousin was beautiful, and that she’d been living in New York ever since Marjorie had remarried ten years earlier. She knew that her cousin was a little wild, or so her grandmother said with a tight little grimace bunched at the side of her mouth.

Marjorie lets Neecy run too fast. She doesn’t keep that girl close enough, Grandmother declared during the living room gossip session that began as soon as Marjorie’s letter had been read by everyone present. She’s never whooped the girl, not even once . . . and Bernice has deserved it plenty more than once. Lord help me, but it’s true. If she came up here instead of tempting Nia down south, I’d do it myself. Better late than never.

She’s too big for that now, Momma, Nia’s mother said. She twisted her lips around the sewing pins she held there while she worked. She’s a couple years older than Nia, even.

She isn’t too big to beat. She’s just too far away.

Nia held the envelope hard in her fist. I want to go, she said. Aunt Marjorie invited me, and I want to do it. It sounds like a nice house they’re building, right on the beach.

Grandmother grunted and said, I’m sure it’s real nice. Marjorie’s married money both times.

Nia’s mother pulled a pin out of her mouth and folded it into the skirt she was rehemming. She mumbled around the remaining pins, Nothing wrong with falling in love with a rich man.

No, but she could’ve picked one who wasn’t a crook.

What’s that mean? Nia asked. She squinted down at the letter, which she was fairly certain contained no mention of her uncle Antonio being a crook.

He’s a Yankee—and an Italian, to boot, her mother said with teasing cheer. Your grandmother thinks they’re all a bunch of crooks.

No, she argued. Not all of them. But this one in particular, yes. He’s a crook, and a carpetbagger, too.

Nia’s hands were going sweaty around the bunched letter in its crushed envelope. I don’t care if he’s so crooked, he’s got to screw his socks on every morning. I want to go. And I’m going to.

Grandmother spoke around Nia, as if she weren’t there. Marjorie’s let that girl go native, too. She’s practically a Yankee herself now. She’ll be a terrible influence on yours, I’m telling you. If I were you, I wouldn’t let her go.

You can’t make me stay, Nia insisted.

"I can’t really make her stay, her mother agreed, talking to Grandmother past Nia’s head, if she wants to go. We could use the help, but I think we’ll be all right. It might be good for her—getting out of town, doing a little traveling. You used to like traveling, Momma."

I’d enjoy it now, if I didn’t have a grove to run. Last time I traveled anywhere was with your daddy, back when that one—she cocked a thumb at Nia—"was just learning to read. But that’s neither here nor there. I still don’t like Marjorie’s tone in that letter."

What’s wrong with her tone? Nia demanded.

It’s bribery—that’s what she’s doing, Grandmother answered. She’s trying to bribe you with her money, and with the way she lives. She’s tempting you with how you won’t have to work, and you can swim in the ocean like a little heathen if you want, and you can stay in her nice big new house over there . . . like what you’ve got here at home isn’t just as good.

Nia’s mother shook her head. I don’t think she means any of it like that.

Maybe she don’t. But that’s how it reads to me. Go on down then, if that’s what you want, girl. We’ll get along without you, if you want to spend the season getting picked on and run ragged by that wild girl. She’s older than you, and she’s been around a lot more, and she’s not going to let you forget it. Bernice didn’t write that note, and I promise you she didn’t ask her mother to write it, either.

Grandmother’s words were still humming in Nia’s ears when she finally arrived on Anna Maria Island, a small strip of sand that jutted into the ocean, south of Tampa.

After a long trip by truck, by train, and by ferry, a servant escorted her to the brand-new house at the edge of the beach. After he left her, she made her way into the courtyard behind the house, where two women were shouting at each other.

Nia poked her head around the wall’s edge and flinched as a plate shattered just a foot or two away from it.

Hello? She used the quiet word to announce her presence, and it almost didn’t work; but Marjorie spied her niece and threw up her hands as if someone were pointing a gun at her.

The brunette woman in the tailored white suit smiled spontaneously, and stiffly. There you are! Welcome, dear. I’m so glad you came. I assume Roger took your things to the cottage. . . . Did you have any trouble finding us?

Oh, no, she said, and she resisted the urge to add that she’d found her way by following the racket. Nia tiptoed into the yard to give her aunt a hug. Roger’s directions were good. And Bernice, it’s real good to see you again, too, she said to the sharply dressed, blondly curled beauty with a fistful of expensive porcelain.

Bernice, Marjorie said through clenched teeth. "Nia is your guest. Say hello."

"My guest? I didn’t invite her."

Marjorie pried the bit of china from her daughter’s hand and set it back on the long covered table before Bernice could throw it. Yes, I know, but it’s been a long time since you’ve seen each other. Since . . . since your grandfather’s funeral, I think. Or no, we all went to Gasparilla that next year, didn’t we? The last part came out thoughtful, as she tried to count back the years.

But then she turned to Bernice and her voice dropped. She breathed the next part in an exhausted whine, and underneath it, Nia could almost hear a long-buried accent that sounded like her mother’s. Just for now, please? Let it go. Take Nia over to the cottage and help her get settled in.

Bernice liked the begging well enough to release the remaining plates, but even Nia could see that her truce was a temporary arrangement. Fine, she said. She relaxed and folded her arms across an expensive ivory suit jacket. "And hello, Nia. So Roger took your things to the cottage already? I’m ever so glad we won’t be forced to carry them in this dreadful heat."

Nia stepped aside and let Bernice take the lead. Yes, your father’s assistant took care of it. He met me at the ferry.

"My stepfather’s assistant." She casually lifted another glass and smashed it into the wall as she walked past it.

Aunt Marjorie, Nia dragged her heels and called over her shoulder, will you be joining us?

No, dear. I’ll stay and finish setting up for the party. Mr. Coyne doesn’t think it’s going to rain tonight, so we can leave everything out in the open. I want it to look nice for tomorrow. And don’t go far, girls. Supper will be ready at eight.

They left her in her perfectly trimmed garden behind her new house, carefully picking up shards of glass and arranging the surviving cups and cutlery.

Nia wondered how they’d ever have enough settings left for the party; but she knew her aunt had plenty of money, so there was probably more dinnerware waiting wherever the broken plates had come from. It must not be a problem.

She let Bernice lead her out of the courtyard, and together they wandered among the jungle-thick trees back out to the dirt strip that passed for a road.

Nee-uh, Bernice said her cousin’s name with an exaggerated snap. That’s a weird name. I don’t like it. I want to call you something else.

Then I guess you don’t expect me to answer.

Bernice reached into a pocket in her skirt and pulled out a silver cigarette case. "You’re my guest. I’ll call you whatever I want. Nia," she said again, not calling the name but turning it over in her mouth as if she were trying to tell how it tasted.

It’s short for Apollonia. Use that, if you’d rather, Nia suggested. Then she said, Give me one of those, if you don’t mind.

Certainly.

Nia accepted a skinny white cigarette and let Bernice light it. They stopped together in a patch of shade and puffed together in silence until Bernice spoke again. "Now where exactly are you from?"

Nia checked a nearby tree for large insects and, seeing none, she leaned against it. Tallahassee.

Where’s that?

Up north, on the mainland. Up in the panhandle.

Is it like this island?

She thought about it. Yes and no. We’re in the middle of a forest there, and we’re a long way from the beach. But it’s hot, and the greenery’s the same.

But it’s a city, right?

A city? It’s barely a town.

Hmm. She acted like she was going to say something else, but instead she twitched her head and swatted madly. Could you—something’s stuck in my hair!

Her arms flapped like a wet dog’s ears while Nia held her head steady enough to detangle a buzzing beetle. When it was free, Bernice fluffed and combed her short shiny hair with her fingers.

Nia played with the bug and tried not to act jealous. She’d never had the nerve to cut her own hair short; it was kept off her neck with a limp brown braid. Her mother would have a fit if she ever cut it; and besides, she didn’t have any curls to fluff anyway.

What is that thing? Will it sting me?

It’s just a june bug, Nia said as it launched off her hand with a hum. They don’t sting anybody. And they’re not nasty like the palmetto bugs.

What are those?

"They’re roaches bigger than your thumb. And they fly."

Bernice shuddered and clutched herself. "I’ve seen big roaches before. We have them all over the place in the city. I just didn’t know they lived anywhere outside. Forget this. Let’s go back to the cottage. The less time I spend outdoors, the better. Then again— She scowled and changed her mind. —Antonio’s in there. That son of a bitch."

You really don’t like him much, do you?

I haven’t got the words.

They crushed out their cigarettes in the sandy dirt and meandered along a path that alternately widened and tightened to accommodate the trees that no one had yet cut down.

That’s funny. Nia dusted her hands off on her skirt. I thought I heard a bunch of good epithets back there at the courtyard. What was all that about, anyhow?

She grunted something between a cough and a chuckle. Epithet, she said, like she hadn’t heard the rest. What’s that, a curse word or something?

Yeah. A curse word or something.

Then just say ‘curse word.’ I thought you came from a farm. You don’t talk like it.

Nia said, Sorry I’m not as dumb as you expected, and she waited for Bernice to change the subject again. Their arrival at the cottage gave her plenty of opportunity.

This is it, she announced. This is where we’ve been staying while the house was getting finished. And that’s Antonio. You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to.

Hello, Nia said to the alleged crook, but she couldn’t muster a smile to go with it. He was hidden in the screened area that kept him shadowed and relatively cool, and all she could see was the shape of a man in a hat, holding a drink in his hand.

Bernice reached for one of the handrails that flanked the wooden steps. On second thought, let’s not go inside. We might as well get a nice view for the smell.

Antonio nodded passing acknowledgment at Nia and disregarded Bernice with skill born of long practice. Nia mumbled that it was nice to meet him, and he responded in kind, with a similar level of enthusiasm.

He leaned forward to set down his drink, and for a moment his face slipped into a patch of sun. Nia thought he was good-looking, with deep-set eyes, dark-slicked hair, and a strong nose. Or perhaps he only looked handsome because he was well-dressed.

Bernice turned away from the porch and wobbled on tottering high heels back down into the dirt-rut road. Nia quit staring at her uncle and followed her.

Let’s go out to the dock. She peeked down at her watch. It’s almost seven thirty, but we’ll be back in time for supper. It’s not very far.

Nia had never seen such an expensive watch before, and certainly not on someone her own age. She thought it was pretty, but it looked weird on a half-deserted island.

Bernice reached for her cigarette case again and offered her cousin another before she even asked.

Nia fell into step beside her. Are you sure we’ll get back in time?

I’m sure. You ever been out here before?

No.

Well, I have, and I’m telling you it isn’t very far. Welcome to the middle of nowhere. She took a particularly long drag on her cigarette, using the time to think or plot. When she finally spoke, her words were dry and a tiny bit menacing. There’s going to be a party tomorrow.

Nia tried not to wonder why the simple statement sounded like a threat. The courtyard looks nice, she said. Your mother did a nice job of putting it together.

Bernice nodded. It’s all real nice, she agreed with a scowl that guaranteed she didn’t mean it. "It’s their anniversary. Mother and Antonio have been married for ten years. Tomorrow will be their first day in their new house, and ten years together. Hoo-ray. At least someone’s happy to be here." She kicked off her shoes and climbed onto a rickety gray pier, dropping her feet into the water and twirling them around. The hem of her skirt trailed in, too, but if she noticed, she didn’t care.

Nia glanced up at the sky and observed, We’re on the wrong beach. If we wanted to watch the sun set, we should’ve gone to the other side of the island.

It doesn’t matter. We’ve got all summer, and then some. Bernice stirred the water with her toes while Nia settled down onto the dock beside her and let her own feet dangle. You know what? she said. You smoke like you’ve done it before, not like you’re trying to show me how smooth you are.

I’ve smoked before, Nia admitted. The men who worked the farms smoked on their breaks, and if her mother wasn’t watching, sometimes she’d smoke with them just to taste it. If they were going to treat her like a hired hand, she figured she’d act like one.

The girls sat and smoked while the sun sank behind them.

Nia was about to mention the time again when she saw something strange in the water. At first she dismissed it as a trick of the moonlight, but it seemed to come closer, so she nudged Bernice. Who’s that? she asked.

Where? Bernice strained and stretched her neck.

There, did you see her? Someone was . . . swimming.

Bernice frowned. I don’t hear any splashing.

She’s gone now, Nia said. I didn’t hear the splashing either, but I swear, I saw someone. It was a woman with long hair.

You’re crazy. Bernice pulled her feet out of the water and shook them dry. There’s no one out there this time of night except those big damned fish. What are they called . . . dolphins.

Nia lifted her own feet out and felt around for her shoes. Dolphins aren’t fish, she said.

Bernice was already walking away.

Nia glanced back at the water and saw the mystery woman again. This time, the woman didn’t duck away, but she stayed there, her naked torso rising up out of the water. She was much closer to the pier, only a few yards out in the bay, and Nia could see her more clearly. Her skin was dark, and her hair hung so long that it floated around in the water at her