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Show 94, Jeffries, Islamorada [Section 2] For supper they fed him scampi and tortillas; the stone crab was new to him and bland; "You keep our February out all night, you must be hungry, Slyboots," they laughed, "try it with the white sauce; oysters, fried oysters?" the women's voices were going up and down in that scalloped Cockney sing-song you can still hear in the neighborhoods around Rose Lane, "sweet-sweet Slyboots is eating like a tourist." "Oh please I just can't hold another, please not a lobster--" Out of the pail the poor lobsters rustled in their little circle, and for a moment, intrusive, like a saint, Rowena Emmerling was in the room, a lobster raised his armored claw, we who are about to die salute you. Toward sundown a number of gentlemen callers arrived, and Dusty, a personable black from Key West, motored out to entertain on the piano. After some singing February led him upstairs, and everyone slept fine in the grand quiet of the house till there was thunder and some line squalls came across Florida Bay; suddenly there was bare Marjoram at her mother's bed like Cupid attendant on Venus or maybe Candyfloss with Wicked Wanda, hell anymore he couldn't tell. And February said, "It's the storm, she gets so scared; d'you mind if she just crawls in with us for a while?" |
