Whale Season

Chapter 1 There are no whales in Whale Harbor, Florida. Never have been. The town was named during the Civil War as a way to lure Union soldiers looking for food and oil. It worked. So the name stuck. But there are no whales. Still, for many years, people came to whale watch. Some even thought they saw them. Blue whales, southern rights, humpback, killer, beaked, and beluga--as the subtropical temperatures rose, all manners of sightings, aided by tour guides offering free beer, were imagined in great detail. Written about in travel magazines. But there are no whales. Never have been. This is why historians identify Whale Harbor as America's first tourist trap. So those who come to this particular thicket of Florida's coast usually fall into two categories--the bushwhacked and the dreamers. Those who stay are both. It's Christmas Eve and most of the town is at The Pink drinking eggnog schnapps. It's two for the price of one, in honor of the holiday. The jukebox is cranked, full volume. Jimmy Buffet asks, "How'd you like to spend Christmas on Christmas Island?" Nobody answers. Shot glasses surround hunched shoulders like picket fences. The Pink's an all-purpose place. Up front, you can still buy bread and milk. Moon Pies, two for a buck. In the back, at the bar, you can still get your heart broken. Leadbelly whistles and jingles the blues. Christmas lights blink all year long across the tarpaper walls. Right now, Leon should be there buying a round for Carlotta. She's been waiting for him for an hour, or more. Her tongue is white from the schnapps, and fuzzy. But he's not there. She looks at her watch again, the fourth time in ten minutes. Orders another round. Bender pours the drinks in two deft streams. Schnapps arches like a waterfall. An impressive sight. Bender owns the place. He's also mayor. Hawkeyed and thin, in his early fifties, his spiky gray hair is dyed red and green for the holiday. It's a seasonal habit of his. At Easter, he'll go purple. He slides the two shot glasses in front of Carlotta. Tops them off with whipped cream and sprinkles that match his hair. Carlotta looks up. "Thanks--" And then he barks a noble clear bark. "Scottish terrier," he explains. Turns away before Carlotta has a chance to ask why he's impersonating a small hunting dog. Most know not to ask. Carlotta is new in town. She doesn't know anyone, but they all know her. At least, they know who she is: she's Leon's girl. That's the reason Sheriff Trot Jeeter is sitting three stools away and trying hard not to stare. But it is difficult. She's single. He's single. And, in the dim light of The Pink, Carlotta has a 1940s Veronica Lake kind of glamour. Boozy. Sultry. Bored. Her thick hair is carefully parted to one side, covers half her face. Trot can't take his eyes off her. Of course, that's not surprising. He's forty-one years old. If he doesn't get married soon he'll have to get a dog--one that barks a lot. Scottish terrier sounds pretty good right about now. The problem with Sheriff Trot Jeeter is not that he's unattractive. He's just unremarkable. Average height, average weight, average build--you couldn't pick him out of a lineup if you had to. Through the years he's grown comfortable in his absolute lack of distinction, the unnerving way he sometimes fades from memory while he's still in the room. And so, out of habit, his eyes never make contact, always seem to be searching for something just beyond his reach. But tonight. Carlotta. The red dress. The dim light. The schnapps. He suddenly feels reckless. "Excuse me," he says, more or less in her direction. The eggnog schnapps makes his stomach tilt and whirl. Carlotta slowly turns toward him. Her lips are slightly wet, poutKelby, N. M. is the author of 'Whale Season ', published 2006 under ISBN 9780307336774 and ISBN 0307336778.