classroom they were seated next to each other. Jim Tile liked Brenda Rourke right away. She had a sane and healthy outlook on the job, and she made him laugh. They traded stories about freaky traffic stops, lousy pay and the impossible FHP bureaucracy. Because he was black, and few fellow officers were, Jim Tile rarely felt comfortable in a roomful of state troopers. But he felt fine next to Brenda Rourke, partly because she was a minority, too; the Highway Patrol employed even fewer women than blacks or Latins.
During one session, a buzz-cut redneck shot a rat-eyed look at Jim Tile to remind him that Trooper Rourke was a white girl, and that still counted for plenty in parts of Florida. Jim Tile didn’t get up and move; he kept his seat beside Brenda. It took the cracker trooper only about two hours to quit glaring.
At the lunch break, Jim Tile and Brenda Rourke went to an Arby’s. She was worried about her upcoming transfer to South Florida; Jim Tile couldn’t say much to allay her fears. She said she was studying Spanish, in preparation for road duty in Miami. The first phrase she’d learned was:
Sale del carro con las manos arriba
. Out of the car with your hands up!
At the time, Jim Tile held no romantic intentions. Brenda Rourke was a nice person, that was all. He never even asked if she had a boyfriend. A few months later, when he was down in Dade County for a trial, he ran into her at FHP headquarters. Later they went to dinner and then to Brenda’s apartment, where they were up until three in the morning, chatting, of all things—initially out of nervousness, and later out of an easy intimacy. The trial lasted six days, and every night Jim Tile found himself back at Brenda’s place. Every morning they awakened exactly as they’d fallen asleep—her head in the crook of his right shoulder, his feet hanging off the short bed. He’d never felt so peaceful. After the trial ended and Jim Tile returned to North Florida, he and Brenda took turns commuting for long weekends.
He wasn’t much of a talker, but Brenda could drag it out of him. She especially liked to hear about the time he was assigned to guardthe governor of Florida—not just any governor, but the one who’d quit, disappeared and become a legendary recluse. Brenda had been in high school, but she remembered when it happened. The newspapers and TV had gone wild. “Mentally unstable,” was what her twelfth-grade civics teacher had said of the runaway governor.
When Jim Tile had heard that, he threw back his head and laughed. Brenda would sit cross-legged on the carpet, her chin in her hands, engrossed by his stories of the one they now called Skink. Out of loyalty and prudence, Jim Tile didn’t mention that he and the man had remained the closest of friends.
“I wish I’d met him,” Brenda had said, in the past tense, as if Skink were dead. Because Jim Tile had, perhaps unconsciously, made it sound like he was.
Now, two years later, it seemed that Brenda’s improbable wish might come true. The governor had surfaced in the hurricane zone.
On the ride back from Card Sound, she asked: “Why would he tie himself to a bridge during a storm?” It was the logical question.
Jim Tile said, “He’s been waiting for a big one.”
“What for?”
“Brenda, I can’t explain. It only makes sense if you know him.”
She said nothing for a mile or two, then: “Why didn’t you tell me that you two still talk?”
“Because we seldom do.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course.” He pulled her close enough to steal a kiss.
She pulled away, a spark in her pale-blue eyes. “You’re going to try to find him. Come on, Jim, be straight with me.”
“I’m afraid he’s got a loose wire. That’s not good.”
“This isn’t the first time, is it?”
“No,” said Jim Tile, “it’s not the first time.”
Brenda brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles lightly. “It’s OK, big guy. I understand about
During one session, a buzz-cut redneck shot a rat-eyed look at Jim Tile to remind him that Trooper Rourke was a white girl, and that still counted for plenty in parts of Florida. Jim Tile didn’t get up and move; he kept his seat beside Brenda. It took the cracker trooper only about two hours to quit glaring.
At the lunch break, Jim Tile and Brenda Rourke went to an Arby’s. She was worried about her upcoming transfer to South Florida; Jim Tile couldn’t say much to allay her fears. She said she was studying Spanish, in preparation for road duty in Miami. The first phrase she’d learned was:
Sale del carro con las manos arriba
. Out of the car with your hands up!
At the time, Jim Tile held no romantic intentions. Brenda Rourke was a nice person, that was all. He never even asked if she had a boyfriend. A few months later, when he was down in Dade County for a trial, he ran into her at FHP headquarters. Later they went to dinner and then to Brenda’s apartment, where they were up until three in the morning, chatting, of all things—initially out of nervousness, and later out of an easy intimacy. The trial lasted six days, and every night Jim Tile found himself back at Brenda’s place. Every morning they awakened exactly as they’d fallen asleep—her head in the crook of his right shoulder, his feet hanging off the short bed. He’d never felt so peaceful. After the trial ended and Jim Tile returned to North Florida, he and Brenda took turns commuting for long weekends.
He wasn’t much of a talker, but Brenda could drag it out of him. She especially liked to hear about the time he was assigned to guardthe governor of Florida—not just any governor, but the one who’d quit, disappeared and become a legendary recluse. Brenda had been in high school, but she remembered when it happened. The newspapers and TV had gone wild. “Mentally unstable,” was what her twelfth-grade civics teacher had said of the runaway governor.
When Jim Tile had heard that, he threw back his head and laughed. Brenda would sit cross-legged on the carpet, her chin in her hands, engrossed by his stories of the one they now called Skink. Out of loyalty and prudence, Jim Tile didn’t mention that he and the man had remained the closest of friends.
“I wish I’d met him,” Brenda had said, in the past tense, as if Skink were dead. Because Jim Tile had, perhaps unconsciously, made it sound like he was.
Now, two years later, it seemed that Brenda’s improbable wish might come true. The governor had surfaced in the hurricane zone.
On the ride back from Card Sound, she asked: “Why would he tie himself to a bridge during a storm?” It was the logical question.
Jim Tile said, “He’s been waiting for a big one.”
“What for?”
“Brenda, I can’t explain. It only makes sense if you know him.”
She said nothing for a mile or two, then: “Why didn’t you tell me that you two still talk?”
“Because we seldom do.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course.” He pulled her close enough to steal a kiss.
She pulled away, a spark in her pale-blue eyes. “You’re going to try to find him. Come on, Jim, be straight with me.”
“I’m afraid he’s got a loose wire. That’s not good.”
“This isn’t the first time, is it?”
“No,” said Jim Tile, “it’s not the first time.”
Brenda brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles lightly. “It’s OK, big guy. I understand about
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