More Than Good Enough(19)

A couple minutes later, the tape clicked to the other side. Bass guitar notes dribbled out of the speakers.

“What is this music?” Pippa asked, closing her eyes. “It’s actually kind of good.”

“It’s nothing.” I hit the eject button.

“Wait. That’s you playing bass?”

“I wanted it to sound ‘vintage’ so I recorded over a tape.”

“Can I have a copy of that song?”

“It’s not a song yet. But I could make it happen.”

“Yeah?” she said. “I think you should.”

She rewound the tape back to the beginning. For the rest of the drive, we listened in silence, and that was cool with me.

When we got to the Welcome Center, Pippa headed straight for the gift shop. HALF OFF TODAY ONLY, a sign said, as if the day itself were on sale. I couldn’t understand why she wanted to film a pile of back-scratchers made of dried-up gator claws.

“So, when are we interviewing your dad?” Pippa asked.

That was the last thing I wanted to do. “You should film the gator show,” I said. “It’s starting soon.”

I glanced down the aisles. A little girl bolted past me, screaming words I didn’t understand. She carried a snow globe in both hands. Inside it, Santa’s sleigh floated above a beach, pulled by a team of flamingoes.

“You guys want to see some alligator wrestling?” somebody asked.

Uncle Seth.

I recognized his laugh, the way he poured his whole body into it.

Pippa was so excited she did a little robot dance, right in the middle of the gift shop. It was kind of cute, actually. I was still trying to figure out how to keep her away from the drama that had become my life.

Uncle Seth was in his wrestling gear. He wore a patchwork vest and his bare feet were dusted with sand. A necklace of snaggly teeth bounced against his chest as he loped toward me.

“And I believe you’re supposed to be helping out today?” He steered me outside.

We walked toward a clump of chickee huts facing a sandy pit. I was thankful for the shade. Already, my T-shirt had begun to stick to my shoulder blades. On the other side of a chain-link fence, an alligator sprawled in a concrete pool. He looked like a deflated truck tire. At least until he cracked his mouth wide open.

“Why is he yawning?” Pippa asked.

“It’s a she, actually,” said Uncle Seth. “And she’s just cooling off. That’s how they regulate their body temperature.”

I wiped my face on my sleeve. “Wish I could regulate mine.”

Uncle Seth unlocked a gate and disappeared somewhere behind the sand pit. Then it was just me and Pippa and the gator. I was still waiting when a crowd started to press against the fence. A lady asked if I knew where to find the vending machines.

“Hot as balls out here,” she said, lighting up a cigarette. “I could really use a Diet Coke.”

I felt kind of stupid, just standing around with a bunch of tourists. They pointed their cameras at the pool, but the gator didn’t twitch. A pack of teenaged boys took turns rattling the fence.

“It’s not even alive,” one of them muttered. “What a rip-

off.”

If I pushed him over the fence, he would find out if the gator was alive.

A loudspeaker crackled and an announcement boomed like the voice of God: “The show will be starting soon. If you have small children, please make sure they are seated away from the fence.”

“Are you going in there?” Pippa asked.

“My uncle won’t let me wrestle yet. I just collect the tips at the end.”

She took the camera out of its case. “This is so amazing. I can’t wait to film some action shots. It will so get me an A on this project.”

Most of the girls in the audience were slumped in the back row, playing with their cell phones. Pippa moved right up front. She propped the camera real close to the fence. Then my uncle came out and everybody clapped, although nothing had happened yet.

He took hold of the gator’s tail and dragged her into the middle of the sand pit. The gator was hissing like crazy. You could tell the audience was freaking out. Everybody shoved their cameras against the chain-link. Some girl behind me kept saying, “Oh my god,” every five seconds.

Uncle Seth crouched down in the sand. He stroked and tapped the gator’s nose until her mouth sprang open.

“This is how I keep my nails trim.” Uncle Seth shoved his hand in the narrow space between the gator’s jaws. He jumped back just before her teeth clamped shut, igniting a round of shrieks from the crowd.

His next trick was even more awesome. He snuck up behind the gator and crouched on her back. The gator didn’t seem too happy. She thrashed her tail back and forth, making angel wings in the sand. Slowly, Uncle Seth tilted her massive head toward his throat, then tucked the tip of her snout under his chin. He stayed like that for a minute, lifting both hands as if saying, “I surrender.”

I leaned against the chain-link fence. You could see the gator’s rubbery lips, speckled with something like beard stubble. Uncle Seth brought his hands down and untucked his chin.

“I’ll do it again,” he said, “just in case you missed your photo opportunity.”

This time, he squatted behind the gator’s head. When she cracked her jaws apart, he slid his face in there. Everybody gasped like a fake TV sound effect. Except it wasn’t fake. Neither was my uncle’s stunt. I didn’t even see him let go. He jumped backward, stumbling a little as his feet kicked arcs of sand.