Turtle Moon
Alice Hoffman
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Epigraph
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
Praise for TURTLE MOON and Alice Hoffman...
“Alice Hoffman is at the top of her form in her latest novel ... The triumphs of Turtle Moon lie in its humane insights and compassionate epiphanies; its lustrous prose and its seductive landscape ...”—THE BOSTON GLOBE
“Showing the magic that lies below the surface of everyday life is just what we hope for in a satisfying novel, and that’s what Ms. Hoffman gives us every time.”
—THE BALTIMORE SUN
“Hoffman’s novels get better and better. Turtle Moon is replete with sensuous, lyrical description and powerfully compelling characters. Written with wit and insight and compassion, the story is memorably suspenseful, memorably erotic.” —THE SEATTLE TIMES
“With her glorious prose and extraordinary eye for the magic of the mundane ... Alice Hoffman seems to know what it means to be a human being.”
—SUSAN ISAACS, NEWSDAY
“Hoffman has become one of our most relevant writers—as well as one of the best.”—THE NEWARK STAR-LEDGER
“It is Hoffman’s best novel to date, with prose as pure as chilled mineral water, and it is perhaps one of the most moving novels you will read this year.”—DETROIT NEWS
“From the first line of her story Hoffman’s characters, anecdotes, and images grab the reader by the heart and soul and do not let go until she has completed her entertaining and poignant tale ...”
—ST. PETERSBURG TIMES
“Her touch is so light, her writing so luminous.”
—THE ORLANDO SENTINEL
“Her novels are as fluid and graceful as dreams.”
—SAN DIEGO UNION-TRIBUNE
“A reader is in good hands with Alice Hoffman, able to count on many pleasures. She is one of our quirkiest and most interesting novelists, and her skills and talents increase with each new book.” —JANE SMILEY, USA TODAY
“Pure Hoffman ... haunting, hypnotic, and hot as a fever dream.” —KIRKUS REVIEWS
“Lovely.”—OCALA STAR-BANNER
“Hoffman is one of the brightest and most imaginative of contemporary writers.” —SACRAMENTO BEE
“She is completely in control of her story.”
—THE PHILADELPHIA INQUIRER
“Ms. Hoffman writes quite wonderfully about the magic in our lives and in the battered, indifferent world. I don’t know that she’s written better ... This novel vibrates with feeling ... Alice Hoffman has written a magnificent examination of a troubled child about whom her readers will care enormously.”
—THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW
“Remarkable ... poignant ... beguiling ... stunning.”
-MARY MORRIS
“A fast-moving tale ... she has produced a murder mystery tinged with the feel of a fairy tale ... a breezy, alluring book.” —THE WASHlNGTON POST
“The reader is quickly enveloped into her story; it’s like sinking into a rocking chair and being gently seduced by the movement and rhythm ...” —THE NEW YORK TIMES
“Irresistible.”—NEW YORK DAILY NEWS
Also by Alice Hoffman...
PRACTICAL MAGIC
“A beautiful, moving book about the power of love and the desires of the heart.” —THE DENVER POST
“Splendid ... Practical Magic is one of her best novels, showing on every page her gift for touching ordinary life as if with a wand, to reveal how extraordinary life really is.”
—NEWSWEEK
“One of her most lyrical works ... Hoffman is at her best.”
—SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE BOOK REVIEW
“Charmingly told, and a good deal of fun.”
—THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW
“Written with a light hand and perfect rhythm ... Practical Magic has the pace of a fairy tale but the impact of accomplished fiction.” —PEOPLE —PEOPLE
“A sweet, sweet story that, like the best fairy tales, says more than at first it seems to.” —NEW YORK DAILY NEWS
“[Hoffman] has proved once again her potency as a story-teller, combining the mundane with the fantastic in a totally engaging way.” —BOSTON SUNDAY HERALD
“[A] delicious fantasy of witchcraft and love in a world where gardens smell of lemon verbena and happy endings are possible.”—COSMOPOLITAN
“Hoffman’s best ... readers will relish this magical tale.”
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
SECOND NATURE
“Magical and daring ... very possibly her best.”
—THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW
“A latter-day Beauty and the Beast.”—KIRKUS REVIEWS
“Alice Hoffman’s writing [is] so plain, yet so gorgeous; so funny, yet so heartbreaking ... a treat.”
—COSMOPOLITAN
“A phenomenally romantic tale.”—GLAMOUR
“Intelligent and absorbing ... a celebration of the simple, unstinting grace of human love.”—CHICAGO SUN-TIMES
“Hoffman tells a great story. Expect to finish this one in a single, guilty sitting.” —MIRABELLA
“Suspenseful ... a dark, romantic meditation on what it means to be human.” —THE NEW YORKER
“A rich and satisfying concoction ... [a] modern fairy tale, full of insights into the battle between instinct and upbringing, desire and conformity.” —BOOKLIST
“Another page-turner ... first-rate storytelling.”
—THE CLEVELAND PLAIN DEALER
Books by Alice Hoffman
PROPERTY OF
THE DROWNING SEASON
ANGEL LANDING
WHITE HORSES
FORTUNE’S DAUGHTER
ILLUMINATION NIGHT
AT RISK
SEVENTH HEAVEN
TURTLE MOON
SECOND NATURE
PRACTICAL MAGIC
HERE ON EARTH
LOCAL GIRLS
THE RIVER KING
BLUE DIARY
For Children
FIREFLIES
HORSEFLY
AQUAMARINE
INDIGO
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons. living or dead, busmen establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or th
eir content
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with G. P Punam’s Sons
Copyright© 1992 by Alice Hoffman.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorised editions.
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eISBN : 978-1-440-67443-3
Hoffman. Alice.
Turtle Moon / Alice Hoffman.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-440-67443-3
I. Title.
PS3558.03447T-37222 CIP
813’.54—dc20
PRINIED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
PLEASE VISIT THE AUTHOR’S WEBSITE AT:
www.alicehoffman.com
http://us.penguingroup.com
All the way to heaven is heaven, all of it a kiss.
—HARVEY OXENHORN 1951-1990
ONE
THE LAST MAJOR CRIME in the town of Verity was in 1958, when one of the Platts shot his brother in an argument over a Chevy Nomad they had bought together on time. Usually it’s so quiet you can hear the strangler figs dropping their fruit on the hoods of parked cars, leaving behind pulp and tiny black seeds. Since Verity is the most humid spot in eastern Florida, local people know enough to drink their coffee iced in the morning. The air all around the town limits is so thick that sometimes a soul cannot rise and instead attaches itself to a stranger, landing right between the shoulder blades with a thud that carries no more weight than a hummingbird.
Charles Verity, who founded the town, after killing off as many native people as he could, is said to have discovered this the hard way. He couldn’t get rid of the spirits of all the men he’d murdered; they perched up and down his spine and on top of his cookstove, until he caught them in a sugar bowl, then tied the lid closed with thick brown string so they couldn’t escape. Charles Verity swore he would live forever. Every night he drank a bitter tea made from the bark of the paradise tree to ensure his good health, but as it turned out he was eaten by an alligator up by the pond where the municipal golf course was later built. Each year, on Charles Verity’s birthday, children parade down Main Street to the parking lot of the medical center, where a mud pit ringed with ropes is set up. For ten dollars, anyone can wrestle a papier-mâché alligator and raise funds for the burn ward. Up until the early sixties there were alligator farms all around the outskirts of Verity. At least once a year there would be a big escape, and Half Moon Road, which is now part of the Interstate, would be green and slithery for days, until a posse went out with shotguns and fishing nets. When breeding for profit became a federal offense, Verity turned its past around to suit itself, naming the high school football team the Gators, and featuring Alligator Salad in most restaurants, a mixture of spinach, green pepper, avocado, and chopped egg tinted with green food coloring.
People in Verity like to talk, but the one thing they neglect to mention to outsiders is that something is wrong with the month of May. It isn’t the humidity, or even the heat, which is so fierce and sudden it can make grown men cry. Every May, when the sea turtles begin their migration across West Main Street, mistaking the glow of streetlights for the moon, people go a little bit crazy. At least one teenage boy comes close to slamming his car right into the gumbo-limbo tree that grows beside the Burger King. Girls run away from home, babies cry all night, ficus hedges explode into flame, and during one particularly awful May, half a dozen rattlesnakes set themselves up in the phone booth outside the 7-Eleven and refused to budge until June.
At this difficult time of the year people who grew up in Verity often slip two aspirins into their cans of Coke; they wear sunglasses and avoid making any major decisions. They try not to quit their jobs, or smack their children, or run off to North Carolina with the serviceman who just fixed their VCR. They make certain to stay out of the ocean, since the chemical plant on Seminole Point always leaks in the first week of May, so that the yellowfin float to the surface, bringing sharks closer to shore. In the past few years, there has been an influx of newcomers, lured by the low rents and wild hibiscus. As a result, Verity is now home to more divorced women from New York than any other town in the state of Florida. None of these women had any idea of the sort of mess the month of May in Verity could make of their lives, any more than they knew what daily exposure to chlorine could do to their hair. There were now dozens of green-headed women all over town, all addicted to Diet Dr Pepper, and each and every one of them was shocked to discover that in Verity mosquitoes grew to the size of bumblebees and that the sea grape, which grew wild along the beach, could pull their children right into the thicket if they didn’t keep to the wooden paths.
After midnight, when the heat was almost bearable and anote lizards ran fearlessly across quarry tile floors, these women never wept but did their laundry instead. While the bleach was added to the white wash and the laundry softener doled out, it became clear that although some of the children these women had transplanted were doing well, most were not. There were toddlers who called out for their fathers in the middle of the night, and boys who dreamed so deeply of the houses where they grew up they’d wake damp with sweat, smelling of cut grass. There were sullen teenage girls running up astronomical phone bills, and babies so accustomed to ranch houses they got hysterical at the sight of an elevator.
At 27 Long Boat Street, just off West Main, in a pink stucco condominium facing the flat blue bay, there lived a twelve-year-old boy, a mean little Scorpio named Keith Rosen, who would have liked nothing better than to knock someone’s block off. He was so mean he could cut his own finger with a serrated steak knife and not flinch. He could drop a brick on his bare foot and not cry out loud. Last week, when his only friend, Laddy Stern, dared him to pierce his ear with an embroidery needle, Keith didn’t even bleed. The following afternoon he stole an earring shaped like a silver skull from a jewelry concession at the flea market over at the Sunshine Drive-In. He has never been a particularly good boy, but after eight months in Florida, he is horrid. Already, he has been suspended from school three times. He is willing to steal almost anything: lunch money, teachers’ wallets, birthstone rings right off his classmates’ fingers. He keeps everything in a secret stash in the laundry room down in the basement, inside a hole he punched into the plaster behind a washing machine.
Punishments are pointless. They don’t work with him. He is no longer allowed to see Laddy Stern, not since they were caught cutting school and drinking Kahlúa and Coke, but who can really stop him? Laddy’s mom is the hostess at the yacht club restaurant, and she works odd hours, so Keith still goes over to their condo whenever he pleases. That is where he spends most of the first day of May, and by the time he leaves, after a vicious argument that has left Laddy with a bloody nose, it is already ninety-nine in the shade, although where he bicycles, on Long Boat Street, there is no shade. He’s dizzy from the Miller Lites he drank and the half pack of Marlboros he chain-smoked, and it isn’t so easy to avoid the smashed turtle shells. Hard green globes the size of Scooter Pies line the asphalt and clog up the sewer traps. There is no point in Keith’s trying to talk to his mother. Most days he sneaks out of the apartment while she is getting dressed for work, or he waits in bed until he’s sure she’s left, so he won’t have to see her and pretend to be normal or cheerful or whatever it is she wants him to be.
He bikes as fast as he can, through the heat waves, past the surfers at Drowned Man Beach. He keeps at it until his lungs hurt, then he rides over the curb and into the park at the corner of West Main and Long Boat, where he pulls out the cigarettes and matches he stole from Laddy. It isn’t his parents’ divorce that bothers him. He could have lived with that. It was the way things just happened to him. He wanted to live wi
th his father, but who asked him? His parents argued with each other until they came to a decision, and now his mother is stuck with him, when everyone knows they have never gotten along. He never climbed into her lap or held her hand. He knows he was a difficult child, he’s been told often enough. He threw off his blanket, rattled the bars of his crib, bit baby-sitters so hard he left teeth marks in their flesh. His mother can pretend to want him all she likes, but the only thing he wants is to go back to where the heat doesn’t make you break out in red bumps, and every restaurant doesn’t serve grits and Alligator Salad, and some people have fathers.
Keith balances his bike against his hip, then lights a cigarette, which he keeps cupped in his palm, the way he’s seen the high school boys smoke, even though the embers burn his skin. Nothing ever happened in Verity. That was a fact. He could die of boredom, right now, his heart could give out and he’d shrivel up in the heat and turn purple before anyone thought to look for him. He’d probably fossilize before his mother reported him missing. When his heart doesn’t stop, Keith props his bike up against a trash can, then flings himself on a wooden bench so he can blow smoke rings in the air. The smoke rings just hang there, dangerous white clouds going nowhere. School won’t be out for another fifteen minutes, but at the far end of the park some teenagers, playing hooky, toss a Frisbee around. As far as Keith is concerned, anyone down here who is capable of enjoying himself is an idiot. The high school boys are so busy diving for the Frisbee and pounding each other on the back they don’t notice the patrol car in the parking lot, idling beneath an inkwood tree. Keith sits up, interested in spite of himself when he sees “K9” on the side of the car. They don’t allow dogs at the condominium where he lives. If the super discovers that you have even a guinea pig you’re out forever. There’s a list of rules three pages long you have to agree to before you move in. That way there’s no argument when they insist you take a shower before you swim in the pool, and you can’t even swim alone without an adult until you’re thirteen. If Keith could have a dog, it would be just like the one in the patrol car, a big German shepherd that sits perfectly still, eyeing the boys playing Frisbee. He would love to see what the super had to say about a dog like that; just let anyone try to give him orders if he had a monster like that on a leash.
