Carl Hiaasen by Nature Girl

grunted and reached for the soup crackers. “Boyd, are you screwing somebody from work?”
    He gripped the edge of the tabletop.
“What?”
    His mother gnawed at the cellophane wrapper on the crackers. “Oh, come on,” she said. “Who gives away a free vacation where you can’t bring your wife or even your mom? For all I know, you could be running off with some dumb tramp from the call center.”
    Boyd Shreave was shocked to hear himself say: “She’s not a tramp. She’s one of the Fondas.”
    Della spit half a saltine into her lap.
    “A cousin of Jane’s,” Shreave added.
    His impulsive burst of candor made it official: Like a lizard, he’d shed his old skin. He felt like dancing on the table.
    “This is
not
funny,” his mother wheezed. She couldn’t picture her chronically unmotivated son as a philanderer.
    “If you tell Lily,” Shreave said, “I’ll never forgive you.”
    The waiter brought their sandwiches. Della tidied herself and said, “Well, does this girl at least
look
like Jane?”
    “More like Bridget. Only taller.”
    “You got a picture?”
    He shook his head. “I meant what I said—if you rat me out, you’ll be sorry. Everybody’s got ugly little secrets.”
    Della didn’t need her son to spell it out. She had cheated on her last husband, Frank Landry, with one of the hospice workers who’d been caring for him in the final days. If the incident were made known, it would surely incite Landry’s grown and highly litigious offspring. There were still a few bucks kicking around probate that Della had no wish to forfeit.
    She said, “Of course I won’t say a word. But seriously, Boyd, where are you headed with this thing?”
    “To happiness, Mom. Where else?”
    He bit into the jerked chicken and smiled, pearls of mayonnaise glistening on his chin.

    While Fry scrubbed the kayaks, Honey Santana sat down to write a letter to the
Marco Island Sun Times
about what had happened to Louis Piejack. One of Honey’s past therapists had told her to do this whenever she got worked up. The therapist had said writing was a healthy and socially acceptable way of expressing one’s anger.
    So far, Honey had gotten forty-three letters published in thirteen different newspapers, including the
Naples Daily News,
the
Sarasota Herald-Tribune
and the
St. Petersburg Times.
Once she’d almost had a letter about the Alaska oil drilling printed in
USA Today,
but the editors had objected to a sentence suggesting that the president had been dropped on his head as a child.
    Honey kept scrapbooks of all her newspaper letters, including the 107 that had been rejected. Sometimes she felt better after writing one; sometimes she felt the same.

    To the Editor:
    Regarding today’s front-page article about the violent assault on Mr. Louis Piejack, I certainly agree that the perpetrators of this act ought to be pursued and brought to justice.
    However, as a former employee of Mr. Piejack, I feel obliged to point out that his own conduct has occasionally bordered on the criminal, particularly the way he treats women. I myself was the victim of both verbal and physical abuse from this man, though I derive no pleasure from his current troubles.
    Perhaps during his long and excruciating recuperation, Mr. Piejack will take a hard inward look at himself and resolve to change. As for the unfortunate mix-up during the reattachment surgery on his fingers, Mr. Piejack should be grateful to have all five, in any order, considering the places he has put them.
    Most sincerely,
    Honey Santana
    Everglades City

    She slipped the letter into an envelope and affixed three first-class stamps, even though it was traveling only thirty miles up the road.
    Fry came indoors and flopped down in front of the television.
    “Did you ask your ex-father if you can stay there?” Honey asked.
    A sour glance was the boy’s only response.
    She said, “Sorry. I meant your ‘dad.’”
    “Not yet, but I will,” Fry said.
    “Be sure to tell him