Florida Woman
- eBook
- Audiobook
- Hardcover
- Book info
- Sample
- Media
- Author updates
- Lists
Synopsis
"Razor-sharp... Deb Rogers writes with such verve and honesty about all the ways we stumble through life, and, like all great storytellers, gives us something wondrous when we reach the end of the journey.” —Kevin Wilson, bestselling author of Nothing to See Here
A gleefully dark and entertaining debut for fans of Kevin Wilson and Karen Russell, about one young woman’s sensational summer at a Floridian wildlife center for exotic monkeys
Jamie is a Florida Woman. She grew up on the beach, thrives in humidity, has weathered more hurricanes than she can count, and now, after going viral for an outrageous crime she never meant to commit in the first place, she has the requisite headline to her name. But when the chance comes for her to escape viral infamy and imminent jail time by taking a community service placement at Atlas, a shelter for rescued monkeys, it seems like just the fresh start Jamie needs to finally get her life back on track — until it’s not.
Something sinister stirs in the palmetto woods surrounding her cabin, and secrets lurk among the three beguiling women who run the shelter and affectionately take Jamie under their wing for the summer. She hears the distant screams of monkeys each night; the staff perform cryptic, lakeside sacrifices to honor Atlas; and the land, which has long been abandoned by citrus farmers and theme park developers alike, now proves to be dangerously, relentlessly untamed.
As Jamie ventures deeper into the offbeat world and rituals of Atlas, her summer is soon set to inspire an even stranger Florida headline than she ever could’ve imagined.
Release date: July 5, 2022
Publisher: Hanover Square Press
Print pages: 351
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Reader buzz
Author updates
Florida Woman
Deb Rogers
1
It would have been so easy to snatch the key chain from Sari’s neck, break the lock on the macaques’ enclosure, and follow the monkeys as they run wild into the palmetto woods.
I wasn’t supposed to have thoughts like that while touring the refuge on my first day. I was supposed to be respectfully delighted: a large troop of rescued monkeys, a devoted nonprofit staff, a remote haven of virgin wilderness on the edge of the Ocala National Forest.
I was expected to feel grateful to Sari and the others for allowing me to “dedicate myself to a summer of service and personal transformation,” as Cole Calhoun, my house arrest officer, had put it. Any decent person would be offering baskets of shiny apples and spinning bushels of straw into gold in return for a live-in community service placement from which to pay her societal debts and to earn a second chance.
At the very least, I should be smiling.
But we had walked miles in circles along the narrow paths through humid, subtropical forest scrub for Sari to show me boundaries and landmarks I wouldn’t remember, and I was already limping from the ankle monitor. It made me feel like an injured deer, tagged and released so I could be hunted later. I was parched, the July sun extracting the last dots of my life force, making every single being around me seem stronger, more willful and more attractive than me: the three staff members, the monkeys, the thick blue-tailed skink lounging in the ancient cast-iron bathtub in the shower house that we had visited on the tour, the gnarled oak roots impossibly clinging to the rocks at the lake’s edge.
Although less than two hours inland from my hometown on the Atlantic shore, Atlas was an entire dark world away. The refuge’s land—Sari’s land—was verdant and rank instead of sun-washed and salt-dried, dark moss green instead of cerulean and pale sand. Atlas held court on a primitive stretch of land that had been avoided by indigenous farmers and settlers alike, shunned by thieves and developers, skipped over by Flagler and Disney. Relentlessly, tenaciously wild.
It was the best I could do.
They had given me a tour of the Atlas cabins, which were ramshackle A-frames that had clearly been built by amateurs, the surrounding flora reaching inside to repossess the soft wood construction. Sand, dirt, and pine needles from the paths swirled on plywood floors. Kudzu vines clawed toward the rooflines and snaked inside hand-stapled window screens, pinkie-sized green anoles and big-eared deer mice following right behind. The shared shower house was a fiberglass shed, and the other main buildings were hand-built geodesic domes—the larger of which tilted to the west, an ice cream scoop that was one summer second away from sliding off the cone.
The macaques had the best setup, a total environment built for their protection and for our easy viewing. Since it was feeding time, we congregated around the chain-link fence like a zoo-going family after church while the macaques ate their buckets of oysters. Cole and I watched the monkeys. The three women of Atlas watched us.
“You are so very beautiful, Jamie!” Sari said. She gathered my hair—several degrees darker and duller than her own cascading, honey-blond waves—and piled it on top of my head to assess me, or to help me cool off. “We have been waiting so patiently, and wow, here you are right in front of us. We’re so happy you are here! You made the right choice in coming to us!”
Her forward contact threw me, but I willed myself to not recoil. She was too close, and I was probably a grubby, sweaty mess after slogging through the tour. Plus, Sari didn’t know me. We had spoken on the phone twice. But I had been watching her throughout our brief tour to learn what I could about her, noting her beatific smile, the frictionless drape of her sundress against her thin, golden legs as they hiked the unkempt paths, the scent of juniper and grapefruit left in her wake. I decided she was simply being friendly in the way of women who breeze through every day as though they are just arriving at a music festival.
“What do you think of our little paradise?” asked Tierra. She was statuesque and olive-skinned, and like Sari, seemed unfazed by the violent heat. I estimated the ages of Sari and Dagmar, Atlas’s vet and animal care expert, to be in their midthirties—a handful of years older than me, at barely twenty-eight. But Tierra’s age was hard to pinpoint, with her mellow voice, lean muscles, and exquisitely shaved head.
“It’s wild.” I knew I should say something more, but that was the best I could muster, so my brain made me say it again. “So wild.”
At least Dagmar was drenched like me, her short blond hair spiked with sweat. She described the assets of the monkeys’ enclosure: it was a massive structure that housed a tire swing, a small swimming pool, and an intricate climbing apparatus over a rock-strewn clearing where the macaques loped around on all fours like tawny bears or wild coyotes. Long tails flagged behind them like whips, only to be tucked safely under their bodies moments later when they squatted to confer with each other in pairs or groups.
I would have thought the animals would squabble competitively over the food, but they worked in admirable harmony. They circled the piles of oysters and selected one or two at a time. Then they sorted through a crate of rocks for the sharpest ones to crack the shells, and ran off to their spots using their underarms and mouths as backup pockets for their treasures. There, they crouched and got to work with their tools: slamming with determination, angling the shells as needed. They coaxed with their old-man teeth. They slurped with probing tongues.
“Watch how they each have their own style,” Dagmar said. “They learn from each other. See Ghost, going with the two-handed drop smash, as opposed to Curious Georgia O’Keeffe, the right-handed, rapid-fire jackhammer. Henri throws his whole body into it with an overhead lift. Bee doesn’t even use a stone. See how she knocks two oysters against each other, and then she eats whichever opens first.”
“Efficient!” Cole Calhoun was rapt. The embroidered emblem on his company uniform broadcast Sunshine Monitoring directly at my eye level. I was never going to get him to go home.
“They all have their ways, and they fine-tune them by studying others. You watch,” Dagmar said.
“We love their amazing hands, don’t we?” Sari said. “We learn so much by watching them. You’re going to adore the macaques, Jamie. Did you have to say goodbye to any animals before moving here? I hate that we have to ask guests not to bring pets, but it simply wouldn’t work out.”
“No pets,” I said. “I’ve never actually had one.”
Dagmar looked concerned. “Why not?”
“I don’t know,” I said, turning my gaze to the macaques. “Never really been a pet person. I mean, I took care of the lobster tank at one of my waitressing jobs. And once when I was a kid, I even found a dog in a parking lot. My mom wouldn’t let me keep it, because we were sort of broke at the time, and I’ve never been able to afford one myself, either. But I’m sure I’ll do fine with the monkeys.”
The women stared at me. Tierra smiled empathically.
“Animal care is very, very expensive,” Dagmar said at last.
“That it is,” Sari said. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be wonderful. When rescues arrive here, their spirits have been stripped away and left raw. You can see agitation just below the skin, a feverish terror in their eyes, exposing dueling impulses—the desire for food versus a primal distrust of the cage. They are scared of us at first, and of everything we offer.” She paused to pluck a stray hair from Tierra’s shirt, either her own or maybe a monkey’s. “We serve them with patience, love, constancy. Cleanliness, routine. Gentle care, delicious food,” she said, motioning to the oysters. “It works. And you know what, Jamie? Atlas will do the same for you.”
I wanted to say something to reassure Sari that I understood the preciousness of this volunteer opportunity, that I would avail myself of every lesson her monkeys had to offer, but all I could manage was more nodding. Her gentle words sanded the edge from my scorched and exhausted mood. Her ease was a marvel. I, on the other hand, seemed to be the only one still sweating unruly rivulets. It would have helped if I had dressed to make a better impression. Next to Sari’s sundress, my shorts felt too short, my old Salt Life T-shirt too tacky. I worried that I fit in better with the monkeys.
Hitting jackpot after jackpot with each smashed oyster, the macaques were engrossed with their abundant meal. They celebrated some wins by chittering and shaking their shoulders.
“Phenomenal creatures!” Cole said. “Don’t we all wish they could talk!”
The sauna around us cooled, and I knew instantly Cole had said the wrong thing. Dagmar bristled. Sari smiled and looked down, while Tierra quietly turned away.
“No, no,” Dagmar eventually said. “Do not patronize them with that human wish. They are not furry people. They are macaques. They are majestic beasts made of fangs and coiled muscle, and they have their own intelligence superior to ours.”
“We listen to what they say in other ways,” Sari said.
“You know, I didn’t mean anything by that,” Cole protested.
My instinct was to smile at him, to try to soften his embarrassment, but I was grateful not to be in the hot seat for once and instead stayed focused on the oyster antics.
“They might not speak, but they understand,” Dagmar said. “Rhesus macaques forecast the weather and various community events, and they even have murdered humans. More than one group have stoned people to death. In India, a man who once complained about the monkeys in his town was found stoned by bricks that the monkeys had collected and then stored in the branches of trees, waiting until just the right moment when the man was gathering firewood underneath. Then they pelted him to death. Premeditated.”
Cole pursed his lips and pantomimed turning a key and tossing it to the wind. I made a mental note to search and verify Dagmar’s outrageous story later, only to remember they had confiscated my electronics, and felt suddenly, queasily aware of how difficult it would be to survive at Atlas without my cell phone all summer.
Later in my cabin, Cole kneeled before me, firmly clutching my foot to fuss with the anklet. I felt a pang inside at the coin-sized ring of blistering skin on the top of his head. Everyone has something they hope doesn’t show. He reminded me for a moment of my brother, Jason, the kind of guy who could back a trailer into the intracoastal blindfolded, yet was too shy to look you in the eye. Cole must have felt naked without a cap on.
“This is actually one of our older, heavier units. I had to deploy it because of the rugged environmental conditions out here,” he said, knocking on the rigid vinyl of the anklet as though it were a speakeasy door.
I pictured Cole returning to his office to monitor me, tracking my blipping signal on massive computer screens. The thought was repulsive, but I tried to coax myself into feeling comforted by it. The intrusive surveillance meant that Sunshine Monitoring knew where I was at all times. They would make sure I survived my new life in the woods with the monkeys.
“Okay now, I’m gonna take your picture to document that you have been initiated, we’ve taken your tour, and we’ve checked the calibrations. And please don’t grin in this particular mug shot, if you don’t mind. Try to look like you’ve been reformed.”
That stung. I had smiled for my shot when I was initially fingerprinted and booked: it was a good-girl reflex, a subconscious way to make the arresting officers like me. It clearly didn’t work, and worse, the smile had contributed to my infamy—the internet loves the contradiction of a happy mug shot.
I complied and pulled a straight face for Cole’s photo, letting his joke wash over me without a reaction. I wanted to tell him how much he reminded me of my brother, but I bit my tongue. I had promised myself not to bring up Jason to anyone. I wanted a fresh start, and right at this moment, it didn’t seem smart to advertise my distinctive family history to the man in charge of my brand-new, remote-controlled, electronic monitor.
Mostly, I wanted him to leave so that I could just sprawl on the A-frame’s grungy foam mattress—my new nest—and sleep forever. Instead, Cole slowly inventoried every item in my plastic totes, making me feel defensive about normal decisions (yes, I really did need that many tampons and off-brand protein bars) and odd ones (I winced when he gave my ancient Beanie Baby Winston a cavity search).
But part of me also didn’t want to be alone. During the daytime I would be working for the refuge in the domes or at the macaque enclosure, but at night I would be in this creepy cabin by myself, far down Atlas’s winding paths with no other buildings in sight. Just me and the nosy lizards scaling the makeshift screen doors. Just me and a monitor tracking my every move.
“Can you listen to me through this thing?” I asked him.
“Like I said before, our job is to monitor you, and that’s all you need to know.”
“Is it too late to change my mind, Cole?”
We each looked around. My crappy stuff in disarray, the busted-up building that looked like it had been furnished by fairy-tale animals with ill-fated human aspirations. Even as the words left my mouth, I knew I didn’t mean them. My few days in jail were the worst hours of my life, my body hollowed by fathomless dread, every surface I touched damp from sweat and other people’s breath in overcrowded rooms. Each morning was an assault of regret, the hours marked only by unpalatable meals where even the smallest bites of food were too rank or stale to swallow. Three months at Atlas was a miracle.
“Oh, yeah, way too late to change anything,” he said, adjusting the sunglasses hanging from the placket of his polo shirt. “That boat left the dock three hurricanes ago.”
After briefly chatting with Sari on the way out, Cole finally left, and that was that. He walked out of the A-frame, leaving me alone with only my anklet and whatever else was hiding in the spongy cobwebs littering my cabin walls. As I watched the palmetto path engulf and absorb his silhouette, it was as though the forest’s door closed behind him. I felt like an abandoned beagle staring after a car it will never catch.
2
Welcome, beautiful friend!
Atlas Wildlife Refuge is a hidden gem in the heart of Florida, encompassing over eighty biodiverse acres of land bordering the Ocala National Forest. Thanks to the stewardship of our founder, Sari Sutherland, as well as the generosity of our community of volunteers, Atlas is home to a healthy troop of forty-two macaques who are cared for in peaceful, expansive enclosures. We intend to increase our capacity to serve five times this number by the end of the next three calendar years. We open our arms to welcome you to our vital work. Join the Atlas tribe!
Our promise to you, our dear new members, is the same promise we make to new macaques. As a species, baby monkeys stay close to their mamas, riding on their backs, nursing, learning. That early maternal bond is very important to their later development, but for our macaques it has almost always been broken in their journeys before Atlas. Once they arrive, we repair their spirits and bodies with constancy and attend to their every need. Healing and wholeness naturally follow.
We make that same promise to you, our precious members. We love you. We need each other, and we will take care of you just as you are taking care of us. Embrace the spiritual connection our macaques offer through our brand-new livestream, and visit Atlas’s encampment in this pristine, ancient forest in Central Florida.
We are a supportive circle, but remember: circles are closed for safety and wholeness. You are either with us or against us. There is no other way.
COMMENT FROM SARI
Dagmar and Tierra, this shared document is just to get us started on our journey of writing our manifesto for the updated website, which needs to be ready when we turn on the livestream. I really want everyone’s feedback and authorship. This needs to be a team project that fully captures everything we have discussed. Everything we believe. Don’t forget to click on Track Changes!
You’ll see how hard it is when you get started. We have to say enough to get potential members interested in supporting Atlas, and we want to be true to our beliefs, but we obviously can’t say too much on a public website. I don’t want to sound like we are just a roadside zoo, but I also don’t want to attract trouble from unevolved people with small minds.
So, let’s brainstorm together and do our best to create a website that will make all of our community dreams come true. The time is now, especially since Jamie is here. –xoxoS.
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...