Free Whale Season by N. M. Kelby

with scanners, twenty or more. Each one is locked on to a different frequency: police, sheriff, state police, airports, fire departments, EMS, even FEMA, the Federal Emergency Management Agency, which can provide a lot of drama with all the fires in the Glades and hurricane season. Some are set to pick up Miami. The one in the kitchen has a huge exterior antenna. You can hear all about muggings in Key West on clear days.
    â€œIt’s the sounds of life,” Jimmy Ray told Dagmar when he first put them in. “The world hums with drama. Makes you jingle in your bones.”
    â€œYou have to stop watching
Cops
.”
    But Jimmy Ray had a point. His is the only inhabited house for miles in any direction. Gets pretty lonely.
    â€œLook,” Dagmar said. “I’m going to run Jesus out to the interstate. I didn’t want you to worry.”
    Jimmy Ray flinched. The idea of sending Jesus packing on Christmas Day, even if he was just a crazy Jesus guy, just didn’t seem right. “Maybe we should all have breakfast first.”
    Dagmar looked squeamish.
    â€œIn the spirit of Christmas,” Jimmy Ray said.
    Dagmar wanted to argue, but, in all the excitement, the caffeine had suddenly worn off. She felt like she’d hit a wall, just wanted to sleep.
    â€œThat’s mighty nice of you,” Jesus said and opened his car door. Shook Jimmy Ray’s hand. “I hope this isn’t too much trouble.”
    Jimmy Ray gave a little bow. “No, sir. My pleasure. I got to warn you, though, that I’m a big fan of Mr. Buddha. But if that don’t bother you, come on in.”
    â€œNot much bothers me anymore,” Jesus said.
    Jimmy Ray looked at the man, his scarred forehead and hands. His eyes, murky lakes. It frightened him a little, but he tried not to show it. “Well, then,” Jimmy Ray said gently. “Let’s all have us a little breakfast. Dagmar promised corncakes with real corn and sorghum. Didn’t you, darling?”
    No, she wanted to say, that’s the first I’ve heard of it. “Huh?” is what she said.
    â€œAnd while you’re at it,” Jimmy Ray said, “why don’t you give Mr. Trot a call and tell him that we’re having Jesus over for breakfast. Maybe he’d like to join us.”
    Dagmar looked at her watch. 7:02 A.M. Christmas morning. She was pretty sure that Trot, despite his undying love for her, would not find an invitation to breakfast with Jesus of interest at this hour. Of course, sleep-deprived and caffeine-numb as she was, Dagmar was forgetting one major thing—Trot is sheriff. Sheriffs usually like to know when Jesus rolls into their town to celebrate his birthday. However, at that moment, Dagmar was thinking not of Trot, middle-aged law enforcement officer whose mother still buys his underwear, but Trot, the lovesick teenager who stole her gym socks and wore them around for a month. That Trot. The gooney Trot. The Trot she probably should have married.
    â€œI don’t understand,” she said, but Jimmy Ray didn’t hear her. The two men were already walking up the broken sidewalk toward the house—“The Key Lime House,” as Dagmar calls it. It’s a tiny cottage edged by key lime trees and painted an overripe shade of yellow. Seems to grow from the center of the grove. The sun was rising. A flock of green parrots screeched overhead. A possum ran across the driveway, three babies scrambled after, tumbling on top of each other.
    Dagmar was still sitting in the car, confused and yawning.
    Jimmy Ray and Jesus stopped at the front door. Turned around.
    â€œYou coming, sis? There’s breakfast to be made,” Jimmy Ray shouted. “And you know that Mr. Trot would love to hear the sound of your voice on a fine morning such as this!”
    Jimmy Ray never got over the fact that Dagmar chose Leon over Trot.
    â€œAnd I’m nothing without my coffee,” Jesus chimed in.
    Okay,