She looked at me quizzically. “Why would you go to so much trouble?”
“You don’t know why?”
She lightly shook her head.
I reached in my pocket and pulled out the letter she had written me. “It’s like you wrote: love doesn’t know its depth until its absence. It wasn’t until after you left that I knew how much you meant to me. And how much I wanted you in my life.” I tried to read her face for a reaction, but she looked more upset by my confession than pleased. Finally I said, “I thought that’s what you wanted.”
She looked up at me. “You know I care about you, right?”
I hated the sound of that. She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “When I was a freshman in high school I wanted to make friends, so I tried out for cheerleading. You had to do this routine. I had never taken gymnastics or dance classes like the other girls, but I thought that maybe I could watch the others and learn fast.
“The tryouts were held after school. I sat there alone waiting my turn. Just before my routine a couple of the popular girls came up to me. I was nervous but kind of excited that they would talk to me. One of them said, ‘What are you doing here?’ I said, ‘The same thing as you.’ She rolled her eyes and said, ‘I doubt that.’ Then the other girl said, ‘I guess they’ll let anyone try out.’
“I was crushed. I still tried out, mostly just to show them that they couldn’t intimidate me, but it was humiliating. And I failed miserably. They didn’t even let me finish my routine. Those two girls became cheerleaders and I was the girl behind the bleachers with whatever boy wanted me. That experience taught me that the surest way to misery was to try to be something you’re not.”
“What does that have to do with us?”
“It has everything to do with us,” she said. “Our worlds are completely different. I wanted to believe otherwise, but I was just lying to myself. Look at tonight. Your father loved you. I don’t even know my father’s name.”
“And that was your fault?”
“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is, it’s just what it is. I’m from Stockton, you’re from Pasadena. You graduated from one of the best graphic colleges in the country, I barely got out of high school.”
“And you’re smarter than most of my clients,” I said. “You were a teenager and providing for your family, taking care of an alcoholic mother and keeping your brother off the streets. Half the graduates of Harvard couldn’t have pulled off what you did.”
“You don’t get a degree for survival,” she said.
“In the end, survival is the only degree that matters,” I said. “It’s the core human experience.”
“Have you forgotten who I was before you found me? I worked in a strip club.”
“I don’t care about your past. Look at who you’ve become.”
She shook her head. “Who I’ve become? I’m the same person I’ve always been. I used to think I had changed, but I haven’t. Inside I’m still that same girl behind the bleachers. Even at the modeling agency. Why can’t you see that?”
“Why can’t you see how good you really are? When everything came crashing down in my life, you were the only one who was loyal. The only one. When my heart was broken and I was alone, you took me in. When I disappeared in Spokane, you looked for me until you found me. The only other person who has stood by me like that was McKale.”
“I’m not McKale,” she said angrily.
“I didn’t say you were. I said you were loyal like her. And good like her.”
“I’m not good.”
“I know you’re good, Falene. I’ve seen it. You don’t think McKale had her faults?”
“McKale never danced nude for drunk old men.”
“McKale was never homeless with a wayward brother.”
She leaned closer and said softly, “Alan, you’re not being honest. I am what I am.”
“You’re the one who’s not being honest. I know who you are, even if you don’t. I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”
She turned away from me.
“You said you loved me,” I said. “I love you too. That’s the reality.” I took her chin in my hand and lifted her head to look at me. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Falene, I’m willing to take a chance on us. Why won’t you?”
She again turned away from me. Tears rolled down her cheeks. When she could speak she said softly, “Because I can’t, Alan.”
“Why not?” I said. “Give me one good reason.”
She looked back, her eyes filled with tears. “Because I’m getting married.”
I was stunned. When I could speak I said, “Married?”
She again turned away from me.
“To whom?”
It was a full minute before she spoke. “His name is Jason. He’s one of the owners of the agency.”
“How long have you known him?”
She didn’t answer.
“Falene, how long have you known him?”
“It doesn’t matter how long I’ve known him.”
“Do you love him?”
Again she said nothing.
“I’ll take that as an answer,” I said.
“Love isn’t everything,” she blurted out.
I must have looked at her for a full minute before I said, “Then what is?”
She sat quietly for a moment, then stood up and walked back the way we had come in. She never answered my question.
The drive to Falene’s hotel was silent except for her occasional sniffling. I tried to think of something powerful to say, but words failed me. I parked in front of the hotel. We sat a moment in silence, then I said, “Whatever you’ve planned can be undone. It’s not too late.”
She looked at me with red, puffy eyes and said softly, “I love you, Alan. I always will. But it was too late before we even met.” She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek, then opened the door and walked into the hotel.
I just watched her disappear. My Dulcinea. I didn’t think my heart could break more than it already had. But I was wrong.
CHAPTER
Twenty-Three
Two million steps forward, three million back.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
Nicole walked into my room around noon. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor going through my pack. Clothes and supplies were strewn all around me.
“Kailamai get off all right?” I asked.
Nicole nodded. “Yeah. Her flight was a little delayed, but it finally left.” She sat down on my bed and sighed. “I’m sorry, Alan. I don’t know what to say.”
“Maybe some people just weren’t meant to be happy,” I said.
“You don’t believe that.”
“Maybe,” I said.
She took a deep breath. “When are you leaving?”
“As soon as I finish my father’s list. Maybe next Friday.” I nodded as if I’d just made an agreement with myself. “Next Friday’s good.” I looked at her. “How about you?”
“Maybe I’ll leave Friday too.”
“You don’t need to stay here for me.”
“Yes I do,” she said. The room fell into silence as I arranged my belongings. Nicole reached down and lifted the yellow envelope with my name written on it. “What’s this?”
“My father asked me to take it with me to Key West.”
“What’s in it?”
“I don’t know. He asked me not to open it until I get there.”
She set the envelope back down. “How much longer will it take you to get to Key West?”
“It’s a little more than five hundred miles. About a month.”
“Then you’ll get there just before Christmas.”
“Probably. I’ll call you when I reach Miami.”
“And we’ll be there when you cross the finish line. I promise.”
We just looked at each other for a moment; then she held open her arms. “Come here.”
I stood up and went and sat down on the bed next to her. She wrapped her arms around me. “I’m go
ing to miss you. I love you, you know.”
I laid my head on her shoulder. “It’s a good thing. You’re the only one left in my life.”
CHAPTER
Twenty-Four
When you’ve got nowhere to go, walk.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
There’s a saying among frequent fliers that the routes to heaven and hell pass through the Atlanta airport. I’ve mostly experienced the latter. The last time I passed through Atlanta I was worried about my father and anxious about Falene. Now, returning to Jacksonville through Atlanta, I was mourning both of them. My heart felt almost as heavy as it did leaving Seattle.
In Jacksonville I retrieved my pack from the carousel, then took a cab about forty miles northwest up Highway 1 to the town of Folkston, Georgia, where I had ended the last leg of my journey. Before leaving California I had again booked a room at the Inn at Folkston—the bed and breakfast I had stayed in before returning to California. The B&B had undergone a change of management since my last stay, so the new innkeepers, Pastor Ted and his wife, Alease, didn’t know me. I doubted that the previous owners would have remembered me from my short stay, but B&B owners tend to make you feel like you’re part of the family.
The room I had booked was called the Funnel Room—a peculiar name derived from the town’s nickname, the Folkston Funnel. Because of its unique location, Folkston is on one of the busiest train routes in the world, and all the trains in Florida “funnel” through the small town. Train watchers (previous to my stay I hadn’t known there was such a thing) come from all around the world to watch the trains pass through town—up to seventy a day.
Folkston also lays claim to being the Gateway to the Okefenokee—a title also claimed up north by Waycross, where I had toured the swamp.
I left my pack in my room, then returned to the front lobby. Pastor Ted was sitting in his office just right of the front door. He looked up from his paperwork as I walked by.
“May I help you with something?”
“I was just going to get some dinner,” I said. “Do you have any recommendations?”
“If you like southern food, I’d recommend the Okefenokee Restaurant.”
“Is it within walking distance?”
“Everything in Folkston is within walking distance,” he said. “But the restaurant is only a few blocks from here. Just walk out the door, turn right, and go about five blocks. You’ll see it on your right-hand side.”
“I’ll give it a try,” I said. “So how’s the inn business?”
“It’s glorious,” he said. “We’re still getting our bearings, but Alease and I are both people people, so it’s a treat getting to meet new people each day. It’s like traveling without going anywhere.”
“Are you from Folkston?”
“No, sir. I was born and raised in Jacksonville. As a matter of fact, I’m still the assistant pastor at the Jesus Christ Community Baptist Church in Jacksonville.”
“How did you end up in Folkston?”
“The wife and I had decided to purchase a B&B once we retired. We’d been researching B&Bs for a couple of years, and one weekend we came up here to Folkston to get away for a few days. We asked the previous owners a lot of questions about the business. They asked why we were so curious. When we told them, they made us an offer we couldn’t refuse. So I ended up taking an early retirement and we bought the place.”
“And so far so good?”
He chuckled. “The wife hasn’t left me yet, so yes. So far so good.”
“Well, you hang on to her,” I said. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Enjoy your dinner,” he replied.
I followed his directions to the Okefenokee Restaurant. The walk was pleasant. The road was wide and lined with trees and interesting old homes. Many of the trees were draped in Spanish moss.
About halfway to the restaurant, the residential area turned into the business district, and I had to cross a wide swath of railroad tracks. There were people standing on both sides of the tracks waiting for trains.
The restaurant was just a couple blocks from the tracks. A young black woman with tightly braided hair and deep purple eye shadow greeted me at the door, then led me to the closest table, which was set with utensils rolled in paper napkins.
“We got our buffet,” she said. “There’s a menu too.” She pointed to a folded sheet of paper. “You want something to drink?”
“Just water,” I said.
“I’ll get your water. If you decide to have the buffet, just help yourself. Most everyone just gets the buffet.”
She walked away. I lifted the paper menu. I quickly deduced that you didn’t have to order the buffet, but it was near sacrilege not to. The menu said:
If you don’t want our buffet, this is what we can offer.
It offered a grilled cheese sandwich and hamburgers in various stages of dress. I got up and walked over to the buffet tables. Pastor Ted was right about the cuisine—it was as southern as cotton. There was okra, mustard greens, grits, fried catfish, fried shrimp, fatback, fried chicken, biscuits, and clam chowder. To the back of the room was a salad bar with sweet coleslaw and bread-and-butter pickles, which were delicious. I loaded up my plate, then went back to the table.
When my waitress returned with my water, I asked her what fatback was.
Her forehead furrowed. “You don’t know what fatback is?”
“No, ma’am.”
“It’s fried bacon fat.”
“Like chicharrón?” I asked.
She looked at me blankly. “I don’t know what that is.”
“Fried pork rinds?” I asked.
“Y’all just try it,” she said. A moment later she returned with a bowl full of fried strips of fat. The first piece I tried was too chewy for my taste, and I ended up discreetly spitting it out and wrapping it in my napkin. So much for fatback.
The chicken and fish were good, as were the biscuits, but I wasn’t used to ingesting so much fried food, and I left the restaurant with a stomachache.
As the sun fell, I walked back to the inn. The lights were on, and Ted and Alease were sitting on the porch next to two middle-aged women who were bent over a large cardboard box full of mail.
“Good evening,” I said.
“Evening,” they all replied.
“We’d shake your hand,” the blond woman closest to me said, “but we’ve been handling all this mail. I’m sure it’s got nasty germs all over it.”
“You get a lot of mail,” I said. “You must be a celebrity.”
The redheaded woman next to her laughed. “She’s the queen of England,” she drawled.
The blond woman shook her head. “It’s my brother’s mail. He’s recently passed away, and we came down to settle his affairs. He had all this mail piled up.”
I thought of my father and what I’d just been through working down his list. I thought of mentioning it but decided not to. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.
“Thank you,” she replied.
I sat down in a wicker chair between the pastor and his wife and the two women.
“How was dinner?” Ted asked.
“It was fine,” I said. In a town as small as this it was likely that he knew the owner, and I didn’t want to insult a friend of his.
As the sun set, the street fell into darkness. The moss on the trees looked as black and intricate as lace.
“It’s beautiful here,” I said.
“Yes it is,” Ted said. “The leaves turn later in the South. One doesn’t think of southern Georgia or Florida for changing leaves, but we’ve got red maple, sugarberry, persimmon, black cherry, maple, flowering dogwood, sassafras . . . Course, it’s nothing like the Carolinas, but it’s still beautiful.”
“It’s the snap of cold that turns the colors,” Alease said. “So the farther south you go, the later the leaves turn. You’ll see it. The turkey oaks turn a brilliant red in December.”
“I love the Spanish moss,” I said. “I
t’s so uniquely southern. We don’t have it on the West Coast.”
“We’ve got plenty here,” Ted said. “In the old days, they used it to stuff bed mattresses and furniture cushions. The problem is, it’s full of chiggers.”
Alease nodded. “You have to boil the moss before you use it. Otherwise, you’ll get those chigger bites.”
“Oh,” groaned the redheaded woman. “Itches like the devil. A couple years ago I had them all over my legs. Took forever to get rid of them. They burrow under your skin.”
“No they don’t,” the blond woman said. “They’re just so small, you can’t see them.”
“Have you ever had chigger bites?” the redhead asked sharply.
“When I was a teenager,” the blonde replied. She turned to me. “Have you ever had chigger bites?”
“Not that I know of,” I said.
“You’d know if you had them,” the redhead said.
“If you get them, don’t scratch them,” the blonde said. “That’s when the torture really begins.”
“It’s best to put nail polish on them,” the redhead said. “It reduces the itchiness.”
“I’ve heard that,” Alease said. “I’ll have to try it.”
“Hopefully you’ll never have cause,” the blonde said.
“Here’s an interesting fact,” Ted interjected. “Henry Ford used Spanish moss for padding the seats in the first Model Ts, but failed to boil it first. That resulted in the world’s first auto recall.” He laughed. “The more things change the more they stay the same.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” the redhead said.
Alease nodded, then said, “It sure is a beautiful night to be out here.”
“The temperature is just right,” I said.
We sat a moment in pleasant silence as the women continued shuffling through the mail, either dropping it in a garbage sack or piling it on the table next to them. Occasionally they would discuss one of the pieces.
Finally I said, “I guess I’ll retire.”
“What time will you be wanting breakfast in the morning?” Ted asked.
“What time do you serve?”
“Six to eight thirty.”
Richard Paul Evans: The Complete Walk Series eBook Boxed Set Page 81
