“Eight would be good.”
“Eight it is,” he replied. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
“I put out some banana bread in the hallway near your room,” Alease said. “It should still be warm.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Outside my room was a small round table with a plate of warm bread. Even though my stomach still ached a little from dinner, I took a slice. On the wall next to my door was a framed sampler that read:
Having a place to go is a home.
Having someone to love is a family.
Having both is a true blessing.
I had neither. Did that make me truly unblessed? Cradling the bread in one hand, I unlocked the door to my room and stepped inside. I sat down on my bed and ate the bread, then pulled off my shoes, undressed, and lay down on the duvet.
I was back again. Why? Why had I come back? I felt like I was on the edge of the cliff about to step over. From here on my walk was due south, straight down the coast of Florida, over five hundred miles to Key West. I wasn’t sure if I was up to it—emotionally or physically.
The bellow of a train’s horn interrupted my thoughts. The horn was followed by the metallic clacking of a train across the rails. I wondered if the noise was something the locals ever got used to.
I sat up and took out my map to review my route. Highway 1 ran the length of the coast all the way to Key West. It seemed simple enough, but I knew from experience that my path would likely change once I hit asphalt, based on the road and the availability of hotels and restaurants. Interstate 95 also ran south and would likely provide access to both, but I always felt vulnerable walking on freeways, and in a state as populated as Florida, many stretches would be closed to pedestrians.
I traced Highway 1 down past Miami to where the keys began, at the southeastern tip of the Florida peninsula. I studied the route for just a moment, then tossed my map on the floor and lay back in bed. On the wall behind the bed was a framed sampler that read:
Faith is the bird that sings when the dawn is still dark.
—Tagore
After all this time it was hard to believe that I was actually this close. McKale and I had once talked of visiting Key West, and, had she lived, we likely would have.
I reached over and turned out the nightstand lamp, then lay listening to the train horns that blew every fifteen minutes or so. I don’t know what time I fell asleep, but I didn’t sleep well. I dreamed all night of oncoming trains.
CHAPTER
Twenty-Five
Usually the most interesting stories are written not on paper but hearts.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
I woke with the sun streaming through my window. I checked my watch, and, seeing that it was a quarter after seven, I climbed into the shower. I sat on the tile floor with my head bowed, letting the water fall over me. I was feeling a little jet-lagged, but I wasn’t going to let it slow me down.
I washed myself, shaved, then dressed. With the exception of what I’d worn the day before, my clothes were all clean, and I had several outfits to choose from—a luxury that wouldn’t last for long. The dining room was just across the hall from my room, and as I dressed I could hear the clinking of silverware on plates.
The two women I had met the night before were sitting at the main table, joined by a man I hadn’t met. He was wearing a short-sleeved Harley-Davidson shirt.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Morning,” they returned in a chorus. The man stood and extended his hand. “I’m William. Kelly’s husband.”
“I’m Kelly,” the blond-haired woman said. “We didn’t share names last night.”
“And I’m Naomi,” the redhead said.
“It’s a pleasure,” I said. “My name is Alan.”
At the sound of my entrance, Ted emerged from the kitchen, smiling. “Good morning, Mr. Christoffersen.”
“Alan,” I said.
“I just like saying your last name,” he replied. “Must be the pastor in me. Please, Alan, take a seat.”
“May I join you?” I asked the others.
“Of course,” Naomi said.
I pulled out a chair and sat down at the long table.
Ted stood at the end of the room, clasping his hands in front of him as if he were about to address a congregation. “This morning we have eggs and bacon, fruit, and homemade biscuits from scratch.” He winked. “Maybe not from scratch. A pastor shouldn’t lie.” He looked at me. “Now, Alan, you’re not from the South. Have you had grits?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve walked through Tennessee, Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia, so I’ve eaten a bucket of them. Maybe a wheelbarrow.”
Ted laughed. “Glad to hear it. I’m especially partial to ours.”
“Then I look forward to trying them.”
He walked back to the kitchen.
“Did you say you walked through all those states?” William asked.
“Yes. And many more. I’m walking across America. I started in Seattle, Washington.”
“Oh my,” Naomi said.
“What’s your profession?” William asked.
“Right now it’s walking,” I said.
“How does it pay?”
“It doesn’t,” I said. “In my former life I owned an advertising agency in Seattle.”
“That explains it,” William said. “Lots of money in advertising.”
“There can be,” I replied.
“How many miles are we from Seattle?” Naomi asked.
“Nearly three thousand,” I replied.
She shook her head. “The stories you must have to tell.”
“I have a few.”
“Where are you headed?” William asked.
“Key West,” I said.
“Key West’s a little more than five hundred miles from here,” William said. “You taking the Ninety-Five?”
“You can’t walk the Ninety-Five,” Kelly said. “It’s an expressway.” She turned to me. “And they’ve always got it tore up. Take the One—the Old Dixie Highway. It ends in Key West.”
“No, he should take the A1A,” Naomi said. “That’ll give you the prettiest view of the ocean.”
“The A1A doesn’t go all the way through,” William said. “He’d have to backtrack.”
“I’ll probably do a little of each,” I said. “I’ve looked through my maps, but I’m sure things will change. I’ve learned that the maps aren’t the road.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Kelly said.
Ted and Alease’s teenage daughter, Mariah, came out of the kitchen carrying a glass of orange juice. She was a pretty, tall girl wearing a yellow apron and a bright crimson blouse that seemed to glow against her smooth ebony skin. She seemed a little shy as she set the glass in front of me.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” she said, walking back to the kitchen. A moment later she returned with a bowl of fruit topped with yogurt and granola.
“Thank you,” I said again.
She smiled. “You’re still welcome.”
I was hungry and the fruit tasted good. My table companions let me eat a moment in silence. Then William said, “Did you come down from Waycross?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you visit the swamp?”
“I took the tour.”
“The tour’s better down here,” Kelly said. “It’s federal run. You should take it.”
“I don’t think I’ll have the chance,” I said. “I’ve got to get on my way.”
“How far do you walk each day?” Naomi asked.
“It depends. I’ve gone as far as thirty miles.”
“Lord, almighty,” she said.
“But I usually walk around twenty to twenty-four.”
“Is it dangerous?” Kelly asked.
“Of course it’s dangerous,” William said. “There’s a lot of crazies out there.” He turned to me. “I’d be carrying if I were you.”
<
br /> “Sometimes it’s dangerous,” I said. “I walked over those tracks last night. That seemed a little dangerous.”
Naomi nodded. “With this many trains you’ve got to keep both eyes open. We’ve had our losses. Like Uncle George and Beth.” She looked at Kelly.
Kelly frowned. “Yes, George and Beth.”
“They were killed by a train?” I asked.
“About four years ago,” Kelly replied.
“Darndest thing,” William said, shaking his head.
“What happened?”
“They were coming back from Chucky’s baptism—”
“Chucky’s their grandson,” Naomi said.
“It was late,” Kelly said. “Their car stalled on the tracks and George couldn’t get it going again. Then he heard a train coming. He got out and went to help Beth out of the car, but she panicked and locked the door.”
“They were older,” Naomi said. “In their eighties.”
“Beth wasn’t all there,” William said. “Hadn’t been for years.”
Naomi added, “George’s friend, Marshall, was in a wheelchair across the street. He saw it all.”
Kelly looked annoyed. “Will you please just let me tell the story?”
“Sorry,” William said.
“I was saying, Beth locked the car door. George pled with her to open the door, but she wouldn’t. Then he looked down the track at the coming train, walked back to the driver’s seat, and got in.”
“The train took both of them,” Naomi said.
“He didn’t want to go on living without her,” William said. “It was tragic.”
“It’s tragic and beautiful at the same time,” Kelly said, surrendering the story. “They got to go together.”
After a moment I said, “I can understand why he would do that.”
Mariah came out carrying a plate with three strips of bacon, two biscuits, and scrambled eggs with cheese melted on top. Ted followed her out but stopped near the doorway, as if supervising her.
“There’s blackberry jelly right there,” Mariah said. “For your biscuit.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Ted smiled proudly. “Does everything look satisfactory?”
“Yes. Thank you. It looks delicious.”
Mariah walked back into the kitchen.
“The eggs are real fresh,” Ted said. “In fact, you just missed Chicken George.”
“Chicken George?”
“He lives just down the street. He brings us fresh eggs every morning. Would you like some coffee?”
“Please,” I said. “Thank you.”
He walked back to the kitchen. I broke open a biscuit, forked some eggs inside, then folded a piece of bacon and put it inside, making a breakfast sandwich. My companions watched in silence.
I asked Kelly, “You said you’re here for a funeral?”
“My brother’s,” Kelly said.
Sometimes, in the pain and loneliness of my losses, I forgot that I was only one of hundreds of thousands bidding their loved ones goodbye. It’s like standing at the airport and not seeing anyone around you.
“Your brother lived in Folkston?” I asked.
“Just a half mile north of here,” William said.
“Are you also from Folkston?” I asked.
“We live in Macon now,” Kelly said.
“I’ve got a machine shop in Macon,” William added. “Naomi lives in Jacksonville.”
“How far will you walk today?” Kelly asked.
“Hopefully twenty miles. I’m breaking myself back in to walking. I went home for a few weeks, so I’ve gotten a little out of shape.”
“I bet your family was glad to see you,” Kelly said.
“There’s only my father,” I said. “But he passed away.”
“I’m sorry,” Naomi said.
“We all have our losses, don’t we,” Kelly said.
Ted returned with my coffee. A few minutes later Kelly, Naomi, and William excused themselves to get ready for the funeral. I finished eating, then looked in the kitchen to thank Ted and Mariah, but they were gone. I left a five-dollar bill on the table for Mariah, then went to my room and packed.
As I was about to leave the inn, Alease and Ted walked into the foyer. Alease handed me a brown paper sack. “I put some of the banana nut bread in there,” she said. “Just in case you need a snack on the way.”
“You be sure to come back,” Ted said. “We’ll leave the light on.”
“You’re very kind,” I said. “Thank you for everything.” I stepped outside. It was time to continue my walk.
CHAPTER
Twenty-Six
Perhaps the greatest mystery of death is why it’s a mystery.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The day was overcast and the road was wet, spotted with occasional puddles. Soon a comfortable mist filled the air—much like what I was used to in Seattle.
Walking east, I crossed the railroad tracks again. There were even more people gathered to watch the trains. After the tracks, I continued along Main Street to Second until I reached the edge of town.
Less than five miles from the inn I reached the Florida state line and the border town of Boulogne. Across the border it was easy walking along smooth, flat stretches with grassy shoulders hemmed in by a corridor of tall trees.
After two hours I reached the town of Hilliard. My legs were already sore. I walked another mile and a half, then stopped for lunch at the R&R Wings Café. I had a bowl of the Underground Chili and a half-dozen garlic honey wings, then hurried back out before my legs cramped up.
I had walked another mile when I came to a Winn-Dixie supermarket. I stopped inside for supplies, which included bottled water, canned fruit, pork and beans, protein bars, jerky, and raw almonds. I also purchased some Epsom salts to soak in later. I shopped for just half an hour, eager to keep moving.
A block from the store was a sign for the next town:
CALLAHAN 11 MILES
Callahan would put me at around twenty-two miles for the day. I thought it was a respectable goal for the first day back. I just hoped my legs had it in them to walk the whole way. As I left Hilliard the speed of the traffic increased, while mine steadily declined. I reached Callahan at around six p.m. The city sign boasted:
Home of the
FLORIDA CHEERLEADING
STATE CHAMPIONS
The first motel I came to was called the Ship Inn—a long, narrow row of rooms. The rental office was situated apart from the hotel in its own building near the road. I went in to reserve a room.
An Indian man was sitting on a mat on the floor playing a card game with a woman who was dressed in a saffron-colored sari. The office smelled of incense and curry. The man seemed annoyed that I had interrupted his game.
I got a room for just forty-five dollars. Once inside, I fell back on the bed, exhausted, my legs cramping. I lifted my legs and pulled them toward me until my hamstrings stretched. As hungry as I was, I was too tired to walk to a restaurant, so I ate Alease’s banana nut bread and cold beans and fruit. Then I filled the tub with hot water and the Epsom salts and soaked until the water started to cool. That night I slept much better than I had in Folkston.
The next morning as I lay in bed, I saw where someone had written on the wall:
Where will I go when I die?
My mind went back to the conversation I’d had with my father about the afterlife. I couldn’t help but smile. I took a pen from the nightstand and wrote beneath the query:
Toledo
I remembered a story one of my former employees, a graphic artist named Charles, told me. He said that when he was young he’d had a cousin with leukemia. He said that one night he woke in the middle of the night to see her standing next to his bed. When he asked her what she was doing in his room she said, “Tell my mother and father that all is well.” Then she was gone. The next morning his parents told him that his cousin had died in the night.
I don’t know if Charles ha
d really seen the girl or not, but I’m certain that he believed he had.
Toledo. I wondered where my father was—physically—if the word still applied. Was he walking with me? Would I even know it if he was? I thought of his dream about sitting in the garden with my mother and McKale. I hoped he was there. The thought made me feel peaceful.
I dressed, then sat down on the thinly padded carpet and again stretched my back and legs. When I felt sufficiently limber I grabbed my pack and set off for the day. It had rained during the night, and the sky was still overcast. All around me the ground and roadway were pooled with water. Walking on water, I thought. A mile and a half into town I reached a Huddle House restaurant. I stopped for a breakfast of blueberry pancakes.
Shortly after I left the restaurant the highway speed limit rose to sixty-five again, which affected me only because of the danger of speeding cars on wet roads. An hour later I entered Duval County and reached the Jacksonville city limit. Peculiarly, someone had hung the hoods of a dozen cars along a fence. I had no idea why. Maybe it was art.
Thirteen miles into the day I climbed the on-ramp to Interstate 295. The freeway traffic was dense and fast, at least in comparison to where I had been walking, but there were also a wide emergency lane and broad, grassy shoulders.
My legs were still not a hundred percent, so I exited the freeway short of twenty miles at Commonwealth Avenue. The shoulder was under repair, and I had to hike around barricades to get to the bottom of the off-ramp and the Comfort Suites.
There was a Wendy’s drive-in adjacent to the hotel’s parking lot, and I had a chicken salad, a bowl of chili, and a baked potato for dinner, then went back to my room and soaked in the last of my Epsom salts before going to bed.
The next day was stressful going. As I’d been warned back in Folkston, the expressway was “tore up” in myriad places, making it difficult to walk. At one point I was forced to climb over barricades because of road construction.
Around noon I took the Roosevelt Boulevard exit and ate lunch at one of my favorite stops, the Waffle House. I was in no hurry to return to the 95, so after lunch I tried to keep to local roads, but after an hour I could see the freeway was the only sensible route. I walked nearly five miles more, then got off on the Old St. Augustine Road.
Richard Paul Evans: The Complete Walk Series eBook Boxed Set Page 82
