Walking on Water: A Novel

by Richard Paul Evans

  I walked back to my table and sat down. A moment later I glanced back at the women. They had already walked over to a table of men. My waitress brought my sandwich and beer.

  “Here you go.” She set the plate before me. “One pulled pork sandwich and . . . another Dark Lord.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Just the check.”

  “I’ll be right back.” She hesitated for a moment, then said, “For the record, you made the right choice.” She turned and walked away.

  When she returned with my check I said, “What do you mean I made the right choice?”

  “Those two girls, Lindsi and Renny. They’re bad news. They’ve sunk more men than the barrier reef.”

  “Sunk?”

  “Hearts, marriages, bank accounts, souls. Pick one.” She smiled. “You’re one of the smart ones.”

  In light of the humiliation the girls had just flung at me, it was good to hear this. “Thank you.”

  “Thank yourself,” she said, then turned and walked away.

  A few minutes later I looked back over to where the women had been standing, but they, and the men, were already gone.

  I finished eating, drank just one of the beers, then grabbed my pack and walked back out to the frontage road. I walked a quarter mile more before finding a hotel. For one of the few times since I’d left Seattle, I was glad to be alone.

  I got up early the next morning and went for a short walk along the beach. In Daytona, cars are allowed to drive on the beach, and as I walked a dozen or so vintage Corvettes passed by.

  I ate breakfast at the hotel, which I realized catered to the elderly, as I was the only one in the dining room under seventy. The complimentary meal included runny eggs, chipped beef, and Cream of Wheat. When several of the women began taking an overt interest in me, I grabbed my pack and left.

  About a half hour later I walked past the famous Daytona Beach Drive-In Christian Church, where you come as you are, tune your radio to 680 AM or 88.5 FM, and hear God’s word. I had to smile. It was a far cry from what McKale and I used to do in drive-ins.

  The next three days were peaceful and, frankly, not worth writing about. My walk took me through New Smyrna Beach, Edgewater, Oak Hill, and then to Titusville, aka Space City, USA. I entered the town, walking past Astronaut High School. I found a room at the Budget Motel, paying forty-five dollars to a smiling, toothless woman at the front desk, ate dinner next door at the Your Place Restaurant, then went to my room and crashed. I felt like I was coming down with something.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-Nine

  Humanity is always looking for the next great world, the next frontier. I wonder how different this world would be if we were content with where we were.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  I woke sick. I wasn’t coughing, fortunately, but I felt feverish and achy, so I decided to rest for a day—which, frankly, I was planning on doing anyway so I could tour the nearby Kennedy Space Center. I ate breakfast at the restaurant next door, then walked a block to a drugstore, where I purchased some cold-relief capsules. Then I took a cab to the space center on Merritt Island.

  My father was fascinated by space travel. I’ll always remember the look on his face as he told me about watching the Apollo 11 moon landing in July 1969, repeating Neil Armstrong’s words, “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” My father told me that Armstrong had not only prepared the speech himself after landing on the moon but had unintentionally dropped the word a before man, which technically changed the quote’s meaning.

  When I was twelve my father took me to see an actual moon rock at the California Science Center, and for the next week I drank nothing but orange-flavored Tang, the drink of astronauts. Most interesting to me were the exhibits and museums that displayed actual artifacts from space history, including the original Mercury mission control consoles, and the Rocket Garden—an exhibit of the actual Mercury-Redstone, Atlas, and Titan rockets that the first astronauts rode into space. There were also the Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo capsules.

  Seeing the space center made me miss my father.

  The space center closed at five p.m., so I called a taxi to take me back to the hotel. I was still feeling crummy, so I ate a light dinner at Your Place Restaurant, then went to bed before nine.

  Fortunately, I woke feeling better. I got an early start, walking US 1 through Bellwood, Delespine, Port St. John, Frontenac, Williams Point, and Sharpes, stopping for the night at a hotel on Merritt Island.

  The next day I took SR 520 east until I reached SR A1A south, which took me through the south end of Merritt Island and Cocoa Beach, past Patrick Air Force Base, home of the 45th Space Wing, assigned to NASA and outer space. As I passed the base’s entrance I felt a twinge of anxiety. The last time I had passed an air force base was just outside of Spokane, the night I was stabbed.

  I had sporadically encountered long stretches of roadkill in the Midwest, but that was nothing compared to the A1A, where I saw more run-over animals than anywhere else on my walk. Except on this side of the continent the deceased creatures were crustaceans. Crabs—thousands of them smashed and baked into the pavement. Outside of Orchid Island I had to watch my step, as there were plenty of them still alive, running sideways in waves across the asphalt splattered with their brethren. I had no idea what motivated them on their suicidal trek, but I did make a bad joke about it.

  Why did the crab cross the road? To get to the other—Crunch.

  Two days later I reached Vero Beach at around two thirty in the afternoon. Vero Beach is one of the wealthiest cities in Florida, evidenced by a plethora of boutiques and art galleries.

  As I entered the town I stopped at the Village Beach Market. I purchased some food, then asked Marge, a pleasant, lavender-haired woman at the checkout counter, about the area. She told me that the bulk of the hotels were spread out over the next two miles along the beach. After that I would encounter miles of condominiums and gated residences.

  It would be only four by the time I reached the beach, which was earlier than I usually stopped but too late to make it to the next city. I knew from experience that it was difficult to camp in residential areas, particularly an upscale one like Vero Beach, which meant my best bet would be to find a hotel nearby. Marge recommended that I stay at the Driftwood Resort.

  I sat on the grass in front of the store and ate a lunch of pineapple cucumber juice, a tuna wrap, and spears of freshly cut pineapple. Then I walked down Mango Road toward the beach until I reached Ocean Drive. I had walked about a mile when I reached the Driftwood Resort.

  The Driftwood is a rustic-looking place, and is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. It was built in the early 1900s with cypress logs and cypress paneling cut from the swamps around the Blue Cypress Lake, about twenty-five miles away. Parts of the building were constructed without plans, which, considering the vernacular architecture, wasn’t hard to believe. Scattered around the grounds was an eclectic collection of memorabilia ranging from captains’ wheels to ship bells—one of which was said to have been owned by Harriet Beecher Stowe.

  I told the woman at the registration counter that Marge at the Village Beach Market had recommended I stay there, so she gave me a deal on their last room, a cottage about fifty feet from the lobby.

  There was a hand-painted wooden sign above the room’s entrance with a picture of a large fish, which I assumed was a tarpon, since my room was named the Tarpon Cottage.

  I went inside and took a long nap. I woke after dark, started the water in the jetted tub, and lay back down on the bed. Unfortunately, the hot water ran out long before the tub was filled, so I skipped the bath and went to dinner instead at the hotel restaurant, Waldo’s, which claimed to be “The Last of the Great American Hangouts.”

  The food was good. I ordered crab cakes, peel-and-eat shrimp, and Bermuda triangles, which I followed with “Crazy Harry’s” Cobb salad. I never asked who Har
ry was or why he was crazy.

  There was a band playing near the pool in back, so after I finished eating I went outside to listen as the moon rose above the Atlantic. After a while, the crowds around the pool made me feel lonely, so I went back to my room and turned on the television. There was a football game on—the Seattle Seahawks and the Miami Dolphins. I watched the game for only a quarter, then turned off the television and went to bed.

  CHAPTER

  Thirty

  To deny our pasts is to burn the bridge we must cross to self-understanding.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  From my room I watched the sun rise from the horizon, turning the sky a beautiful rose-gold hue, then pure gold.

  I emerged from my room feeling refreshed and rested. The Atlantic air was already humid and sweet, smelling of the perfume of flowers I couldn’t name and hadn’t ever smelled in the West.

  I returned my room key to the front office, then headed off, walking south along Ocean Drive. Ocean Drive turned west onto Club Drive, which led me through a residential area as thick and tangled as a jungle. It was like walking through a labyrinth, and I had to retrace my steps twice, setting me back at least twenty minutes. I finally emerged from the neighborhood, crossed a bridge, then headed south through Fort Pierce, walking past beautiful golf courses and lush landscapes.

  I noticed that in Vero Beach many of the streets were named after flowers, but in Fort Pierce the roads had nautical names, like Sea Mist, Oyster Bay, and Harbor Lane.

  For more than an hour I walked along the beach listening to a soundtrack of screeching gulls, the crashing ocean, and the singing of cicadas. The noon sun was hot, but it was mercifully tempered by the ocean’s breeze.

  Fort Pierce is the place of origin of the Navy SEALs, and I passed the National Navy UDT-SEAL Museum before Highway A1A turned west into Shorewinds Drive and Fort Pierce. I crossed a drawbridge over the Indian River, followed the Old Dixie Highway to the next intersection, where it turned into US 1, then walked another ten miles before calling it a day.

  As the sun fell, I booked a room at the Days Inn. The man at the front desk recommended I eat dinner at a place about two blocks from the hotel called Lottie’s Eats. I took my pack to the room, then went out looking for the restaurant. It turned out to be one of the strangest stops of my entire walk.

  From the road, the restaurant looked deserted, and if it weren’t for the hotel clerk’s directions I probably would have just walked on by without noticing it. A carved wood sign above the door read LOTTIE’S EATS, the words framed with sharp-petaled flowers of alternating pink and white. The door squeaked on its hinges as I pushed it open.

  The room had a dingy, bar-like atmosphere, with peeling tile floors and a half-dozen round tables, some with cloths, some without. The place was empty except for four men who sat at one of the tables in the corner, their eyes glued to a television mounted to the wall. They were watching a football game. Their table was cluttered with mostly empty bottles and mugs and a bowl of pretzels.

  As I walked in, all of the men turned and looked at me, which might have been intimidating, but it wasn’t. They looked slightly inebriated and happy to see me.

  “Welcome,” one of the men said, lifting a beer bottle. “C’mon in.”

  “Thank you.” I couldn’t tell if the men were customers or restaurant staff, but, as there appeared to be no one else in the restaurant, I decided on the latter. “Can I get something to eat?” I asked. Even though the sign out front read EATS, it wasn’t immediately clear to me that the place served food.

  “Course,” the man said. He turned to one of the others, a curly-topped man with a boyish face. “Leonard, get him a menu and something to drink.”

  The man pushed his chair back. “What are you drinking?” he asked.

  “Just water,” I said.

  “You can join us over here,” the first man said.

  “Thank you.” I walked over to the table and sat down.

  “You got a name?” he asked.

  “Alan.”

  “I’m Lottie,” he replied.

  “You’re Lottie,” I said. “So you own this place.”

  “She owns me,” he said. “This here is Otis and Troy.”

  The two men looked at me with half-shuttered eyes, their heads bobbing over mostly full glasses of amber liquid.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hey,” said Troy. Otis looked too drunk to talk. The lanky man returned with my water and a menu.

  “And that’s Leonard.”

  “Hey,” he said, sitting back down.

  “Where you coming from?” Lottie asked.

  “Seattle.” I looked at him. “Usually, people ask where I’m going.”

  “What’s the point of that?” Lottie said. “Where you going ain’t nothing.” He lifted his glass. “Look at Leonard here. When he came to us he was headed somewhere.” He paused. “Where was you headed?”

  “Don’t remember,” Leonard said, his brow furrowing beneath the weight of the question.

  “He left his home and just never went back.”

  Leonard rubbed his chin. “I think it was a couple a years ago. Maybe it was just last Christmas. I’m sure the house is gone by now. Probably someone I don’t even know sleepin’ in my bed.”

  “Probably some guy sleepin’ with your wife in your bed,” Troy said.

  “Probably,” Leonard replied matter-of-factly. “She’s somebody else’s problem now.” He laughed, and all three men joined him.

  I suddenly realized who the men reminded me of—Steinbeck’s Mack and the boys from Cannery Row. I looked over the menu. “What’s good?”

  “We’ve got buffalo wings and the Lottie’s Burger,” Lottie said.

  I wasn’t sure if he was recommending those things or if they were all they had. “Sounds good,” I said.

  “You heard him,” Lottie said to Leonard. Leonard stood and walked to the kitchen.

  “Troy, get Alan a beer. The special.”

  “I’m okay,” I said.

  “Didn’t say you weren’t,” Lottie said.

  Troy staggered over to the bar, returning a moment later with a foaming mug of beer.

  “House draft,” Lottie said. “Courtesy of the house.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Try it,” he said.

  Not wanting to offend my host, I took a drink. It was different from anything I’d ever tasted. Strong.

  “What is this?”

  “Specialite de la maison. I call it Lottie’s Brew.” He looked at me. “Drink up.”

  Stupidly, I took another drink. It burned.

  “Why are you here?” Lottie asked.

  My face felt hot. “The guy at the hotel recommended you.”

  “I mean not in Seattle.”

  “I’m walking.”

  He looked at me with an odd expression, then said, “Drink some more.”

  I’m not sure why, but I again lifted the glass. There was buzzing in my ears. I’ve always been able to handle my drinks, but after just a few gulps of his “brew” I was feeling fuzzy. Or drugged.

  After a moment I said, “I better go.”

  “Your food hasn’t come out yet,” Lottie said.

  I took out my wallet. “It’s okay, I’ll pay. I just need to go.”

  “Need?” Lottie said. “Everything a man needs is right here. Why are you walking, anyway?”

  I rubbed my face. “What?”

  “I asked, why are you walking?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Lottie nodded. “Like most of humanity, out looking for something that’s ultimately not worth finding. I’ve been there, the corporate grinding stone. You know what grinding stones make? Powder.”

  “They make flour,” Troy said.

  Lottie slapped him on the head. “What’s flour, moron? It’s wheat powder—like your mealy brain. That’s all men are today, powder. Except us.” He eyed me carefully. “I bet there’s a woman tangled up i
n this.”

  I took a deep breath. “My wife—”

  Lottie clapped his hands. “Was I right, boys?”

  “You called it,” Troy said.

  Otis grunted.

  “Women are just another grinding stone. We got everything we need right here. Beer, television, lively conversation.”

  “Where’d you say you’re headed?” Otis asked, surprising me that he could speak.

  “He didn’t,” Lottie said.

  “Key West,” I said.

  “What you lookin’ for in Key West?” Troy asked.

  Even without the buzz I’m not sure I could have answered the question.

  Just then Leonard walked out with my food. He set the plates in front of me, then sat back down at the table. With the way I was feeling, the sight of the food made me want to throw up.

  “I’ll tell you what’s in Key West,” Lottie said. “Some good booze, but nothing worth the walk.” He leaned forward. “I’ve never done this before, but I’m inviting you to join us. Right here, right now. We’ve got a spare room in the back. You can help out around the place to earn your board.”

  I felt the room spinning. “That’s generous,” I said. “But no thank you.”

  “No?” Lottie looked offended. “What are you holding on to?”

  “I had a wife . . .”

  “Had?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Exactly. They all up and leave.”

  “She didn’t leave me. She died.”

  “What’s the difference?” Lottie said. “Either way she’s gone and you’re alone.” He looked into my eyes. “Why are you really walking? Do you even know?”

  I couldn’t think.

  “What you looking for, Alan?”

  “Hope,” I said.

  He burst out laughing. “Hope? Thank goodness you haven’t found it. Hope was the worst thing to come out of Pandora’s box. Hope is what tortures us. It’s what keeps us driving the nails deeper into our palms. You want happiness, then let hope go. Let it all go—forget the past. It’s nothing but regret and pain.”