by Winton, Tom
I hated myself for acting that way and was sure she’d picked up on it. I also knew she was trying to make me feel more relaxed when, as if genuinely interested, she asked, “What part of New York are you from?”
“I grew up in Queens, but I’ve been out on Long Island for fifteen or sixteen years. You’re not from New York? I can’t detect an accent.”
She pivoted her head gently, said, “No,” then looked dreamily into the cup she’d been holding. It was strange. She didn’t say anything else for a moment. She looked at that coffee as if she could see her past in the hot, brown liquid.
“I grew up in Ft. Lauderdale,” she finally said, “but I did live in Manhattan for four years ... on East 89th. That was a while back. Great place, no matter what people from other parts of the country might say. I had a real fun time there.” She paused again, looking out at the channel for a few seconds before continuing, “But something came up, and I decided it was time to leave New York.”
Her mysterious dark eyes now seemed as though they were watching events from her past life take place all over again. I knew by the way she was winding a strand of long black hair around her slender finger that those events had not been pleasant. But she brought herself back to the here and now. And she asked me, “What brings you to paradise, Sonny Raines?”
I took a sip from my cup and then shrugged, “Just ... just tired of the stress, the winters, the rush-rush pace, and the exorbitant living costs. I’m hoping to simplify things – scale down, live as cheaply as possible. I’m not much for conventionalism. I detested the regimented lifestyle I’d been living.”
Julie Albright probably knew by the way I looked out at the water as I spoke that there was more to it than I was letting on to. That there was probably a woman involved. She probably figured that I was yet another casualty of the matrimonial wars. But she didn’t try to delve. She let me off the hook by asking, “More coffee?”
“No thanks. I’m good. If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you been down here ... in the Keys?”
“Nine years now – right here in this trailer. When I left New York I went back to Lauderdale for six or seven years. It had changed so much since I grew up there. Throngs of people; crime running rampant, you know what they say ... you can never go back. I wanted to find someplace quiet. Soooo,” she said while looking beyond the turquoise channel to the uninhabited green shoreline of Flagler Key, “I came down to the Keys and found Wreckers. It was and still is perfect for me.”
“Why not Key West? Why a secluded place like this? Don’t get me wrong, it’s beautiful, but it is really quiet.”
“Let’s just say I became disillusioned with people. I wanted to be pretty much left alone. If I want to be around crowds, I can always drive south a few minutes. There are always hordes of people on Duval Street. Anyway, I work in right there in Key West, part time, two days a week. That’s enough for me.”
“I can appreciate that,” I said, now watching a Great Blue Heron snare a finger mullet out on the flats. The long-legged bird flipped the wriggling fish a few times until he finally caught it headfirst in his dagger-like bill, enabling him to ingest it.
At that point, not wanting to wear out my welcome, I stood up and thanked Julie for the coffee. I also told her that since I’d be on the key at least until Monday I was sure I’d be seeing her again.
Looking a bit let down as she rose to her feet, she said, “I hope so.” But then her tone perked up and I thought she sounded a bit hopeful when she added, “Say ... why don’t you stop by Barnacle Bell’s tonight? There’s going to be live music and there should be a good crowd.” She accentuated the word “crowd” with a wide smile then continued, “You could meet some of the folks that live here.”
“Barnacle Bell’s? That’s the place out on the highway next to the store, right?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know, I’m going down to Key West this afternoon to do a little sightseeing. If I get back in time, I just might stop in. Thanks again ... Julie.” Somehow her name felt good as it rolled off my tongue.
“Good bye, Sonny. I hope to see you tonight.”
I may have told her that I might be stopping into Pa Bell’s place for drink, but I knew darn well that I’d be there for sure.
After my initial meeting with Julie Albright, I walked around Wrecker’s Key for a while. I strolled along the beach for maybe ten minutes, until it ended and the channel opened up to the expansive waters of Florida Bay and the Gulf of Mexico beyond that. Where the white sand ended, skirting an area thick with Brazilian Peppers and Red Mangroves, I took off my sneakers and sloshed my way through the muck of a tidal flat that had been exposed by a receding tide. After trekking through that stuff for maybe fifty yards, I stepped back onto dry land and saw something through a jungle of thick brush and trees. There was a house back in there. The coolest, most rustic, two-story house I’d ever seen. It was built “Conch” style – that Bahamian and New England mixture of architecture that is so prevalent in the Florida Keys. I didn’t know it at the time, but more than a hundred and fifty years earlier Thadeus Bell himself had built the home with boards he’d salvaged from a Bahamian wreck out near Looe Key one January morning during a blue nor’easter.
The home was the only permanent building on the key, other than the one housing the little convenience store and bar out on US 1. A wide veranda encircled the entire place and the back of it faced a dock and the pristine waters of the bay. Two dormers were on either side of its large sloping roof, and a cupola was mounted on at its peak. The home was surrounded by a spotty, sun-parched lawn; the result of yet another soon-to-end, “dry season.” In front of the place, beneath two huge Poinciana trees bursting with flaming-red flowers, there was an oversized bell resting on the lawn – an antique ship’s bell made of solid brass. From where I stood I had to squint, but I could see that something had been written on it. The faded white letters that had been painted on it said, “The Bells.”
Standing there, surrounded by the early morning calls being made by many strange, unseen birds and something rustling in the nearby palmettos, I felt like an intruder. And I did not like it. Pa Bell had seemed like a decent guy when I’d met him the day before, but nobody likes a relative stranger snooping around his place, Quickly but quietly, I headed back toward the water. This time winding my way through a different maze of trees, each and every one of them with Strangler Figs snaked around their trunks – robbing them of nourishment, slowly starving them.
When I finally reached the beach again, I paused after noticing two rippling circles on the glass-like surface of the water. The top halves of two tailfins were in the center of them thirty yards away, waving gently above the transparent water. That was all I could see with the wide, blue sky reflecting brightly on the surface, but I knew exactly what kind of fish they were. A pair of bonefish; the “gray ghosts” of the tropical flats, were foraging for crustaceans amongst the eel grass that carpeted the shallow water. That’s why their tails had protruded from the surface. I’d read about them many times in fishing magazines. They are one of the most coveted game fish in the sport fishing world, and now that I was in the Keys, I’d soon be getting a chance to fish for them. It’s incomprehensible to an angler who has never hooked one of these speedsters, but a bonefish weighing just six or seven pounds can strip two-hundred yards line from a reel in one blazing run.
“Damn!” I whispered aloud, not wanting to spook the wary fish, “Why didn’t I bring a light spinning outfit?”
But I wouldn’t have had a chance even if I had brought a rod with me. Something out on the flat spooked the two bonefish. Maybe it was a leopard ray or a cruising shark, but either way both of the fish were gone in a flash. Surely they had headed to deeper, more protective water.
During the rest of the walk back to the trailer, my mind kept returning to Julie Albright. It seemed so unusual that such an attractive lady acted so sincere right from the beginning. I’d met my share of good-lookers and
most of them seemed somewhat catty. I often got the impression that to them, toying with men was sport, just like fishing was to me. But this Julie was different. She seemed so genuine. When we had been only minutes into our conversation, I somehow felt as though I’d known her for years. I didn’t have to play any roles. She’d made an impression on me for sure – an admirable one. But that was something I really wasn’t ready for. Not as early on in the healing process as I was.
* * * * *
That afternoon I took my long-awaited drive down to Key West. It had been seventeen years since Wendy and I had gone to “the southernmost city” on our honeymoon. This time around I was returning alone. All I had with me were the conflicting, melancholic memories of happier times and those of my defeated marriage. I didn’t know if this trip was going to bolster the bitterness I’d felt during the months since our breakup or supplant it with rekindled pain.
Only twenty minutes after leaving Wrecker’s, I pulled into Key West on US 1 – the only road leading on or off the six-square-mile island. And as soon as I got there, what’s the first thing I see? A Holiday Inn! Looking through the windshield the way I was, it was right smack in front of me – the very same motel where Wendy I spent five blissful days all those years ago.
“Oh, great,” I muttered to myself, grinding my molars, shaking my head ever so slowly, “just what I need to see the minute I get here. This sure as hell isn’t going to do anything to raise my spirits.”
Fortunately, when I turned right onto North Roosevelt Boulevard, my mind was quickly drawn to something else. Standing just to my left, on a grassy median that separated the traffic lanes, was an obese, barefoot man dressed in dirty khaki shorts and nothing else. With dark lifeless eyes and hair hanging past his shoulders the unfortunate soul had layers of deeply tanned fat, drooping down from his sweaty paunch like a deflated truck tire. Obviously homeless, he was clutching a cardboard sign announcing that he’d work for food. Below that “Vietnam Vet” was spelled out.
After passing him I tried to envision how Key West might have looked more than fifty years earlier when Ernest Hemingway lived there. I’d always been fascinated by the Hemingway legend, reading everything about “the man” I could get my hands on. It didn’t matter who wrote about him; Carlos Baker, Hem’s ex-wives, his children, friends or anybody else, I would read it. My interest was that great, and now that I was actually back in Key West, I was heading directly to 907 Whitehead Street, the Hemingway home/museum.
Steering carefully down narrow busy streets, I had to dodge all kinds of obstacles. There were colorfully-dressed pedestrians; tourists zipping around on pink mopeds, and locals on tired, old bicycles, peddling along as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Turning the wheel this way and that I still managed glances at all the quaint Conch houses surrounding me. Some had cupolas on top of their roofs and most had handmade gingerbread trim. Momentarily fixing my eyes on one of the old wooden structures I recalled something I’d once read. The book said that many of these homes had actually been built in the Bahamas. They were brought to Key West in sections, by ship. Once they arrived their walls were reassembled – held together with the customary wooden pegs rather than nails.
In just a matter of minutes I was standing by the double front doors of the Hemingway home, paying the admission fee along with a small group of camera-wielding tourists. Like a flock of ducklings trailing their mother, we went from room to room, first floor to second, obediently following and listening to our tour guide. A small, frail, older man with wide, red suspenders holding up his britches he was very knowledgeable and did a great job making our visit a truly enjoyable one. And wow, did he know a lot about the famous author who once lived there. At one point in the tour, when our guide was taking questions, I was tempted to ask him if he knew what size underwear Papa Hemingway wore. I was all but certain he could have told me. But I didn’t ask. We were about two-thirds the way through the house when a dark funk suddenly drifted over my good spirits.
When we were leaving one bedroom to go to another I got the shock of my life. Standing at the very back of the group, I turned one last time to look at the two open doors leading out to a veranda. I remembered back to when I went there with Wendy, and she said how she absolutely loved them. How she would have given anything to spend just one night of our honeymoon in that room. Now, standing there, looking out at that veranda, I could have sworn I saw a vision of my ex-wife. Dressed in a floor-length white gown – looking more beautiful than ever – she was leaning with her lower back against the veranda’s black, iron railing. She was looking directly at me, with that fantastic smile of hers.
Not believing what I was seeing, I turned my head and eyes to the side, squinted real hard then rolled my eyes to their corners, looking back over there. She was gone.
My heart started to pound. I swallowed hard then realized that all the hair on my arms was standing straight up.
Oh my god, what in the hell is wrong with me? I’ve got to get out of here – right now!
Without saying a word to anybody, I turned away and headed straight for the stairway. Quietly but quickly I made my way down the stairs and out the door.
Chapter 5
As soon as I stepped into the bright sunshine outside the Hemingway House, I realized I hadn’t really seen Wendy in there. I wasn’t that far gone yet. I told myself I was just tired – that all the stress and heartache since my birthday had weighed heavily on me. The long, three-day drive to Florida hadn’t helped either, nor did the uncertainty of what my life would be like in the coming days, weeks and months.
I sat on a bench in the side yard for a while, resting my mind the best I could. After quickly convincing myself that fatigue was definitely my problem, I stayed there a while in the shade of a tall fig tree, watching the descendants of Hemingway’s six-toed cat laze beneath bushes and out on the lawn. With no other visitors in this quiet part of the estate, time seemed to slow down and so did my thoughts. Things focused back into their proper perspective, and I was very thankful for that.
Later on I drove the short distance to Elizabeth Street, parked the van, and walked for a while amongst the legions of tourists scurrying up and down bustling Duval Street. It was there that I decided I still liked Key West. I knew I could live there if I found work and an affordable apartment, but the latter would have to be a little ways from Duval Street – on a quiet side street or lane. After knocking around for some time, I picked up copies of the Key West Citizen and the Keynoter, the local papers, and was fortunate enough to find a vacant bar stool at Sloppy Joe’s. The place was jam-packed, but I had a pretty good time nursing a couple of cold Coronas, listening to the band and people watching. After a while I opened the newspapers and checked out the classified ads. The work situation did not seem very good and apartments were very expensive to rent. Somewhat disheartened, I took my last swallow of beer and left. The whole time I was there I hadn’t once allowed myself to look at the table in a far corner where Wendy and I once sat.
While driving back to Wrecker’s Key at dusk I, for the first time, questioned my decision to come to Florida. I had a troubling feeling that it may not have been the right thing to do. Steering my van across a small bridge between two uninhabited keys, I wondered about that as I looked out over the endless expanse of water. Way, way out there, on the western horizon, the huge magenta sun seemed to be melting into the Gulf of Mexico. It was a magnificent site, but it was also a blurry site. I was looking at it through misty eyes.
With my spirits low as they were, I had all but decided not to go to Barnacle Bell’s that night. I was in no mood to be around a bunch of jovial holiday revelers. But all that changed when I drove onto Wrecker’s Key at around nine o’clock. As I came up on the bar, I suddenly had one of those do-I-or-don’t-I moments. The next thing I knew I found myself making a sharp left into its crushed-shell parking lot. As much as I didn’t want to be around people right then, I wanted to be alone inside the trailer even less.
; With the marl crunching beneath my tires, I actually had to look for a place to park. Cars and pickup trucks, most sporting Monroe County plates, were lined up door to door in front and on both sides of the wooden building. Barnacle Bell’s was not your basic tourist oasis. Most of the vehicles belonged to locals from nearby Big Pine and Summerland Keys. I found a place to park, stepped out into the balmy evening air, and inhaled deeply. I didn’t know if I really wanted to go inside, but with the thick ocean air now filling my lungs and the perfume-like scent of night blooming jasmine in the air, I ambled slowly towards the port-holed front door of Barnacle Bill’s.
Inside, patrons were shoulders to elbows around the circular mahogany bar, some sitting on stools, still more standing. Somebody dropped a cell phone on the floor and when I glanced down at it I noticed that around the bar’s base a rigid anchor chain had been fashioned into a footrest. The place was saturated with barroom chatter. Pa Bell, wearing a long, white apron like that of a butcher, was at the center of this arena, methodically mixing drinks. All along the bar there were sweating, brown and clear beer bottles and all sorts of pink and yellow libations adorned with tiny pastel umbrellas. Despite the efforts of two, seemingly-tired paddle fans, a thin cloud of smoke remained intact just beneath the ceiling. On the back wall, next to a flashing blue “Coors” sign, a huge tiger shark jaw hung. Its gaping mouth was frozen open, exposing seven rows of ferocious, triangular teeth. To the side of a small cleared area for dancing, a hippie-like duet – a man and woman both with long hair parted in the middle and matching paisley bellbottoms, strummed guitars as they sung the lyrics to Creedence Clearwater Revival’s classic hit Bad Moon Rising.
I wasn’t standing there for very long when, in the dim light, Julie Albright suddenly appeared like a beautiful apparition. She’d been sitting in a back corner talking with three men, and I couldn’t help but suspect she’d been keeping an eye on the bar’s entrance. I say that because I hadn’t been standing there but a few seconds when she quickly rose from her chair and started making her way toward me. As she slid between two couples, each of them grinding away on the makeshift dance floor, Julie looked more intoxicating than straight tequila. She was wearing snug, white jeans and a black halter-top that really enhanced the fullness of her breasts. The white hoops that danced beneath her ears as she strode in my direction contrasted beautifully with her flowing raven hair. She was totally female alright – the rare kind of women that could turn the head of a celibate monk.
