“Ahhhh. Starbooks. No.” He shook his head. “Cafe. Si, Senora.” He pointed past several gates to a bakery.
Peg thanked him and took her place in the long line of stylish women, businessmen, large families and NO ENGLISH. Both customers and shopkeepers were relaxed as they bantered about God-knows-what.
The man in front of her asked for something.
The salesgirl nodded and delivered something.
Peg wondered if it was the same something that she wanted.
She cursed herself for not paying better attention when the something had changed hands.
She read the menu posted above the workers.
What is this stuff? Ajiaco? Medianoche? Cortadito?
Peg’s coat and scarf started to create extra heat as she got closer to the counter. With each step forward she became more anxious. She just wanted coffee, milk, no sugar.
Why didn’t I take Spanish instead of French? I had a choice in fifth grade, but nooo, that cute boy in the neighborhood took French. Ugh, I was such a follower, if only I had–
“Senora?”
It was her turn.
Beads of sweat formed around her temples. The salesgirl looked at her expectantly. Peg pointed at an item on the board that looked like it could have possibly been a cup of coffee. The woman acknowledged the request, turned to the coffee maker and worked feverishly at the beverage.
Okay, good sign.
Having finished her creation, she handed Peg the drink.
I must have asked for the itty, bitty smallio.
The tiniest of tiny cups held the blackest and darkest of liquid – thicker than tar, yet smelling the same. Holding the styrofoam thimble between her thumb and forefinger, she took a sip.
Yechhh.
She scraped her tongue against her teeth and made a face. The flavor and texture reminded her of her youth, when she had lost a bet and had to lick the neighborhood swing set.
She tossed the miniature cup of poison in the garbage can before descending on the escalator to gate D60. Walking off of the bottom step, she plunged into the alternate universe of gates in the basement of Miami International Airport.
Twelve gate agents in close proximity announced 12 flight numbers, in multiple languages, to a sea of humanity. A family with five children jostled their way toward the Costa Rica flight, next to the three-piece-suited businessman trying to get to Huntsville, Alabama, next to the boozy tourists hooting and hollering in the line for the flight to Key West.
Peg scanned the crowd to find Clark.
My God. This is like a bus station… with wings.
She located him in a corner seat wedged between Santa Claus in a brightly colored floral shirt and a woman with a slobbery 100-pound pit bull service dog.
Clark was laughing while talking on the phone. He hung up when he saw Peg. “Where’s your coffee? Did you get me one?” He yawned.
“No, but now I seriously wish that I’d gone for a mojito at the bar upstairs before coming down here. What is this place, anyway?” Peg’s head spun as her eyes darted right and left. “Who was on the phone?”
“Business stuff.” Clark stretched his arms and legs casually.
She plopped her now unnecessary outerwear on the floor next to him. “What kind of business stuff? We don’t own a business anymore.”
Clark cocked his head and held up a hand. “Did she say final boarding to Key West?” He jumped up and saw the gate agent ready to close the door. “That’s our flight. Let’s go.” He yanked up his backpack and motioned for Peg to follow.
Peg scooped up her belongings and bumped her way through the crowd. “I’m coming.” She shifted the coats to one arm and gave the agent her ticket with her free hand. Scurrying behind Clark in an outdoor hallway, she climbed up the long metal ramp into the plane.
“Only 30 seats on this plane?” Peg grabbed Clark’s arm and spoke into his ear. “Propellers? What year was this plane made, 1914? My seat is right behind the pilot. Who looks like he’s six years old, by the way,” she whispered as they sat down.
Clark gave her hand a double pat, then closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep as the plane took off.
Peg removed the airline magazine from the seat pocket in front of her. The sudoku and numbrix had been completed by a previous passenger. The magazine in front of Clark’s seat was sealed shut with a sticky piece of chewed gum. She sighed and placed her forehead against the plane window to look down at the islands below.
So bright… blindingly bright.
Fine lines of white connected the tiny puzzle pieces of land in the middle of endless blue. Closing the window shade with clammy hands, her stomach sickened.
Those are miles and miles of bridges. Never ending, limitless. Trapped. No way out.
She moved closer to Clark, who had started to drool. She closed her eyes.
I must be strong. I can do this.
The self-flagellation came to a premature halt as Kindergarten Captain announced the imminent landing. “Ladies and gentlemen, I just want to tell y’all that this’s gonna be a quick landing. I’m a Navy-trained pilot and I can do this with my eyes closed,” the pilot showboated, “but today, I’ll keep ’em open. Runway’s pretty short – makes it kinda fun.”
Peg gripped the armrest and elbowed Clark. “Wake up. The pilot said…”
With a fast descent, big bounce and screeching brakes, they touched down on the tiny runway in Key West. The passengers whooped a drunken hooray. Peg re-swallowed the food from that morning’s breakfast.
She stepped down the narrow metal airplane stairs onto the tarmac. “Don’t they have jetways? What happens if it rains?” Peg yelled to Clark through the engine noise on the tarmac. “Might be possible to get sucked into a propeller. Not safe.”
Kind of like a third world country.
“It’s always beautiful here. It never rains. Doesn’t this tropical air feel amazing?” Clark yelled back with his arms in the air.
Peg noticed a group of gigantic lifelike mannequins on the airport roof, arms opened wide: WELCOME TO THE CONCH REPUBLIC, the sign read. The looming figures looked weather-beaten and tired.
Seriously hoping that this is not prophetic.
At the one and only airport gate, the realtor met them with bottles of water and a pile of listing sheets. Crossing the parking lot, Peg realized she was overdressed in her white belted Burberry jacket and Italian Aquatalia leather boots. The sun seared through her scalp. The arch of armpit moisture grew larger. Her hair immediately expanded to an afro that rivaled the likes of a young Michael Jackson.
She glanced at her reflection in the window through fogged sunglasses.
Socks and boots? What was I thinking?
Her feet swelled like dim sum in their leathery incarceration.
The real-estate hunt slogged at first. The houses were turn of the century, with clusters of chopped-up rooms, bang-your-head ceilings, and closets instead of basements and garages. Most places didn’t have laundry facilities and, if they did, the machines were located outside of the house, under a lean-to, in the yard. With no driveways, and a general lack of available parking, the car would be able to do lots of sightseeing as it made its daily move to different spaces on the dusty city streets.
Clark looked at outdoor space – for his outdoor lifestyle. Peg looked at indoor space – or lack thereof.
As they toured another underwhelming property, Peg shook her head, “Ugh. Like the other houses we’ve seen, this master bedroom won’t fit any of our furniture.” She was getting discouraged.
Clark was not to be deterred. “We’ll be living outside mostly.”
“Our bed will not be outside.” Peg’s hairs at her neckline were clumped in a wet, kinky roll.
After inspecting eight disappointing, doll-sized houses, some that looked like they kept a century of termites very happy, the three of them were ready to call it a day. Walking to the car, Peg saw a real-estate listing sheet on the ground. The wind suddenly picked up, and the pape
r blew round and round until it settled against Peg’s leg. Her neck sweat chilled in the breeze and she shivered.
“Here, you dropped this.” Peg handed the sheet to the realtor.
“Hmm. It’s not mine… weird. I didn’t know this house was on the market. It’s been vacant for a couple of years. I always wondered why, ’cause it’s a great house. And it’s right across the street. I’ll see if we can get in.” The realtor pointed to a house on the other side of the intersection. She glanced at the listing sheet and dialed her phone.
Peg and Clark followed behind her as she walked and made arrangements.
“Good news. We’re in luck. We can look at it now.” The realtor led the way to the house, up the porch steps, to an unlocked front door. “Hmm, apparently the seller isn’t worried about break-ins. Funny there’s no lock-box. Never seen that before. Oh well, let’s go in.”
Peg shook off a shudder as she entered the house. “Whoo, I must be dehydrated.”
The realtor called the house a Key West Conch. “It was built in the early 1900s on the other side of the island. At some point it was lifted off the ground and carried by mules to this location. No one knows exactly when or by who. One of the many Key West mysteries.” She laughed and game-show-hosted the room with a flat hand. “The floors and walls are Dade County Pine, although the walls are whitewashed, giving it more color and texture. This wood is nearly extinct now.”
Peg noticed the striping of dark brown and burgundy at her feet. “Wow, a lot of trees sacrificed their lives for this house. I hope they’re not still mad,” she joked while caressing the grainy wall. A tiny splinter wedged its way into her thumb. “Ouch.” Narrowing her eyes at the seemingly innocent walls, she followed Clark and the realtor out of the large white back door.
“The deck is made out of Brazilian Ipe wood – one of the heartiest woods available. It’s naturally resistant to rot and decay – and bugs.” She laughed. “We got a few of those down here.”
The yard was overgrown with a variety of lush palms interspersed with alien-shaped flowers. “Hey, is this a baby lime tree?” Peg picked up a tiny green ball from the rocky ground.
“Yes, your very own Key Lime tree.” The realtor checked her phone as she spoke.
“That’s cool. I don’t think we could grow one of these in Chicago.” Peg smiled. As if on cue, the Caribbean breeze whistled around the yard.
“Margaritas in our own backyard.” Clark grinned from ear to ear and said, “Oh yes. Yes. Ohh yes. All of the Key West charm – old but renovated. Small but open floor plan. Yeah baby. Gated yard. Ohh yes.”
He was, quite possibly, orgasmic.
He looked to Peg for confirmation. “We could afford this right? After the house is sold? You’ll do the numbers?”
The realtor looked up from her phone. “The sellers are motivated, they’ll negotiate.”
Peg turned away from him to gaze at the picture windows overlooking the swaying palm trees. Sunshine beamed throughout the room – like heaven itself had opened up its portals.
Yes, this was the house. She did the math in her head. Even at list price, it was doable. Seeing the rapture in her husband’s face, she realized that they were, in fact, going to relocate to Key West, Florida.
The Savages were moving to the island.
The Walk and Talk
After the house-hunting trip, back in her Illinois home of 20 years, Peg looked around the kitchen. She soaked in that feeling of familiar – the table leg chewed by Nipper when he was a puppy, the window that refused to lock, the mysterious dent in the refrigerator door.
Sighing, she turned her attention to the dog. “Ready to go for a walk, Nip?”
Nipper crouched by the side door, gnawing on his footpad. The leash hung on the knob. Peg shoved her size eights into the minus-100-degree-rated boots while double-zipping the thermotech coat, topping herself off with a black fur Cossack hat.
Clark sat at the kitchen counter, his head buried in his computer. “Ahhh, the month of March in the Midwest.”
Before Peg could retort, the 50-pound vizsla barreled through her puffy legs and out the door. “Okay, okay, I guess you do want to go for a walk today.”
Once in the car, Peg could see the dog’s beany brown eyes staring at her in the rearview mirror as she backed out of the garage. “What d’you think? Are we brave enough to make a big move like this?” Nipper cocked his head to one side then sat back in the seat to resume chewing on his footpad. In solidarity, Peg bit a hangnail off her thumb as she left the driveway.
Noticing the FOR SALE sign had blown across the front yard, Peg hit the brakes and got out of the car. Slipping on the icy ground, she wiped off the muddy sign and rehung it on its windy perch. Ever since they bought the house all those years ago, she thought the house looked like a surprised cartoon character. The top two windows opened wide-eyed, and the oval door gave the lip-like impression of someone getting goosed from behind. As she replaced the sign, she looked up at the windows. Icicles had formed tears under the shutters.
“You are not going to make me cry, Mr. House,” she said as she climbed back into the car. “But thank you for reminding me that I need to schedule Clark’s colonoscopy.”
Nipper wagged his tail, licked her face and whined with dog-joy at her return.
Waving to Trudy from across the brown slush of the field, Peg navigated around the dog, remnants of winter oozing from the ground. Trudy’s fluorescent purple coat obscured most of her frame. Her short hair spiked over the multicolored headband that covered her forehead and the top of her horn-rimmed glasses.
Peg and Trudy had stomped across this 40-acre dog park every day for the past 16 years. They remembered past discussions by the various geographic anomalies in the terrain. The flooded pond – the death of past dogs. The sinkhole in the middle of the field – the slutty neighbor who flirted with all of the husbands. The rotting tree stump – male brain deficiencies.
“Hi. Oh, watch out, be careful,” Peg warned her friend as Trudy’s Labrador, Tucker, bounded up to them. From the looks of Trudy’s backside, Tuck had already accomplished one back-of-the-knee body slam today. Trudy rubbed her rump and threw her hands in the air with a look of exasperation.
“I know. So much for the thousand-dollar dog training.”
As they started on their trek, the dogs took off after a rabbit. They hurtled across the wet meadow, back feet surpassing front feet with cheetah-like speed.
“So, how’s it going?” asked Peg, trying to sound as natural as she could.
“Fine.” Trudy sideways-glanced her friend as they walked. “Why’s your voice all weird?”
“What are you talking about? My voice is not all weird.”
“Yes. It is. I can tell. Something’s wrong,” Trudy persisted.
Peg didn’t speak.
“Spit it out.”
“Okay… sooo,” Peg began. “Clark… I mean we… are serious about this Key West move.”
“I knew there was something.” Trudy stopped in her tracks. “You have got to be kidding me. You told me you were moving to downtown Chicago. That’s so unbelievably shitty.”
Peg hooked her hand through Trudy’s pocketed arm and nudged them forward. “Wow, I thought you gave up cursing for Lent.”
“I know. I did. But since I didn’t use my Sunday waiver, I can make up for it today. It’s complicated but approved by the Pope. Whatever.” Trudy took a deep breath and briskly faced off in front of Peg.
“I just got used to seeing the FOR SALE sign on your lawn. What about the great high-rise you saw in the city? The one with the drop-dead views of Lake Michigan and the Magnificent Mile at your doorstep? The one where you said you’d have amazing dinner parties and invite all of your suburbanite friends? You said you’d drive out here three times a week for our dog walks. You can’t do that from Key West. Absolutely not. Can’t you promise him more sex if he’ll stop talking about Key West? Hell – promise him sex every day if you have to.”
“I did that, but after all these years of marriage, that doesn’t seem to work like it used to.”
Peg crooked her arm around her friend’s bloated winter-coat shoulders.
“I do love the idea of living in a high-rise in the city, but the dog’s an issue. I’m having a problem finding a place that’ll take a 50-pound vizsla. One apartment insisted on a picture of him, so I took the photo from across the yard thinking that maybe he’d look like the 13-pound Dachshund I entered on the application. Now they want to see a picture of me holding him. Maybe I shoulda said that I’m a midget. That’s why the dog looked so big.”
“You’re not supposed to say midget anymore,” corrected Trudy.
“Yea, I know… or even brainstorming. I guess that might upset people with epilepsy. Being PC’s getting stressful. I love the word brainstorming.”
“Clark is such an asshole.” Trudy added, “Asshole’s not a swear. It’s a body part. An unfortunate body part that has a nasty function – like Clark.”
“Trudy, it’s been 18 years.”
Trudy stomped her boot. “I was the most qualified accountant interviewing for that job. Clark was personally responsible for sabotaging me. He recommended one of his brofriends. I missed out on a spectacular opportunity to work at the biggest of the Big Four accounting firms.” She crossed her purple, puffy arms. “He is a big, fat, sexist, pig.”
Peg waited a second then said, “He’s not that fat.” She smiled and hip-bumped Trudy. “Listen, you’re great at your job and your entire company hangs on your every word. Do you think you’d have moved up so fast at a huge corporation?”
Trudy clenched her mittens. “I guess we’ll never know – thanks to Clark. He’s dead to me as far as I’m concerned.”
“He’s dead to you? Are you changing your name from Stanislowski to Corleone? What’s next, a horse’s head in his bed?”
Trudy stopped short. “That’s really sick, Peg, how could you ever think I’d do such a thing?” She walked on. “I would put Clark’s head in a horse’s bed.”
Island Life Sentence Page 2
