The Last Train to Key West

by Chanel Cleeton

  My heartbeat picks up as I lean forward again, on the precipice of tipping out of my chair entirely, my lips inches from his ear. Goose bumps rise over my body at the scent of masculine soap and skin.

  “You might like it,” I tease.

  Gray Suit doesn’t flinch at my words or pull back in alarm. Instead he holds steady, the only discernible motion in his body a tic in his jaw.

  In the beginning, this was merely a game, one I’ve been playing since God gave me breasts and hips, and Gray Suit wasn’t wrong: at the moment, I have more time on my hands than anything else. But in the space between my approaching him and now, my lips inches away from his warm, tanned skin, the game has changed.

  I want to kiss him.

  I pull back with a jerk.

  He doesn’t look at me, as much as look through me.

  “I don’t believe I would like it,” he replies in that accent that could be from anywhere, really.

  I open my mouth to offer up some retort, but the words fail me, the bravado I’ve clung to for so long eluding me.

  Emotion clogs my throat, embarrassment hot on my cheeks, and I rise from my seat on unsteady legs, choosing a different seat from the one I previously occupied, away from College Boy, away from everyone, my gaze trained on the water rushing below the tracks.

  My father owned shares in this railroad once upon a time when I was still a girl living in a gilded world. Before the crash. Before we lost everything. Before he killed himself.

  I pull the letter from my pocketbook, the envelope worn, the paper creased, reading over the words there, clinging to the faint thread of hope that brought me to Key West.

  The rocking motion of the train lulls me to sleep.

  * * *

  —

  Four hours later, we arrive at the main terminal in Key West, and I wake to the sounds of passengers moving around me. At some point, someone draped a blanket over my shoulders.

  Gray Suit is nowhere to be seen. Now that the journey is over and I’m here, I can’t quite muster the energy for flirtations.

  I step off the train, bag in hand, the humidity in the air a shock to a girl’s system. The water is within walking distance, palm trees peppering the landscape, so different from what I’m used to back in New York.

  There’s comfort to be found in the hustle and bustle of the city, in the anonymity of bodies brushing against you on the street, the buildings around you forming a phalanx of sorts. There are boundaries in the city, streets forming a map for you to follow, putting one foot in front of another and carrying on.

  I always avoid the section of streets down near Wall Street, the ones I used to walk with my mother on our way to visit my father in his office. Another life.

  I take the letter out of my pocketbook once more, rubbing my fingers over the Key West postmark.

  My stomach rumbles, eliciting a sound that would make Mother cringe. There’s a diner off in the distance, a weathered white sign with faded lettering proclaiming it to be:

  Ruby’s Café.

  And in smaller letters below, the auspicious moniker:

  Best key lime pie in town.

  I slip the letter back into my pocketbook, opening my change purse and quickly counting my money. My heart sinks.

  As I stuff the meager supply back in the purse, my fingers brush against something metallic, the platinum prongs of my engagement ring digging into my skin, sharp enough to draw a drop of blood.

  I take a deep breath and set off in the direction of Ruby’s Café.

  Four

  Helen

  Labor Day weekend keeps us busier than normal, a steady stream of locals, tourists, and veterans enjoying their time off, distracting me from the discomfort brought on by the baby.

  In that strange in-between transition from lunch to dinner, the restaurant crowd thins, and I duck outside and sit on one of the wooden benches in front of Ruby’s.

  A gleaming black car is parked near the restaurant, the young woman I served earlier standing beside it, her husband nowhere to be seen.

  “Is everything all right?” I ask.

  “Flat tire,” she replies, her words tinged in an accent I recognize from the Cubans who frequent Key West, enjoying the close proximity and the ferry service between the two places. “My husband went to find someone to fix it.”

  I’ve never been to Cuba myself; Tom always said we would go when we were newly married. After all, his fishing often took him to the island, and he would disappear for weeks at a time, returning to me smelling like rum, cigar smoke, and the hint of a woman’s perfume. Eventually, though, the promises became less and less frequent until I gave up on the idea entirely when I realized I was likely better off not knowing what he did down there.

  The elegant car’s front right tire is indeed flat, a jagged gash the obvious source of the problem.

  “Did y’all get in an accident? That’s a nasty cut.”

  “No.”

  “Did this happen while you were eating in the diner?”

  “It might have. We aren’t certain, but we didn’t notice anything wrong with the car until we came to leave. It certainly wasn’t like that when they unloaded the car from the ferry.”

  “Sorry for the rough welcome. It’s not the greatest neighborhood, to be honest. We get our share of rowdies pouring out of the bars on Duval Street. A car like that draws some notice.” I gesture toward Ruby’s behind me. “You can wait inside if you’d like. Get a break from the mosquitoes.”

  “I’m fine out here, but thank you. I need the fresh air. It’s been a long day with the ferry crossing.”

  “Is Key West your final destination?”

  We get our fair share of people passing on to other places. One of my favorite things to do when tourists come through the doors is hear where they’re headed. Sometimes I’ll look up the places on the map in the public library, imagining what it would be like to go there myself. I’ve had hundreds of adventures that have taken me all over the world. If a place strikes my fancy on the map, I’ll ask one of the librarians for a book about it. When Tom’s away, those hours spent reading in the cottage are some of the happiest I’ve ever experienced. When he’s home, the books go back in their hiding spot. Tom says too much reading in a woman—which is any reading at all, really—is a dangerous thing.

  “We’re headed up to Islamorada,” she answers. “For our honeymoon. Then to New York later on.”

  Islamorada’s not the sort of destination I envisioned for someone so glamorous, but I suppose if they’re searching for privacy on their honeymoon, they’ll certainly find it.

  Her gaze drifts to my stomach. “How much longer?”

  “A couple weeks. It’s my first,” I add, fielding the question about other children before she can ask it. It’s such a seemingly innocent discussion that can bring so much pain.

  Her gaze lingers on the simple tin band on my ring finger. “You and your husband must be very happy.”

  I lay my palm over my stomach. “I have always wanted to be a mother,” I say simply.

  As scary as this change in my life is, as uncertain as the future that lies before us, my love for this child is the only thing I don’t doubt. I don’t tell her about the losses preceding this one, the times I couldn’t be sure if it was Tom’s fists or my own body failing me, how desperately I prayed for this babe, even as it felt like a wholly selfish wish considering the life I had to offer my child.

  Her brow furrows at my response, and there’s something in her expression—

  “Are you all right?” I ask again.

  Her eyes well with tears. “It’s nerves, right? Every new bride experiences this.”

  “I don’t know,” I answer truthfully, surprised by her candor, her manner at odds with her flawless appearance.

  When I married Tom at sixteen, I practically ran down the ais
le with excitement, and look where that got me.

  “Do you think he’s a good man—your husband?” I ask. “A kind man?” He seemed polite enough at the restaurant—people tend to show the truest parts of themselves when they’re dealing with those who serve them, and I’ve certainly waited on a ruder person—but I’ve given up thinking of people in absolute terms. People are what circumstances make them.

  “We married quickly. There wasn’t much of a chance to get to know each other.”

  I can’t help it—my gaze drops down to her waistline.

  Her cheeks flush. “My family wanted us to marry.”

  “I wish you the best, then.” I pause. I don’t normally share so much with strangers—or anyone, really—but despite the obvious differences between us, there’s something about her that is so familiar. I know what it’s like to feel alone. “Marriage is complicated. It’s no easy thing to bind yourself to another, for their moods to dictate yours, for your needs to come second to theirs, to bend yourself to the will of another. It’s exhausting,” I confess.

  “I’m sure. My name is Mirta,” she offers after a beat.

  “I’m Helen.” I try to smile. “I hope your experience is different.”

  “I’m sorry yours isn’t.” She swallows. “Was it always like this?”

  I think back to the beginning, nine years of marriage eclipsing my memories of when we were young and Tom used to visit me at Ruby’s, when he returned from the sea smelling like salt, and fish, and sun, and freedom, and I loved nothing more than to bury my face in the curve of his neck, wrap my arms tightly around his body, his strength a sturdy barrier that I thought would keep the world’s problems at bay.

  There were happy times, weren’t there? There had to have been. They’re muted and faded now, as though they belong to another person, as though I am another person, but they existed once. Somehow, though, those moments drifted away before I realized it, and the other parts of our marriage that used to be sources of shock and fear became ordinary events.

  “No, it wasn’t,” I reply. “It was a different time when we married. We were poor, of course, but it was a different kind of poor. We had a good run before things started to go bad. We had a little house and maybe one day we’d have a baby, and there were plans to be made.”

  We had hope back then. Even after things got bad, Tom had his boat. He used to say a man who was willing to work with his own two hands could do anything. But it turned out the boat wasn’t enough. He had the ability to catch food, but fish weren’t useful for much when people didn’t have money to buy them.

  “He changed,” I answer finally, decisively now. “Or life changed us.”

  And at the same time, there are plenty of good men in this world who lost everything like the rest of us and didn’t start beating their wives or drinking away the remainder of their paychecks. Maybe those qualities were always inside Tom, and I never saw them.

  “How do you know?” Mirta asks, her face pale, her eyes wide.

  So young.

  “How do you know if you’ve married the sort of man who would change?” I finish for her.

  She nods.

  “I’m not sure you can know. Did you want to marry him?”

  Was she like me—swayed by a pair of broad shoulders? Did she have fanciful thoughts of ocean air, the breeze blowing in her hair? Did she seek adventure? Was she so recklessly in love that she knew her own heart but not his?

  “I don’t know. I wanted to be a wife. To have a family. I thought I’d have more say in the matter.”

  I want to do more, say more. Despite the differences in our circumstances, I remember what it felt like to be a new wife, trying to build a family and a home with little to guide me. At least I had the benefit of moving down the road from my parents when I married Tom. I can’t fathom what it must be like to move to a new country with a spouse who is little more than a stranger.

  There’s a commotion behind me, Ruby calling for me.

  “My break’s over. I should get back to work.”

  “Thank you for talking to me.” Mirta leans forward and wraps her arms around me in a quick hug, and when she pulls back, I check to make sure none of the grime and grease from my day got on her stylish dress. “Thank you,” she whispers again. “And good luck. I hope everything works out for you and your child.”

  “Same to you.”

  I linger for a moment, struggling for the right words to give her, but none come.

  The helplessness is the hardest part, that sensation of being trapped by life, by circumstance and all the things out of your control wearing you down day after day, month after month, year after year. It’s enough to make you want to run away and never look back. It’s enough to make you rail against the world.

  I see it in her eyes, a spark, a flash of anger, hot and sharp, transforming her into someone else entirely. Someone I recognize.

  I smile back at her.

  * * *

  —

  “You have another one,” Ruby tells me when I walk back into the restaurant.

  The new customer is young and pretty. At first glance her clothes are fine, but there’s something slightly off about the way they fit, as though they were made for a younger girl, a body still on the cusp of womanhood.

  The hemline is shorter than what’s fashionable, the belted waist tight despite her slender frame. Her necklace is lovely, though, adding a dash of style to the whole ensemble you typically don’t see in these parts.

  Definitely not from around here.

  A traveling case rests on the ground next to her, appearing as though it was fine once but has seen its share of better days.

  “Runner,” Ruby predicts.

  “Clothes are too nice for a runaway.”

  Ruby snorts. “Rich kids got problems, too.”

  They probably do, but when so many of your struggles revolve around money, it’s hard to envision any other sort.

  “She looks like she’s in trouble,” I murmur.

  “Or like she came down here for a getaway like the rest of them.” Ruby’s gaze sweeps over the restaurant. “It’d be a shame if a storm comes and all their vacation plans are ruined.”

  She doesn’t say the rest, but I hear the unspoken worry in her voice—if a storm does hit us, the restaurant will lose out on the business we all desperately need, too.

  I walk over to the newcomer’s table. “Good afternoon. Welcome to Ruby’s Café. What can I get you?”

  “Coffee, please. Black.”

  “Anything else?”

  The girl hesitates, her teeth sinking down on her lower lip. “No, thank you.”

  I revise my earlier assessment. Maybe she was rich once—her clothes and natty little suitcase certainly have that appearance about them—but now she looks hungry and scared.

  “I’ll be right back with the coffee.”

  I pour her a coffee in the back and add a slice of key lime pie from the kitchen.

  Ruby shakes her head as I walk by with the plate in hand. “You’re a soft touch, Helen.”

  “She’s a kid.”

  “And you have one on the way. Sooner than later, judging by how that baby’s dropped in the last week or so.”

  “And I hope if my child is ever hungry, alone, or scared, someone will do right by them.”

  She sighs. “I’ll add it to your tab.”

  Tom will wonder why I bring him less this week, but I suppose I’ll deal with that later.

  I walk over to the table, stopping to take another order on the way, and set the key lime pie and coffee in front of the girl.

  Her eyes widen. “There’s been a mistake. I didn’t order any pie. The coffee is fine.”

  “It’s on the house,” I reply, and because I recognize the determined glint in her eyes, the pride there, I lie and say, “No one’s ord
ering it, and we’ll have to throw it out at the end of the day. You’re saving me the trouble, honestly. The scent makes me sick. I haven’t been able to go near the stuff.”

  I can’t tell if she believes me or if she’s too hungry to care, but she picks up the fork, scooping up a bite of the pie, her eyes closing for a moment as she swallows it.

  There’s an art to the girl’s movements, a daintiness that reaffirms my impression that someone once taught her to dine as though she is at a formal dinner, her posture erect and graceful. You can tell a lot about a person by watching them eat.

  “Good, right?”

  She flashes me a bright smile. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “Actually, I’m looking for someone.”

  “Most everyone in Key West comes through Ruby’s at some point.”

  “Best key lime pie in town,” she mutters under her breath.

  I grin. “Can’t argue with that. Who are you searching for?”

  “He came down here for work, I think. That’s the problem. I don’t know exactly.”

  She pulls a letter out of her purse, the envelope crinkled and worn. Masculine handwriting slants across the page.

  Boyfriend, most likely.

  It takes everything in me to resist telling her that I’ve yet to meet the man who’s worth chasing all the way down here, but for her sake, I hope she’s found the exception.

  She hands the envelope to me, and I study the writing. The postmark is from Key West, the letter addressed to a Miss Elizabeth Preston, no return address.

  “What line of work is he in?” I ask.

  “I don’t know what he’s doing. He fought in the war. Last I heard, he came down here to work with some other veterans.”

  I give the letter back to her, doing a quick sweep of the restaurant to see if any of the veterans are dining here.