Matecumbe (6 page)

“I was born and raised in Baltimore. After my parents died in a car accident when I was twelve, I went to live with my uncle in New Jersey. Then I joined the Marines right after high school.

“I spent two years as the captain’s steward on a Navy cruiser. I was just a glorified butler, but it was easy duty.

“We sailed along in the Mediterranean most of the time, practicing how to stay afloat, I guess. My last two years were at the Marine base in Quantico, Virginia. When I was there, ironically, they put me in charge of training new recruits in jungle warfare. I instructed the grunts in what to expect if our country ever goes to war again.

“So there I was,” Joe laughed, “a Marine sergeant who’d never even been close to a battle trying to train rookies in how to survive the front lines!

“After I was discharged, I stayed in Miami with John Olivera, one of my Marine buddies. I learned to love Florida’s year-round warm weather—and the swimming. The fishing was great, too, except for the time I went spear fishing. I found out the hard way that when you hit a fish with a spear, the spilled blood draws sharks. One of the biggest frights I ever had was scurrying back onto the deck of a boat within spitting distance of this huge shark fin.

“John and I had a lot of good times together in Miami. Being young, unattached, and suddenly free from the Marine discipline, we would, on more than one occasion, drink to our health until we collapsed.

“I was entitled to veteran’s preference bonus points when Monroe County gave its patrolman’s exam. I passed the test with a high mark, and I’ve been here ever since.”

At the conclusion of their dinner, Joe suggested a drive to the Sleepy Turtle Restaurant, which was just a short hop down the road.

“We’ll have a nightcap. You’ll just love the décor,” he promised.

Before they could even walk through the front door, Melissa saw what Joe was referring to. Decked out on the roof of the building were six-foot-high papier-mâché statues of turtles, comprising a turtle family. The likenesses were, of course, dressed for the holiday season, with red trim accentuating their natural green bodies.

There was a Santa Claus turtle, a Mrs. Claus turtle, and kid turtles— all smiling and standing around a brightly decorated, authentic Christmas tree. Even the treetop ornament was a turtle.

Inside the restaurant were pictures of turtles, plush turtle dolls hanging from the rafters, and more turtle statues. The featured dish on the dinner menu was, of course, turtle chowder.

Melissa and Joe spent almost two hours at the Sleepy Turtle, talking about everything from his fascination with the watching of major league baseball games to her own favorite pastimes—crossword puzzles and mystery novels.

Melissa also discovered that Joe liked to attend horse races, dog races, and pro-football games.

Melissa told him he might enjoy meeting her stepfather, who was also a horseracing fan.

When their evening together had finally ended, and Joe had dropped her off at the Seascaper, he suggested that they spend a few hours the next day exploring the local beaches.

“We can look for conch shells, do a little swimming, and I’ll even show you the hurricane monument,” he added. Melissa again noticed that same pained look cross Joe’s face, and she couldn’t help but wonder what deep hurt lay buried behind Joe’s friendly eyes.

However, at this point in their budding relationship, Melissa would have agreed to a tour of bombed-out buildings, greasy spoon diners, or even the lobby of a rural post office—such was her attraction to a cop named Joe.

They kissed each other good night, ever so briefly, yet tenderly, at the door of her room. Joe’s kiss was all that Melissa had dreamed it would be—strong and definitely compassionate. It was, she hoped, a harbinger of the good things yet to come.

Melissa waved to him as he drove off, once again feeling a rush of impending romance—the kind that turns teenagers into one-track fantasy machines and women of all ages into carefree dreamers.

Then, alone in her room, she wished that her white alley cat, Coke, could be with her.

It was at times like these, when the good things happened, that she liked to report to Coke. Vocally, she’d describe everything positive that she had just experienced—whether it was to tell a tale about a funny incident at the library or to talk without being interrupted about a book she had just finished reading or a play she had recently attended.

For Melissa, Coke served as a diary without pages or a tape recorder that could never be played back. And, regardless of what Melissa would tell her, Coke would remain mute, never criticizing.

“It’s a good thing your name isn’t Grass,” Melissa laughed, pretending that Coke was purring at her feet. “If it were, Joe might have second thoughts when he meets you.”

The coffee and cola would have to keep her awake. It was 6 a.m., and Mary Ann had just finished working the all-night shift at her weekend cashier’s job. She normally tried to catch an hour or two of rest before reporting to work, but she was unable to do so this time. Melissa had another asthma attack that frightened her and kept her from going to bed on time. “Oh well,” thought Mary Ann, “that’s what being a mother is all about.”

She punched out, left the convenience store with a bottle of soda, and walked home.

Within an hour, Paul had arrived, ready for their trip to the horse stables. Paul was the owner of two racehorses in a partnership with one of his co-workers.

Mary Ann had never visited a racetrack stable area. Melissa, her only daughter not allergic to horsehair, would accompany them. As a precaution, though, Mary Ann brought along the pulmonary-inhaling machine that her girls used for asthma emergencies.

Owning a horse of her own was one of Mary Ann’s long-time fantasies. The farm next to her parents’ boarded horses, and she often spent many an afternoon as a child wondering what it would be like to ride one of those beautiful creatures. She would often daydream about riding her horse, alone, along a snow-covered path in the mountains—far removed from buildings, highways, and people. In reality, the closest she’d ever come to actually owning a horse was her collection of coffee mugs—20 all told—each decorated with the colorful likeness of a horse—some in action scenes and others standing motionless in their own majesty.

Mary Ann and Melissa petted Paul’s horses, fed them carrots, and took turns walking them around the barn. Melissa made friends with a huge gray cat, who purred constantly while rubbing his body against her sneakers and floppy white sox.

The trainer who worked for Paul offered coffee and doughnuts, and because of the cool morning breezes, Mary Ann was glad she’d chosen to wear the fur jacket Paul had recently given her.

Paul was impressed with how Mary Ann got along so well with all of the horses in the racetrack barn. She showed no fear, walking up to each of thirty or so stalls and stroking every one as if it had been a family pet for many years.

“In high school, I was always a wallflower,” she told Paul. “All I had was my seashell collection and my daydreams. Now I’ve blossomed, off-the-wall. If nobody was looking, I’d lead one of these beautiful animals home and keep him in my backyard.”

Afterwards, Paul took Mary Ann and Melissa out for lunch—at a seafood restaurant that specialized in shrimp omelets and homemade, high-calorie desserts.

Then, as they neared home, the trio made one final stop—at Mary Ann’s urging.

“I want you to see this little coffee shop I just love,” Mary Ann told Paul. “It’s where I bought some of my horse mugs. They also have a counter where we can sit and relax for a while.”

French Brandy Espresso was the flavor of the day at Coffee, Tea & Ye, and Mary Ann paid for two cups, plus Melissa’s soda. It made her feel good to treat Paul for a change and share with him a place that was one of her favorites.

“I walk over here a couple of times every month,” Mary Ann explained. “I like to try the different coffee flavors. It’s also a cheap night out.

“With all the expensive, fattening food and the gifts you’ve been giving me lately, I might start to put on some extra poundage—mentally and physically—that I probably shouldn’t.

“I hope,” she smiled, “that you aren’t going to spoil me.”

Joe met Melissa early the next morning. Their first bit of business was to enjoy a leisurely breakfast together at the Seascaper. Afterwards, they headed for the first stop on Joe’s informal tour—the hurricane monument.

There wasn’t a whole lot to see, really. The monument was more like a micro-mini version of a war memorial in a town square.

Located in a tiny, half-acre park site just off Route 1 (everything in Islamorada is just off Route 1), the hurricane monument was a gravestonelike tablet, about five feet square, perched at the top of a wide, ten-step marble stairway.

Engraved on the austere face of it was a bleak scene showing clumps of shadowy palm trees, wet and bent wildly from the wind. These images framed the names of about two hundred persons known to have died in the hurricane of 1935.

As with all monuments, gravestones, and the like, Melissa was compelled to feel it—to rub her hand across the names that had been cut into the stone—as if her fingers could communicate with the silent souls of the drowned.

“The names, out here in the sun forever, are a nice touch,” Melissa commented. “The beautiful weather here in the Florida Keys could shine on this monument for eternity. The first and last names of the dead will benefit from thousands, maybe millions of days of warm air and cool, soothing breezes. If you want to be remembered after you die, you can’t ask for a better, more impressive setting.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Joe concurred, as they started to walk back to his car. “Their bodies may have disappeared into nothingness, but the monument connects each of them with the lives they lived on this island. It also gives them sort of a team identity—as if they were the Class of 1935.

“Now and then, though, I think about what my responsibilities would be some day, as a policeman, if another big hurricane were to hit Islamorada. Our police emergency plan stresses evacuation only—in other words, get in the car and head straight for Miami, as fast as you can.

“There really are no adequate shelters here, no mountains to climb to avoid the high water. And as for tall buildings, they just don’t exist.”

“Do you think everyone here would be able to get away, safely, from another hurricane?”

“I’m not sure,” Joes continued, pensively. “It’s true that we have a better communication system these days, compared with 1935, what with so much television and radio. So, everyone ought to know well in advance that a hurricane is due to strike. The federal government, though, would probably have to help us out by sending in some fast boats and helicopters.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are just too many people living on the Keys now, Melissa. With the permanent population gradually creeping upward and the trend today toward year-round Florida tourism, you might be talking about putting tens of thousands of people on only one highway, at the same time, going in one direction.

“From Key West all the way back to Miami, where they could get some decent shelter, is about a hundred and fifty miles. So if Key West were the site of a hurricane’s probable landfall, that could mean a hundred and fifty miles of bumper-to-bumper traffic.”

“As a policeman, then, you wouldn’t be allowed to jump in your car and go along with the crowd, would you?”

“No, I’d be obligated to stay. First, I’d have to knock on doors to make sure that everyone knew about the storm. Next, I’d have to arrange some sort of cooperative transportation for those people who had no way out—car pools, maybe. And, finally, I’d have to wait until the last of the traffic had passed through. There are some eighty miles of highway from Key West to where we’re standing in Islamorada. And no doubt some of those frightened, scurrying tourists would have car trouble somewhere in this town.

“I’m afraid, Melissa, that I’d be one of the last to get out.”

“Charming thought,” Melissa added, wryly, in commiseration with Joe’s dismal projection. “Obviously, a monster hurricane would be God’s way to even the score after blessing this place with so many days of warm, delicious weather.”

As she spoke, Melissa wondered, silently, about the level of Joe’s concern over hurricanes. Was it something he dreaded constantly, or just occasionally? Or did he consider it only a remote possibility that really didn’t affect him at all? While she pondered, he answered.

“I’m probably foolish, but I’m probably also like most of the other people who live here. We very rarely think about it, we never talk about it, and deep down inside we have this cocksure confidence that we’re quicker and craftier than any hurricane nature can muster. A little bit of wind and rain, that’s all they are.”

This answer didn’t quite dispel Melissa’s suspicions that something else lurked behind Joe’s statement. It was almost like he was trying to convince himself of his ability to overcome a hurricane. That wince of pain that flickered through his eyes as he spoke about hurricanes seemed to speak to a deep sorrow. Melissa suspected she was about to tread on dangerous ground, but this was the “new” Melissa, and if she was to have an open relationship she was determined that there’d be no secrets.