where would they go? There’s no high ground here. Just the water.” He hesitates. “If it gets bad, promise me you’ll head north. Go to Miami or farther up. In your condition, you don’t want to take the risk of getting caught in one of these storms. At least you’re closer to the mainland than you would have been in Key West.”
“I will,” I reply. “Hopefully, the storm will miss us entirely.” I understand his concern, and the baby certainly changes things, but it’s hard to explain to someone who isn’t from here what it’s like. You develop a healthy respect for Mother Nature—after all, you coexist mostly peacefully, and she directs your fortunes more often than you’d care to admit—but life goes on down here in fair weather or foul. When you’re trying to survive, you don’t have the luxury to leave when things are difficult. You dig in and make the best of it.
But I have left.
I’m still not sure of what to make of it. It’s as though someone else got into the car, and onto the ferry, and sailed away from her husband, baby in tow.
What will I tell my child when it asks how I could have left? What would I have told my child if it asked how I could have stayed?
I give John directions to my aunt’s inn, the wind from the open car window alleviating some of the nausea in my stomach as we drive down the highway. Motion never used to make me sick like this—another gift pregnancy has bestowed upon me.
The ferry landing is at the southwest end of the island next to the camp where John says he lives. We drive north, the highway and railroad covering the length of Lower and Upper Matecumbe Key. I haven’t been up here since I was a little girl, but I have fond memories of playing in the water with my aunt, catching fish, chasing lizards, and building castles in the sand.
“It’s not quite what I expected when they said there were jobs available down in the Florida Keys,” John comments.
“What did you expect?” I ask.
“An island paradise, I suppose. A place to get lost, certainly. But nothing so desolate, so wild, so stark. There’s no pretense to it, and while there are moments of beauty, there’s also a deadly edge that sort of overshadows all else—the weather, the water. I can’t decide if I like it or not.”
“I can see what you mean. When I was a child, it felt like paradise because there was so much open space and it wasn’t as busy as Key West. You could go a whole day without seeing another soul if you wanted.”
“That does sound like paradise when you put it that way,” he says.
“Don’t you ever get lonely?”
“I do and I don’t. I had friends, good friends, before I went off to war. And when I was there, there were men I considered to be brothers, men I would have sacrificed my life for. I miss that, I suppose. There are good men down here. But I told you, I’m not in a place to be much of a friend to anyone.”
“What utter nonsense. What is this if not evidence of you being a good friend? You helped a complete stranger when many would have looked the other way—when many did look the other way.”
“Not a complete stranger. I saw you at Ruby’s for months.”
“We never spoke about anything besides me taking your order.”
“Maybe not, but you smiled at me. At others. It was nice. You always brightened my day even if you never realized it, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who felt that way.”
Tom always said I talked too much to my customers, that I was too friendly with them, too familiar, but the truth is, I like talking to people, learning about their lives. You can live a fair share of adventures in other people’s stories.
“I like waitressing,” I admit. “It’s hard work, and you certainly get some rude customers, but I enjoy being around people. It keeps things interesting. It’s easy to get involved in your customers’ lives. I actually met a girl this weekend and told her about the inn. She’d come down on the railroad and planned on traveling up here and visiting the camps. I wonder if she ever made it.”
“The camps aren’t any place for a young girl.”
“I told her that, but she seemed pretty intent. Hopefully, Aunt Alice was able to help