Matecumbe (10 page)

“Their art work seems excellent,” Paul noticed, “but it would probably be better if they could spend more time reading books. When I was in high school, my favorite English teacher always told our class, ‘The dummies draw, and the smart kids read.’”

“When I was in high school,” Mary Ann reacted, “my best subject was art. My favorite teacher thought I had a future as a commercial artist. But I never followed through on it. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t need to work as a weekend cashier to make ends meet, and I’d have more time to spend with my family.”

Immediately, from embarrassment, Paul felt a blush. He was hoping, however, that his sunburn could hide it. He made a silent vow to make up for his insensitive remark as soon as possible.

Daybreak in Key West was instant warmth. To Melissa, the breeze that pushed its way through the open window felt like a tingling, toasty air current—the kind that a heating vent spews into a room during a mid-winter’s day in Philadelphia, returning the wiggle to snow-frozen toes.

When they awoke on the bed, Melissa and Joe were still entwined, arm-in-arm. The absence of clothing led them to a logical, natural response—and so, they made love once again.

During this tender intermingling, Melissa felt overcome with passion. It was, she felt, her turn to steal the lead from Joe. And, like a dancer who can encourage a partner into the most memorable of moves, Melissa was coaxing Joe to a top-rate, all-star performance.

It was as if they were a medal-winning pairs team in Olympic iceskating. They did nothing to impede each other. Those few imprecise movements went unnoticed. They were a positive complement, like the right wine with the right food.

While Melissa knelt, perched atop Joe, her tongue painted tiny circles under his ears, below his chin, and then from one side of his chest to the other.

Pulling him over on his side, she then reached around his body and used her left hand to massage the muscles in his back, pressing his torso tightly to hers with every movement of her pulsating fingers.

Deftly, she then moved her head toward the lower part of his body. Alternately, she rubbed her face along the sides of both his massive legs.

Soon, Melissa and Joe were once again consummating their love, swaying to a rhythm that they alone had chosen.

Before long, their bodies were satisfied, having quenched this morning thirst for love—and for each other.

In time, Melissa and Joe resumed their normal breathing. And as do even the gods and goddesses of love, they turned their thoughts away from romance and toward the world that lay before them—on the streets of Key West.

While they showered and then packed, Joe reminded her that she was only about ninety miles away from the shores of Cuba, which was the next great land mass directly south.

“If I were a native of Key West,” Melissa philosophized, “I’d want to get into a boat as often as possible and ride out in the water, as far west of here as I could. I guess I’m talking day trips, for sunshine, swimming, and fishing. I’d have to go at least once a week. Otherwise, if I didn’t, I’d feel as though I were trapped. Living here—at the absolute end of Highway One—would be like being pinned, psychologically, against an invisible wall—with the only other way out a retreat back to Miami.”

“You’re right,” Joe noted. “It probably would be restrictive. Aside from Hawaii, this is as far south as you can get in the United States. And you’ve got to go a long ways west of here before you see the shores of Texas. Maybe that’s why the natives of Key West, knowing that they’re at land’s end, so to speak, are always in what seems like constant motion.”

“Exactly,” Melissa interrupted. “I noticed that yesterday. Even when we were driving on the side streets, away from the tourist areas, there were crowds of people on the sidewalks—pedestrian traffic jams.”

“That’s what rats do in cages, or what people do when they’re arrested for the first time,” Joe added. “I’ve seen it in my work. When a guy with no criminal record gets jailed, and he’s inside the lockup, waiting to get bailed out, he’ll walk around constantly, from one end of the cell to the other. And, once in a while, he’ll stick his nose right through the bars— on top of the keyhole—hoping to get out of jail the exact instant the guard opens the door.

“Say, we’re getting kind of negative here, aren’t we?” Joe laughed.

Melissa followed with a chuckle of her own.

Soon, as they were leaving the room to check out, Joe advised Melissa to take along a sweater to wear later that evening, because the breezes on Key West are stronger than those on Islamorada.

“I think I’ll pass on bringing the sweater,” Melissa answered, giving Joe a hug. “Your warmth will be enough.”

In the center of town, at Mallory Square, they boarded the “Conch Train,” a fifty-passenger, open-air tram. It came complete with soft seat cushions and a talkative guide. The tram was scheduled to take them past some of the island’s more unusual attractions.

“What’s your favorite color?” Joe asked, as soon as they had jumped on board.

“Aside from your eyes?” Melissa whispered. “Well, I’ve always been fond of pinks, yellows, and different shades of blue. I’m sort of a nervous, antsy person, and pastels seem to have the power to put me in a relaxed frame of mind.”

“Well, our first tram stop will be at one of the old Martello Towers. These were originally the military forts that were built on the corners of the island to protect against an attack by sea—during the Civil War. Just a few years ago, the fort farthest from downtown was converted into a public flower garden. If I remember correctly, pinks and yellows bloom in abundance almost all year long.”

Melissa’s first reaction when she saw this huge fort-cum-flower-garden was that the once intimidating stone façade seemed to blend now, in an eye-pleasing manner, with the expansive covering of omnipresent bougainvillea, hibiscus, and wild orchids.

“It looks like a mix of the good and the bad, war and peace, the calm and the hectic,” she effused. “Sort of like a statement that promotes nonviolence. When I see flowers dominating a military fort, it’s like when the nose of a cannon is propped straight up and turned into a flower planter. It tells me that peace has conquered war—that we are celebrating the death of guns.”

When she had finished with this speech, Melissa remembered that Joe, being a policeman, might have differing views.

“Well put,” he nodded. “But don’t forget, I’m kind of proud that policemen like me are called keepers of the peace.”

“That’s true,” Melissa admitted. “I guess the guns and peace thing could be a sensitive point to policemen. One shouldn’t assume that the terms ‘peace’ and ‘police’ are mutually exclusive.”

The next attraction along the route of the Conch Train was Ernest Hemingway’s house on Whitehead Street. The building itself and the fenced grounds are now considered a national historic landmark.

Hemingway lived in Key West with his second wife, Pauline, from 1928 until 1940.

During its heyday, the house, which sits on one of the high water points of the town, was the biggest and most luxurious private residence in all of Key West.

“Don’t think that it was Hemingway’s money that built the house,” Joe cautioned, as he and Melissa walked through an outside garden. “His wife was extremely rich, and even though Ernest had written a few of his best-sellers already, like
To Have and Have Not
, he could never have afforded this place on what he earned. Take the swimming pool, for example. It was the first in-ground pool ever built in the Florida Keys. It cost almost as much as the house, because the hard coral foundation had to be blasted out with dynamite. The mass of coral, being buried so close to ground level throughout the island, is the reason that most houses in the Keys don’t have basements.”

Melissa was delighted by the bevy of cats living at Ernest’s house. Domestic short hairs of every possible color combination took turns brushing their bodies alongside her legs. A tiny, longhaired, tortoiseshell white was particularly friendly and affectionate.

“There must be close to a hundred here,” she giggled, as she stopped to pet what seemed like every one of them.

“Hemingway loved cats,” Joe smiled. “You’ll notice that some of them have an extra toe on each of their front paws—a mutant strain.

“And since Hemingway liked to frequent the rowdy neighborhood tap rooms on an almost nightly basis, the locals tell the story that even his cats are predisposed to being better barroom brawlers—thanks to that extra claw.”

The sunny but cool weather on Key West made Melissa wish she could stay for longer than just a day. The wide expanses of sand on the south side of the island were home for hundreds of multicolored beach chairs, looking like spring flowers sprouting wildly in the middle of a field.

“It’s beautiful here, Joe, and it even has a little bit of class to it, what with the ethnic restaurants, the playhouse, and all of the museums. Key West also appears to have quite a few nightspots.”

“You’re right,” Joe admitted. “The word, for want of something better, is culture—with a splash of night life. Key West has the same warmth and cool breezes that Islamorada has, but Islamorada’s allure ends with the setting of the sun. Islamorada is peace and quiet at night. In Key West, with all the bars and clubs, there never seems to be a distinction between night and day—the action keeps right on going.”

The last stop for the Conch Train was at the Key West Aquarium. And thanks to an aquarium host who was extremely knowledgeable, Melissa learned as much as possible about the sea life that inhabits the Keys. When the guide plucked a live, two-foot-long shark from one of the tanks and walked through the crowd, letting the tourists pet the beast’s belly, Joe reached for his camera.

And when Melissa’s turn came to place a hand on the shark, her pose was far from flattering.

“I got a good one of you and Jaws,” Joe wisecracked. “And when we get this one developed, it will be a case of who looks more frightened, you or the shark.”

After a brief shopping spree in the stores on Mallory Square, during which Melissa bought a tee shirt bearing the air-brushed colors of a calico cat, it was time for dinner.

The restaurant that Joe had selected was called The Harbor’s Bounty. Located near the boat docks on the north end of the island, it provided two fantastic views—one of the fishermen returning to port with their daily catch and another of the brilliant orange sun as it set on the Gulf of Mexico.

Throughout a dinner that was highlighted by conch fritters and crab claws, Joe and Melissa both exuded an outward calm that was half comfort at having spent a relaxing day in the sun and half contentment at having had the pleasure of one another’s company.

“A day in Key West ends in a blaze of glory, doesn’t it?” Melissa noted, gesturing skyward toward the searing fireball that was gradually disappearing on the horizon. “The sun kind of shimmers, like it’s shining through a haze, but there is no haze.”

“In Key West, we’re closer to the sun,” Joe reminded. “Remember, the equator is nearer to here than it is to Philadelphia.”

After a dessert of key lime pie topped with whipped cream, Joe sprang a surprise on Melissa.