Matecumbe (11 page)

“There’s a greyhound track just east of here, over the next bridge—on Block Island. Have you ever been to the dog races?”

“No, never have.”

“Good, then maybe you’ll bring us a bit of beginner’s luck.”

The Key West Kennel Club, as it was called, was vastly unlike those few horseracing tracks that Melissa had visited in the northeastern states. The grandstand building was a tiny, weathered wooden structure, while the racing surface itself encircled a small lake.

The greyhound races attracted only about five hundred patrons per night, but the racetrack’s lack of size seemed only to add to its charm.

The sound of barking dogs greeted them as they drove into the sparsely filled parking lot. Walking near them as they headed toward the admission gates was a dog handler—leading two muzzled greyhounds.

“Those dogs have nice bodies,” Melissa giggled. “Thin at the hips and wide at the chest—very sexy.”

“I know that you’re basically a cat person,” Joe commented, “but I’ve always been partial to the running greyhounds. It’s in my blood, I guess. My Uncle Steve, whom I’ve mentioned to you before, has always been a most avid racing fan.

“Back when I was a kid, Uncle Steve took me to the dog races in New England and to the thoroughbred races in New Jersey. He believed that there’s something about the outside of a racing animal that turns on the inside of a man. And it’s true.

“I really get excited when I see a dog or a horse competing in a race. Also, the racing sport itself is a great form of escapism. Whenever I’m at a racetrack for a few hours, I forget all about the nagging problems that are part of living from day to day.”

“I’d like to meet this uncle of yours. He sounds interesting. Do you and he bet a lot of money on the dogs and horses?”

“I guess you’d call Steve a big bettor, but for me, I’m just a two-dollar guy on most races. Sometimes I’ll splurge, though, and throw down a five or a ten.”

Melissa’s beginner’s luck surfaced immediately. By selecting a dog solely on the basis of its name, she scored with her initial bet, collecting five dollars and sixty cents when Silverliner won the first race. She was unsuccessful, however, with two-dollar bets in both the second and third races.

“It’s pretty here, Joe, with the lights reflecting off the lake and the way the stars and the moon get brighter as the evening goes on. The cool breezes feel good, too, after a day in the sun.

“I wonder if gambling on dogs and horses is as bad as all the moralists would lead us to believe?”

“I think that daily lotteries are a bigger problem nowadays,” Joe interjected. “With so many states jumping on the bandwagon, those fifty-cent lottery tickets are available to just about everyone.

“Grandmom can buy a fistful of lottery numbers on her way to the corner store when she picks up the bread and milk.

“No, compared to horse and dog racing, the lotteries are much more pervasive. To lose money at a track, you’ve got to go out of your way to do it.

“Also, when you look at the casinos, that form of gambling is much more harmful. Casinos even extend credit to their patrons; racetracks don’t.”

Turning to the action in front of her, Melissa couldn’t resist making a comment that was disparaging of canine IQ.

“After a while, you’d think the dogs would learn,” she noted, “that the mechanical rabbit they’re chasing is not what they think it is.”

“Typical comment about the intelligence of dogs, coming from a cat person,” Joe laughed. “Don’t worry, if you lose a few more bets, you’ll stop believing that the dogs are the dumbest ones here.”

The long journey back to Islamorada provided another spectacular view, despite the absence of sunlight. On the superstructures of each of the many highway bridges were small red and green lights that lifted skyward, competing with the stars.

“It’s just like the holiday season in Philadelphia,” Melissa beamed. “I love to watch those tiny blinking lights on the trees that line the sidewalks.

“Here in the Keys, it’s even neater. Looking at the tops of the bridges is like seeing giant Christmas trees from the north that have been replanted in the middle of the tropics.”

Joe dominated the conversation during the traffic-free drive. And from the content of his comments, Melissa was acutely aware that he seemed genuinely interested in her future plans. She was unquestionably thrilled that someone she actually cared for was in the process of pursuing her.

“We’ll have to go to the races again when I come up to visit you,” Joe insisted. “And you’ll have to show me some of the restaurants you like in Philly.”

Inwardly, Melissa was ecstatic at Joe’s roundabout yet possessive remarks. There seemed to be no reason at all now to think that he considered her as merely a means to a one-night stand.

“Uncle Steve’s going to like you, just wait. He’ll fall in love with you as soon as he sees you.”

The horror stories about broken romances that she had heard from her female acquaintances on so many different occasions didn’t seem pertinent at all as far as she and Joe were concerned.

Melissa was crossing her fingers now, hoping she needn’t heed the tales of Natalie, Ruth, and Jennifer regarding those nameless, heartless men who had disappeared from their lives after a night or two of recreational sex.

“We’ll have to come back to Key West again,” Joe told her. “Once or twice a year, at least.”

Melissa smiled, and despite her best efforts, drifted off to sleep safely snuggled against Joe’s shoulder.

Mary Ann and Paul quickly developed a favorite pastime—attending the races at the nearby track where Paul’s horses were stabled.

On an average of about two evenings every week, from about 7 to 11 p.m., they would sit in the same area of the grandstand, in the same seats. Now and then they’d walk to the betting windows to place a wager, but most of the time they’d just sit and talk to each other, talk to fans sitting nearby, and experience the joy of seeing horses run. Paul noted, and Mary Ann agreed, that a summer’s night at the races had all the “getting acquainted” advantages of the bar scene, but without the booze and without the noise. There was a certain harmony among all the factors that led to this allure.

“I’ve found out a lot about you just from sitting here and talking,” Mary Ann told Paul one evening. “You said you were astounded by the number of guys you see at the track who have tattoos on their arms. But before I met you, I thought all men had tattoos. I was surprised when you swore to me that you never had even one.”

“I swear, never.”

“And what about laundromats? Remember that old woman, the one who wore four sweaters and was carrying those big shopping bags? She sat down in front of me, and all she talked about were horses and laundromats. I think it’s amazing that you’ve never been to a laundromat. I’ve gotten to know some of my best friends at laundromats. They’re great places for women to chitchat. I’ve even met men at laundromats.”

“And I’ve learned a lot about you, too, M.A.,” Paul countered, “especially from the people-watching we do when we’re here. Remember on that rainy, cool night when I pointed out the kid who was wearing the wild, five-color, psychedelic jacket? I asked you if you’d ever have the guts to wear a coat that looked like a slapdash abstract painting.”

“I remember,” Mary Ann admitted. “You wanted to know if I’d wear something like that to make a statement, but I said there would be nothing symbolic about it, that whether I’d wear the jacket or not would depend on whether it felt warm.”

Occasionally, one or two of the girls would tag along when Mary Ann and Paul went racing. To the children, though, racetrack attendance was only secondary entertainment. The real fun was the visit, before the races, to the stabling area. This activity was much more to the girls’ liking. For while they’d walk from barn to barn, they would feed carrots to the horses and offer table scraps to the many cats who roamed the grounds.

Mary Ann said she should have known that the lure of the friendly felines would gradually overpower the girls. Melissa and Annie were the co-conspirators who kidnapped a chubby little calico from Barn R on a warm, muggy night in August.

“If I’d have been aware that they were kidnapping four cats in one, I’d never have let it happen,” Mary Ann reflected.

“But I’m sure it turned out all right,” Paul laughed. “There’s no way the girls could have known that Puff was pregnant when they ran off with her. It was a good experience for them, watching Puff give birth.”

The racetrack wagering that Paul and Mary Ann engaged in always seemed to follow the same pattern. Paul would make $20 bets three or four times a night, and Mary Ann would risk $2 or $4 on most of the races. Paul would give her $30 at the beginning of each evening, and Mary Ann would either lose it all or turn that $30 stake into $100 or so.

Paul learned even more about Mary Ann’s character when she hit for $60 on the first race one night in early September and offered Paul half of the money right away. A week later, a $4 bet she made returned a whopping $150.

“Wow, it takes me a week to make this much at my job,” she screamed, waving the winning ticket in front of Paul’s nose. “Now I can rescue some of my layaways.

“Oh, I forgot,” she continued, looking straight at Paul. “You might not know about stuff people can buy on layaway.”

“If you ever hit a really big bet, M.A., several thousand, for example,” Paul asked her, “what would you do with it?”

“I’d buy the girls the best art supplies I could find and sign them up for the special classes at Allentown Art Museum,” Mary Ann answered, without blinking. “Then I’d put some money down on a new car. All of my life I’ve never owned a new car. And then, if there was any money left over, maybe I’d treat myself to a washer and dryer. But if I did that, then I wouldn’t be able to drive my new car over to the laundromat.

On his next bet, Paul won $500 on Greystoke, a long shot he would have overlooked if Mary Ann had not pointed it out. After picking up his winnings, Paul turned to Mary Ann, handing her the money, and said, “I want you to have this money, Mary Ann, and buy the girls those art supplies and art lessons. I’d like to think I was the first patron of a budding, American, female Picasso.”

On the following morning, a certain inevitability occurred, as it does with all vacations—the going home.

Melissa’s plane was due to depart Miami later that evening. In the interim, she and Joe would share one last day with each other in the Florida sun.

The plan for the morning of departure was to leave Islamorada right after breakfast, motor to Miami, and spend the last few fleeting hours in Florida’s largest city.

“You’ll like Miami,” Joe touted. “It has its own special kind of charm. For lack of a better description, it’s sort of like an air-conditioned Atlantic City. Big hotels, big money, and a sprinkling of ethnic neighborhoods.”

“I’m really going to miss Islamorada,” Melissa told him, almost with a tear in her eye. “The whipping of the wind through the palm fronds and the quiet comfort that comes over me every time I walk on the beach will be difficult to forget. I’ll also miss waking up every morning and seeing the egrets, the pelicans, and the roseate spoonbills fishing for their breakfasts in the shallow waters.