“One old timer, who lived in nearby Marathon, the next town between here and Key West, told me that the barometer went under twenty-seven during the hurricane. That’s supposed to be some kind of meteorological record. Almost all of the Keys were devastated. The postmaster up in Key Largo had a total of forty-nine relatives living on the Keys before the storm, and only ten were still alive the day after the hurricane.
“Every once in a while, a skeleton turns up on one of the mangrove islands. And every couple of years, another old car is found half-buried somewhere—bearing 1935 license plates.
“After the storm, when Islamorada was rebuilt, the town council erected a monument to the dead highway workers. That monument is in the middle of a small park on the other side of the Seascaper, at Milepost 80.”
“These highway workers, the W.P.A. people,” Melissa inquired, “where did they come from? Were they from other parts of Florida, were they prisoners, or what?”
“Most of the laborers got the jobs because they were veterans of World War I. They were unemployed—victims of the Depression. And they moved from one tent city to another, following the highway. The famous author, Ernest Hemingway, who lived for a few years in Key West, wrote a magazine article soon after the storm. In it, he blamed the W.P.A. for not providing the workers with adequate shelter. He also criticized the lack of a prompt rescue.
“The only good thing that came out of the storm was the fact that the railroad bridges, which connected the long string of islands, were still standing. Even though the rail beds on land had been ripped apart, all of the railroad bridges from Miami straight through to Key West were in perfect shape.
“And since the W.P.A. had commissioned only the land portion of the overseas highway and had not yet gotten money to build the highway bridges, when they learned that the railroad would never be rebuilt, they turned the old railroad structures into highway bridges. This saved a lot of money as well as time. So, because of the hurricane and the destruction of the railroad, the overseas highway to Key West was finished several years ahead of schedule.”
Melissa was fascinated by Joe’s tale of Islamorada’s history, and she told him so.
“You remind me of a very sexy history teacher I once had in college. Listening to him talk was a soothing experience—like when my stepfather used to tell me bedtime stories back when I still believed in the Easter Bunny.
“With all your attention to detail, you’d probably make a good librarian, too,” Melissa added. “Did you ever consider going back to school to get a degree?”
“I have, but the ‘Joe College’ idea hasn’t ever gotten past the thinking stage. It would be very difficult for me, what with my swing shift. One week I work days, the next week nights, and the third week my hours are midnight until eight o’clock in the morning.”
After they had made several trips to the buffet table, which featured shrimp, king crab legs, scallops, and even barbecued ribs, Melissa decided that it was her turn to take hold of the imaginary microphone.
“I majored in history at Neuva Villa, a small women’s college near Pittsburgh. I have pleasant memories of my years in the dorm with all the friends I made. I loved the all-night study sessions, the weekend parties on campus, and the long train rides home for the holidays. Sometimes, I wish I could go back in time and be a college sophomore again.
“After finishing college, I went straight into graduate work, taking library science. When I got my master’s, I was lucky to find a job right away in a reference department.
“I can’t stand library cataloguing, which is highly computerized now. And I didn’t want to be a children’s librarian. I just wouldn’t have the patience to work with kids. Reference was the only thing I ever wanted to do.
“When I see professional librarians entertaining kiddies by reading to them aloud during so-called story hours, I feel sick to my stomach. I’m kind of funny when it comes to children’s literature, or ‘kiddy lit.’ Aside from a handful of classics, most of it is junk. I’m positive that any bright college student with a flair for storytelling could out-write most of the people who pass themselves off as children’s authors.
“So, I guess I’ve been extremely happy as a reference librarian. I have no career complaints. It’s challenging work with both the general public and with the university types—answering their questions and directing them to the most useful research sources. I was a great help to my ex-husband, who taught poetry and advanced composition. I hope he learned something from my help, so that he can do his scholarly papers by himself now.
“My job has its humorous moments, too, like when I get phone calls from people who want answers to trivia questions. I got a real challenge last summer when the same woman called me two weeks in a row—both times on Monday mornings. Her first question was ‘How many dimples are there on a golf ball?’ and her next question was ‘How many seeds are there in a watermelon?’ It took me a while, but I found both of the answers for her. One can only wonder, though, what she intended to do with the information.”
“Did you pick up a golf ball,” Joe asked, “and count the dimples yourself ?”
“No, that’s not kosher,” Melissa explained. “A reference librarian’s job is to find a written source that gives the correct information.”
“Golf balls and watermelons! There are books, you say, that can tell us how many seeds are in a watermelon! How ridiculous!” Joe exclaimed. “I just can’t help but think how your job is such a petty pursuit compared to police work. We’re saving lives and arresting crooks, while you’re answering trivia questions.”
“I guess reference work is just about as stupid,” Melissa cracked, with a smile, “as cops who write out jaywalking tickets or put grandmothers in jail for playing bingo.”
“Touché, touché.”
The key lime pie that Melissa and Joe ate for dessert was delicious. Melissa even went back to the trifle tray for a second helping. And at just about the time she had finished consuming the last scrumptious bite, Joe started telling her about his workaday life as one of Islamorada’s finest.
“There are just four of us in the department, full-time. We have a grand total of three patrol cars and two boats. The job is comfortable for me in that it’s not boring, probably much the same as what you’d see on a realistic television show. Since this is a tourist town, I get to meet unusual people once in awhile. And, occasionally, as with the boat accident, there’s a bit of an intellectual challenge.
“I don’t think I could be a policeman in a big city, though. There would seem to be too many dangerous midnight calls when my life would be on the line. And although the people down here in Islamorada are not all saintly, at least they’re sane. If I had to deal with the crazies you find in a metropolitan area like Miami, well, they couldn’t pay me enough money.
“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 sp
itting 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.”
Chapter 4
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 bee
n 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.
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