Matecumbe

by James A. Michener

  Eventually, Joe stood. Then, reaching down confidently for Melissa’s hand, he led her over toward the king-sized bed.

  After sliding themselves feet-first beneath a summery blanket, they caressed and pushed their lips together for one more kiss, summoning sleep.

  Chapter 6

  Paul’s generosity continued.

  Mary Ann and the girls selected new wardrobes during an all-day shopping spree in Philadelphia. As well, five new beds were delivered to Mary Ann’s apartment, replacing the beach chairs.

  The good times increased, too. The girls always looked forward to those evenings when Paul would take his new “family” out for dinner. As a group, they were adventurous when ordering from their menus—taking foods they had never before eaten, such as lobster and veal, and allowing each of their sisters to share a taste.

  During one of Mary Ann’s weekly visits to Paul’s house, she took snapshots of every room so that she could show them to her daughters.

  In the early part of May, Paul announced that he would be taking Mary Ann and the girls on a trip during the upcoming Memorial Day weekend.

  “We’ll be going to Ocean City, New Jersey, in about three weeks,” Paul shouted, like an enthusiastic coach. “Will everybody be ready for the beach and the boardwalk?”

  Although Mary Ann knew she would enjoy the intimacy that would be part of a weekend alone with Paul, she was glad the girls were coming along. She realized that they would have fun, but she was also somewhat relieved that sex between her and Paul would be impossible—since the kids would be staying in the same hotel suite.

  In the back of her mind, Mary Ann always feared getting involved with yet another man who would demand sex constantly. Her ex-husband terrified her with his non-stop need for sex. In comparison, she now had a degree of freedom, living the life of an unmarried woman, with no live-in lover. Before Paul came into her life, she would “stray,” as she put it, only once or twice a year.

  When she was about ten years old, Mary Ann had her breasts fondled by one of her uncles, but she never told her parents about the incident. In the intervening years, she purposely excluded from her memory all thoughts of male family members, possibly blocking the recollection of additional incidents with the same uncle.

  The child abuse in her past, Mary Ann believed, may be the reason she never experienced orgasms such as those she had read about or been told of by other women.

  “I’ve never screamed during sex,” Mary Ann admitted to Paul, “and I probably never will.”

  The boat ride on the Sunday before Memorial Day was the highlight of the entire weekend—as far as the girls were concerned. Five miles off the coast of Ocean City, they had their first experience with deep-sea fishing.

  All told, their group boated two dozen sea bass, a scattering of sea robins and junkfish, and three small flounder.

  The next day, their visit with “Lucy The Elephant” excited Mary Ann even more than it did the kids.

  “Lucy,” an imposing, three-story-high former hotel adjacent to the beach, was constructed in the shape of an elephant. Inside were antique slot machines that dispensed commemorative coins for every win. With a total investment of six dollars, Mary Ann was able to coax the machines into giving up four of the large, elephant-decorated coins—one for each of her girls.

  Whenever they walked the boardwalk that weekend, Mary Ann and the girls would collect armfuls of stuffed animals—as a result of playing wheel spins, coin toss games, and assorted carnival teasers. Paul tried his hand, too, but without any luck.

  Melissa was proud of the pink flamingo she won by knocking three bottles off a stand with a single pitch of a softball. The operator of the game tried to give her a larger stuffed flamingo, but Melissa had insisted on the smaller version.

  “He has a sad face, Mommy,” Melissa commented. “I’ll make him happy.”

  At the conclusion of their vacation, during the long drive home, the girls were busy with their drawing and crayon coloring in the back of Paul’s new station wagon. At least two of Mary Ann’s girls seemed to have legitimate artistic ability.

  “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 fo
r 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.

  “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 t
hey 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.