The Last Train to Key West

by Chanel Cleeton

  “We’re newlyweds,” I offer as an explanation for my milk faux pas, even though it explains so little. Even newlyweds have some prior relationship history, a shared affection and understanding.

  The waitress’s mouth opens as though she has something to say, but she closes it almost immediately, her attention no longer on me, but on Anthony, striding through the door, all long-limbed confidence and brawn.

  He is a handsome man, my new husband, as glitzy as the diamond on my finger, the sort women can’t help but admire, the type men gravitate toward in smoke-filled clubs where less reputable dealings and questionable stock tips—the little to be had these days—are passed between glasses of rum. His reappearance in the restaurant earns him a fair number of stares, his natty suit as out of place as my dress.

  He is a handsome man, and—most importantly, to my parents, at least—he is a wealthy and well-connected man, though rumors of the sources of his amassed fortune run the gamut from the decadent to the truly criminal. These days, it hardly matters. Money bought him a wife whose family had run on desperate times. I never learned what he and my father settled on—whether it was gold, or property, or some other manner of valuing his only daughter—but my thoughts on the situation hardly mattered.

  “Did you order lunch?” Anthony asks me, our language another barrier between us.

  I am most comfortable in Spanish, he prefers Italian, and so we must do with English, the only language we have in common.

  How are we to build a life with so many differences between us?

  “No, I didn’t order yet. I wasn’t sure what you’d like. Your coffee is here.” I gesture toward the cup, waiting to see how he reacts to the drink. I know so little about him: his likes, his personality, his temper.

  The waitress walks away during this exchange, hips swaying as she manages the tray in her hands.

  “I talked to my friend on the phone,” Anthony says. “We’ll drive up on the highway and catch a ferry that will take us the rest of the way to Islamorada. The staff has readied everything for us.”

  I twist the ring around my finger once more, unused to the weight of it, the sharp prongs holding the diamond in place that occasionally dig into my skin. What sort of man buys his wife a ring like this in times like these?

  Anthony’s dark brows knit together, his gaze on my hands. “Is it too large?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “The ring.”

  I stop fidgeting.

  “Is it too large on your finger?” he clarifies. “We can take it to my jeweler when we get to New York if you’d like to have it resized.”

  New York is to be our final destination, by way of the Florida East Coast Railway in a week or so after we’ve honeymooned at Anthony’s friend’s house in Islamorada. I’ve never been to New York, know not a soul, yet somehow it is to be my home, where I am to bear his children, live out the remainder of my days. No matter how many times I tell myself this is to be my future, I can’t quite reconcile how my life has changed so suddenly and with such finality. I can’t picture what our days will entail or how I will learn to be this man’s wife.

  Will my family visit? My parents? My brother? Will my new husband ever take me back to Cuba? His business interests brought him there initially after the revolution in 1933, but he’s said nothing of his long-term plans, whether he intends to return.

  Will I ever go home again?

  “The ring is fine. Beautiful. I don’t think I thanked you properly,” I add, remembering my mother’s earlier advice that marriage would be easier if we were able to find common ground between us, if he found me agreeable.

  Powerful men are busy men, Mirta. They do not wish to be bothered with problems in the home or the trivialities of your day, the vagaries of your moods. Your aim should be to make your new husband happy, to alleviate the pressures of his life, to make him proud.

  Her words came to me as she buttoned me into a white lace gown, the pins holding the dress in place pricking my skin. She shoved a bouquet of ivory flowers in my hands, last-minute instructions for a whirlwind wedding. Of the wedding night, I received no advice.

  “When I saw it, I knew it was perfect for you,” Anthony says, and I stifle the urge to grimace.

  It’s hardly the sort of jewelry I would have chosen for myself. It’s too big, too gaudy, too much. In these times, with the political fortunes such as they are in Cuba, we’ve all learned to survive by not calling attention to ourselves. I can hardly fault him for the mistake, but still, I add it to the pile of small indignations I am accumulating surrounding this marriage.

  “I like the restaurant,” I say suddenly, eager to do anything but talk about the ring.

  “Really?” He glances around the crowded seating area. “I worried it might be too plain for you. I’m sure you were used to finer establishments in Havana. But I thought it would be easy since it’s so close to the ferry. You hardly ate on the trip.”

  “No, it isn’t the sort of place I normally frequented,” I admit, even though the novelty is precisely what makes the restaurant so intriguing.

  When my father supported President Machado, our position was secure, and we lived within the insular world of Havana society.

  Two years ago, everything changed.

  Cubans grew tired of Machado’s dictatorship, and economic worries fueled by the crisis in the United States and a political movement led by many of the university students spurred tensions and violence within the country. The troubles building, the Americans intervened diplomatically, and eventually, Machado was ousted and forced into exile by a group led by some of his army sergeants. His followers—the Machadistas—have been hunted since the military coup, their bodies scattered throughout Cuba, hanging from lampposts, dumped along roadsides, burned to death in town squares.

  By the grace of God or some other unseen hand of fortune, my father survived, but he made the mistake of backing the wrong candidate for power, and now Fulgencio Batista—elevated to colonel—pulls the strings in Cuba and is the one to whom we must ingratiate ourselves.

  My older brother Emilio has been tasked with overseeing our sugar business, with forging a better relationship with the new regime, cozying up to Batista. Our father’s close relationship with Machado has left him in disfavor, though more fortunate than many of his friends who lost their lives, so now Emilio must set the course for the family.

  “Once we might have spent our days out in society,” I reply, choosing my words carefully. “More recently, we spent a fair amount of time at home. There was a circle of families who, like my father, lost their position after the revolution in ’33 that brought Batista to power.”

  Anthony and I have spent the last couple of years living on the same island, but we weren’t really living in the same country. The casino and hotel business might have brought him to Cuba thanks to Batista’s new ties with the Americans, but he was little more than a visitor, shielded from the horrors the rest of us feared.

  “I wondered how you spent your days and nights,” he says. “I would see you out in Havana, but you were always coming or going. I never saw where you ended up.”

  I flush. “No doubt my final destinations were far less interesting than yours.”

  “Perhaps.” He smiles. “I didn’t think ladies wished to frequent nightclubs and casinos.”

  “It’s hard to know what you’d like when so many doors are closed to you.”

  Something that might be understanding flickers in his gaze.

  While it is far easier to be a man than a woman, in this we likely share a common albeit tenuous bond—there is a difference between earning money and being born with it, and no doubt my husband with his likely ill-gotten gains knows a thing or two about having doors closed to him.

  And still—somehow his path crossed with my father’s enough for them to play cards, for Anthony to suggest a marriage betwe
en us. There are so many questions burning inside me, but my mother’s voice is in my ear once more, so instead of demanding the answers I crave, I settle for making polite small talk.

  “Do you do much business in the Keys?” I ask him.

  “Some, although not as much as I once did. The ferry and railroad have certainly been useful additions to the region. We’ll soon see Key West as a major trade route—after all, with its close proximity to the rest of the United States, Latin America, and Cuba, there are untold opportunities for success.”

  Given the rumors about my husband’s business interests, it seems he has a knack for finding chances to make money. They whisper that Anthony was a bootlegger before the United States government ended Prohibition two years ago, smuggling alcohol and contraband between Cuba and the United States.

  My new husband is said to be a friend of Batista, as are so many of these Americans now planting their flag in Havana, a fact that must have greatly influenced my father’s decision to marry us off. In these times, having a man in the family who has the ear of the most powerful man in Cuba is a great incentive indeed.

  “Do you travel much in your line of work?” I ask in yet another attempt to piece together our future. In my experience, most men are more than eager to talk about themselves as much as possible, but my husband is remarkably close-lipped about his life.

  This might be the most we have spoken together in succession.

  “Sometimes.”

  I wait.

  Once it becomes clear he isn’t going to elaborate, I try again.

  “Do you enjoy traveling?”

  For a moment, he almost looks confused by the question. “My interests have become more spread out as the years have gone by, and it’s important I keep an eye on them. You can hire good people to work for you, but it’s helpful to maintain a personal interest, to remind them what’s at stake.”

  “And your interests in Cuba? Do you intend to go back?”

  “I have business there, of course—the hotel and casino. You would like to visit your family. You will miss them.”

  There’s no need to pose it as a question; he has a very good sense of how much my family means to me and how far I am willing to go to protect them. My father wanted me to marry Anthony, and so I did, because following my family’s wishes without protest is what I have been raised to do.

  I envy men the freedom to choose their own spouses. They snap us up as though they are purchasing a piece of fruit at the market, and we are expected to have no say in the matter.

  Anthony’s speaking of the house where we are to spend our honeymoon, and while I sit there, watching his full lips move, I cannot really hear anything, am able to do little more than nod as though I understand, as though I am here with him, when really I am out to sea, drowning, lifting my arms in the air, asking someone to save me while people pass me by.

  “Does that suit?” Anthony asks, and I jerk my head like a marionette.

  How will I survive this strange marriage?

  Three

  Elizabeth

  “Call me Eliza,” I purr. “All my close friends do.”

  This is not strictly true—I am Elizabeth in all circles, most frequently Elizabeth Anne Preston when my mother is vexed, which she often is. It hardly matters, though; on this train, I can be Eliza if I like. Besides, the line does the trick as I’d hoped. The college boy sitting across from me on the Florida East Coast Railway train flushes as I lean back in my seat, the pale curve of my leg flashing his way before I cross my ankles again, his attention momentarily drawn away from my face.

  Who said the trip to Key West had to be boring?

  For much of the over-fifteen-hundred-mile journey since I boarded the train in Penn Station, it was one small, depressing, no-name town after another, the view offering little to recommend it. Finally, the scenery changed. Brown and gray became aquamarine and sapphire, Mr. Flagler’s railroad eventually living up to its vaunted reputation. Flagler and my grandfather were friends of a sort in their lifetimes—well, acquaintances, if I’m being truthful. No matter how much my mother wishes it were otherwise, even in our heyday we didn’t have Standard Oil money. The last name Preston might mean something in this country, but the value is diminished considerably when you’re a mere cousin to greatness, your family status relegated to invitations to the odd wedding and funeral, a reunion every few years.

  College Boy and I have been doing this dance for five states, at least. He’s traveling home, on break from some fancy university in Connecticut, and I’m, well, more than a little antsy for the journey to be over.

  We started our flirtation when the train left Penn Station in New York City, my unease over the length of the trip mollified by the sight of his broad shoulders and elegant suit. We exchanged pleasantries, engaging in the familiar game of which families we had in common, boys in his fraternity whom I’ve known throughout the years. The car is busier than anticipated, likely due to the Labor Day holiday weekend and the sale the railroad is advertising to entice business, but we’ve sought out each other like two magnets drawn together, sharing cigarettes and a flask of whiskey as the train rolled down the tracks.

  At Key Largo, I allow him a peek at the barest hint of cleavage, my dress several seasons past fashionable, hardly the only castoff in my closet.

  There are those who would say I should endeavor to not draw attention to myself, but I’ve never been much for what other people say, which I suppose is part of the problem. So a red dress it is to match my hair and lips, the color attracting the regard of every man in the carriage save one.

  The man in the gray suit.

  I noticed him when he boarded the train in Miami and slid into the seat across from mine with little fanfare. I noticed him even more when he proceeded to not notice me back for the next several hours while I conjured up in my mind all the possibilities of who he could be.

  Unlike the other passengers, who began looking out the window as soon as we neared Key West, their attention diverted by the view, the majestic Atlantic Ocean on one side, the equally stunning Gulf of Mexico on the other, he’s engrossed in whatever he’s reading as though he has no interest in the scenery.

  “Did you see that?” College Boy asks, his expression filled with excitement. “Look at the fish below.”

  The corner of the man in the gray suit’s mouth quirks. Almost a smile.

  “Neat,” I drawl, my gaze not on the school of fish swimming in the water a couple dozen feet below but on the man sitting across from me. That half smile is the closest thing I’ve seen to a human emotion since he boarded the train. And still—

  He doesn’t bother glancing up from his papers.

  What can possibly be so interesting about some dusty old pages anyway?

  “I’m going to see if I can get a better view in the observation car,” College Boy announces.

  I dismiss him with a wave of my hand, his affections easily won, my attention firmly on the man in the gray suit now, the challenge too delicious to ignore. The journey’s almost over. Surely, he’ll look up.

  I lean forward in my seat, giving my book a little shove off my lap, making absolutely no effort to conceal my intent.

  The book hits the train floor with a thud.

  Something that sounds a lot like a sigh escapes from the man in the gray suit.

  I wait.

  He moves, his big body uncoiling as he leans forward to pick up the book I’ve dropped. I shift in my seat, advancing at the exact moment he does, perfectly aware that the movement puts him in direct line of sight with the impressive décolletage of my strained dress.

  He emits a noise—somewhere between a sharp inhale of breath and a sputter—and my lips curve.

  Gray Suit hands my Patricia Wentworth novel back to me wordlessly.

  His eyes are a lovely, solemn shade of brown; his hair is a neat close-cr
opped blond intermixed with strands of brown, and perhaps, a touch of steel. He must be thirty, at least.

  He’s not handsome, not in an obvious way, but he has the look of a soldier about him, all square-jawed goodness.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to notice me,” I say in a breathless voice, fluttering my lashes, trying to summon a suitable blush, my skills rusty. My social life has become one of the casualties of this Depression, my technique not what it once was when men flocked around my skirts and danced attendance upon me.

  Gray Suit doesn’t respond, but he straightens in his seat slightly, his gaze pinning me.

  “Did you notice me?” I ask.

  His lips twitch. “Sure did.”

  Another bat of my eyelashes. “And what exactly did you notice?”

  He snorts. “That you’re trouble.”

  I wait for the rest of it. Despite their protestations, I’ve learned most men like a bit of trouble. You could say I’ve cultivated a study of it, if you’d like.

  When he doesn’t reply, I lean in closer, allowing him to get a whiff of my French perfume—the last of it, anyway, which I assiduously diluted with water to eke out the remaining scent.

  “And what’s your opinion on trouble?”

  “I don’t have time for trouble.” He smirks. “And certainly not the barely legal kind.”

  “I’m twenty-three.”

  “Like I said.”

  “How old are you?” I retort.

  “A lot older than twenty-three. I don’t have time for spoiled girls with more time on their hands than sense.” He gestures toward his paper. “There’s enough trouble in this world. No point in searching for more.”

  If I was easily deterred, I wouldn’t be here on this train, and I’ve yet to meet the man who could resist a pair of fine legs and a hint of cleavage. Everyone knows these are desperate times, and in desperate times, everyone plays it a little fast and loose—among my set, at least. When you’ve lost it all, it’s hard not to feel as though there’s little to be gained by following the rules, by playing it safe.