The Last Train to Key West

by Chanel Cleeton

  I was a girl when we married, barely more than a child myself. Tom has been my whole world; he has made himself my whole world in all sorts of little ways I never even realized, like telling me what to wear, or what to eat, or who I should be friends with. But as hard as it is to envision my life without him, I can’t see staying with him, either.

  In the distance, the sound of a hammer hitting a nail over and over again echoes like gunfire.

  I jerk.

  They’re boarding up houses and businesses in preparation for the storm. If she comes, they’ll applaud their foresight; if she misses us entirely, they’ll grumble as they pull down the boards.

  It’s funny how one man’s paradise can be another’s prison.

  I can’t stay another day in mine.

  “I’m leaving him.”

  The words escape my lips before my mind catches up with the reality of them, but as soon as I say them, I am filled with a sense of rightness even as fear seeps through.

  “Where will you go?” John asks.

  “My aunt lives up north—Islamorada. I haven’t seen her in years, but we write letters.” Letters I’ve always hidden from Tom, since he didn’t approve of Aunt Alice and her independence. “She might know of a place I could stay.”

  Getting to Islamorada is the difficult part; it’s about an hour drive to the ferry landing, and then there’s the ferry—

  “A guy I grew up with lives down here part of the year,” John says. “He lets me borrow his car when he’s not around, when he doesn’t need it. I’m planning on leaving this morning—driving up to No Name Key and taking the ferry back to camp. It would be no trouble for me to take you to your aunt’s.” He glances down at a surprisingly elegant timepiece. “Ferry leaves around eight. If we hurry, we might be able to make it.”

  And like that, I leave my husband.

  * * *

  —

  We barrel down the highway like the devil is on our heels. For all I know, perhaps he is. I left with nothing other than the clothes on my back, a fistful of tips and my unpaid wages—with a little extra from Ruby—shoved into the pocket of my dress. I briefly considered returning to the cottage to pack a bag, but there wasn’t enough time and it wasn’t worth the risk of encountering Tom. The ferry is unpredictable enough as it is; better to leave now when there’s help to be found and a chance of escape than miss this opportunity.

  I glance at John behind the wheel of the Plymouth, wondering if he’s regretting his decision to help me out, if he’s afraid Tom will come after us. How would the law view a man interfering in the business of a man and his wife—helping to take his child away from him? In these parts, people take care of their own, and for an outsider like John, the price to pay is steep indeed.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “I keep laying troubles at your feet.”

  “It’s no trouble. You saved me last night. Everybody needs help at one point or another. There’s no shame in that.”

  He says it so matter-of-factly, but it’s not that simple, is it? The world has expectations of you, of how you are to shoulder your burdens with grace, of the role you play, and as soon as you don’t live up to those expectations, it’s easier for others to cast you aside rather than change how they view the world.

  We are defined by what we do for others, by our relationships, by what we have to offer. A married woman has a measure of security a single one does not; a pretty girl a better chance than a plain one. A soldier who comes back from war triumphant is a hero, whereas one who is broken by the effort is forgotten.

  The road is rougher the farther we head away from Key West, the landscape changing and becoming more desolate as we continue on. I haven’t been this far north in years, and it’s a whole other world. Despite the small space, it appears you could go days without another soul in sight.

  “Thank you for helping me regardless,” I reply. “You know it’s strange that we’ve ended up together like this. Of all my customers, you were the one who was always a mystery. Most of the time people sit down at your table and offer more details about their lives than you want to know. But with you, it was the opposite.”

  “I didn’t used to be quiet. But it’s hard talking to people when you lose the art of talking about nothing. People ask how you’re doing, but they don’t really want to know if you’re struggling or not; they want the answer that enables them to go about their day without feeling guilty.”

  I never thought about it that way, but he’s right. There are greetings, and casual questions I ask throughout my day, but they’re done out of habit more than anything else. They’re expected. A routine that makes everyone more comfortable, the answers as rote as the questions themselves. A script we’ve all memorized.

  “It seemed easier than pretending I was someone I wasn’t, than unburdening myself on others,” John adds.

  “Everyone needs help at one point or another,” I say, repeating his earlier words. “There’s no shame in that.”

  “And no one ever helped you get away?”

  “It’s not that simple.” I twist the little tin wedding band around my finger, not quite ready to remove it. Despite the physical act of leaving, it seems as though I’ll always be tethered to Tom.

  “Did you ever consider living elsewhere?” John asks me.

  “When I was younger, all the time. That was one of the things that first drew me to Tom. We used to go out on his boat, and we’d talk about sailing away, moving down to the Bahamas, or going to Cuba, seeing the world.”

  “What happened?”

  “Life, I suppose. Do you like the work you do on the highway?” I ask, changing the subject away from my lost dreams.

  “I do. It’s hard work, but at the end of the day when your head hits the pillow there’s not a lot of room for much else in your mind.”

  “It must be difficult going to war.”

  “Going to war was the easy part—people prepare you for that. Coming home was the hard part. There’s this buildup before you leave. Your head is filled with ideas of what it will be like, of what you can accomplish, a desire to sacrifice yourself for something bigger than yourself. And whatever you expect, war is something else entirely. But at least there’s a mission, a focus, and you’re surrounded by people who come from different walks of life, but who you’re connected to by this bond no one else will ever understand. And then it’s all over.”

  I take his hand. He jerks beneath my touch, and I can’t tell who is more startled by my action—me or him—and then he exhales, his whole body shuddering with the effort, and for a beat he is still.

  I can’t remember the last time I touched a man who wasn’t Tom, but the hurt in John is unmistakably familiar, and the desire to offer comfort is instinctive.

  After all, what more do we want than for someone to see us as we are, to acknowledge our pain, and to offer a moment of relief?

  I give him a quick, reassuring squeeze before I snatch my hand back.

  How long has it been since I made a friend?

  “Is your wrist bothering you?” he asks.

  “How did you—”

  “You were favoring it earlier when you were carrying the tray in the restaurant. And the older bruises made it clear he was rough with you.”

  “He wasn’t always.”

  “He shouldn’t ever be.”

  For a moment, I seize that thought; I imagine living in a world of such comforting absolutes. But the moment flits away from me, carried off by the wind blowing through the open car window.

  * * *

  —

  We arrive at the ferry just in time. John parks the car, coming around behind the back of the vehicle to open the passenger door for me. I wince as I try to get up, the sheer size of my stomach sending me toppling back.

  “Are you all right?” Jo
hn asks.

  “Give me a moment.”

  I take a deep breath, pushing off from the car seat. John takes my elbow, holding me steady as I rise to my feet, his fingers blessedly avoiding the bruises Tom left on my arm.

  “You folks waiting on the ferry?” a voice calls out.

  “We are,” John answers.

  “Good timing. Storm’s coming. This is the last trip. Y’all better hurry.”

  I move as quickly as the babe will allow; John rests his hand on the small of my back, guiding me, supporting me.

  When we get on the ferry, the car loaded as well, my stomach lurches, the water surprisingly choppy.

  We wait while the rest of the passengers board quickly, the ferry filling with men who work on the highway. A few acknowledge John with a tilt of their head, but whether they recognize him as a friend or acquaintance, or simply the fact that he is one of them, is difficult to tell.

  John stands stiffly beside me, his gaze scanning each new arrival, and it isn’t until the fourth or fifth passenger that I realize I’m doing the same thing—searching for Tom in the faces of all these men. Not that a ferry ride will stop my husband. If he figures out where I’ve gone, it’ll be easy enough for him to take his boat to Matecumbe in search of me.

  A few feet away from where I stand, a big man lumbers on board, his head bent, the span of his shoulders broad, his body as recognizable as my own. Panic fills me, and I move behind John, pressing my body against the railing, praying he doesn’t see me.

  How could Tom have found me so quickly?

  He raises his head, and my heart stops for a moment, the breath knocked out of me.

  “Helen?” John says, his brow furrowed.

  I grip the railing, glancing out over the water. For one utterly terrifying moment, I consider what it would be like to jump overboard and take my chances with the sea.

  But the man turns before I truly consider it, and there’s a flash of something on his features—an expression I’m intimately familiar with—and then it’s gone, and I realize it isn’t Tom at all.

  Only a stranger with a similar manner of carrying himself.

  The surge of relief hits me so quickly I could almost cry.

  Man after man hops on the ferry, some big, some slight, but none of them are Tom.

  We cast off, pulling away from the dock, the water slapping the side of the boat.

  Suddenly, it’s all too much, and I lean over the railing, sickness overtaking me.

  When I’m finished, a square piece of fabric enters my line of sight, and I take it wordlessly, surprised by the fine cloth, the initials painstakingly embroidered in the corner. Did a girlfriend make this for him? A fiancée?

  I clean myself up discreetly before facing John.

  “Thank you.” I hope my cheeks aren’t too red, my embarrassment great indeed.

  “Of course. Have you been sick throughout the pregnancy?”

  “In the beginning, but then it went away. Lately, it’s come back with a vengeance. The sea isn’t making it easier.” I grip the railing as the boat rocks once more.

  “They say it helps if you focus on a steady point,” John suggests.

  “Helps with what?”

  “The seasickness.”

  “And if there is no steady point?”

  The weather has kicked up considerably in the last few hours, the wind wailing, waves battering the ferry, the crest rising higher and higher.

  “Then you plant your feet and hope for the best.”

  The water tosses the boat to and fro.

  “Hold on to the railing. I’ve got you,” John shouts.

  The boat jolts, and I lurch forward, John lunging to catch me.

  Suddenly, we slow until we’re at a near crawl.

  I grip the railing more tightly, dread settling in my stomach like a ball of lead.

  “Why are we slowing down?” I ask John.

  What if Tom has come after us?

  “Let me see if I can find out what’s going on. Will you be fine if I leave you here by yourself?”

  I nod.

  Around me, people have taken notice of our decreased speed as well, murmurs and shouts rising from the crowd.

  There’s open water all around us, and I scan for the Helen, to see if Tom has flagged down the ship, but all I can see are the riotous waves that look like they could consume us.

  What have I done?

  Footsteps echo behind me, and John’s voice—

  “One of the propellers broke. That’s what slowed us down. With only one left, the trip will take hours longer than we thought.”

  I lean over the side of the ferry and lose the rest of my breakfast.

  Twelve

  Elizabeth

  It’s late in the morning by the time we’re on the road. Silence fills the car as we drive to the first of the veterans’ camps, and suddenly, I can’t take it anymore, the need to fill my head with something other than my worry overwhelming.

  I stare out the window. “What a strange little place. You could almost stand in the middle of the road and put both of your arms out and touch the water.”

  Sam chuckles. “Somehow I can see you doing just that. You’d probably cause an accident.”

  “You know, I’m not only a troublemaker. I have other qualities. Besides, it’s hardly my fault if men can’t keep their wits about them in front of a pretty girl.”

  “I thought we already settled the matter of you being more than ‘pretty.’ And you’re right. Men do utterly absurd things when women are involved.”

  “Perhaps men do utterly absurd things on their own and merely like to use women as a convenient excuse for their foolishness. Are you speaking from experience, pray tell?”

  He grins. “I might be.”

  “I can’t fathom the woman who’d get under your skin.”

  He shoots me a curious look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I didn’t take you for the romantic sort.”

  “Whereas, let me guess, you fall in love weekly.”

  “Only on Tuesdays. Mondays I’m far too busy, and falling in love on a weekend is too prosaic.”

  “And Wednesdays?”

  “Oh, I’m usually bored with them by Wednesday, and on to the next one. It’s a very delicate balance.”

  “I see that. And who was the last man you fell in love with? The fiancé?”

  His tone is mild, but I detect a note of interest there buried beneath the layers of insouciance.

  I pause, as though I’m conjuring a man up from legions, when really the answer is so simple it twists my heart.

  I shake my head. “No, not him. Billy.”

  There’s only the slightest pang when I say his name now, as time affords.

  “Billy?”

  “William Randolph Worthington III.”

  He snorts. “Billy.”

  “Yes, Samuel. Billy to his friends.”

  “And naturally, you were very good friends.”

  “As a matter of fact, we were. After a fashion.”

  “And you loved him?”

  “Everybody loved Billy.”

  “But he, what, bored you a day later?”

  I give him a tight smile. “Something like that.”

  “What really happened?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Maybe I want to pass the time.”

  “What time? This place is so small, we’ll be there in a minute.”

  “So entertain me for that minute.”

  “Have I ever told you how much I hate being ordered about?” I retort.

  “You didn’t need to. Your manner fairly screams it.”

  “And still, you try.”

  “Because you like a challenge. I bet Billy didn’t challenge you.�
�

  He didn’t, not really, but that’s beside the point.

  “Billy was lovely. Billy’s mother less so.”

  “She didn’t approve.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you really have to ask?”

  “You’re likable enough.”

  “Such effusive praise,” I snort.

  “So why didn’t Mrs. Worthington II like you?”

  “She probably thought I’d thoroughly corrupt her son. Scandal can be contagious.”

  “I thought scandals were regular occurrences around your set.”

  “Not my sort of scandal. People want to gossip about you when you’re high enough for them to envy you, but when you fall, they want nothing more than to forget you.”

  “They were afraid,” Sam says. “Afraid your family’s misfortunes would be contagious.”

  “Perhaps. When all else fails, be a cautionary tale.” I shrug. “It’s ridiculous, really. The Depression has largely avoided families like the Worthingtons and their ilk. Fate is a capricious thing; there’s no accounting for whom it affects. One family is spared, while the next is utterly decimated.”

  “If he’d loved you, Billy would have stood by you.”

  I laugh. “Does knowing that make it any easier?”

  “If you’d loved Billy, you would have never let him give you up.”

  “And how would I have achieved that? If a man’s made his mind up to go, I very much doubt there’s anything a woman can do to stop him.”

  “Then you underestimate yourself. I don’t believe any man can walk away from you without regretting it.”

  I open my mouth to speak—

  Confounding man.

  “Besides, look at you now. You’ve come all the way down here searching for a man. That’s not someone who’s easily deterred. So if Billy was the great love and you’ve given him up, what’s brought you down here? The fiancé? Did he run off before you could walk down the aisle?”