“No direct flights from Chicago? Not even on a different day of the week?” Peg checked her seat belt and memorized the safety instruction card in the seat pocket as the plane engines kicked into full gear.
“One longer flight to Miami and then a short hop to Key West. It’s faster than driving back home from O’Hare during rush hour.” Clark could hardly contain his excitement.
The gray gloom of chilly Chicago clouds slowly turned to puffy white floaters as they journeyed south. Clark fanned out the real-estate fact sheets on the tray table and pointed to the yellow highlights on the page. “This house looks good. It would be fun to have a pool.”
“It does look shimmery and the palm trees are beautiful.” She hugged Clark’s arm.
It’s nice to see him so happy.
After much discussion about the pros and cons of each property, Peg ranked the house sheets based on affordability and amenities and stacked the papers neatly. The flight attendant walked the aisle to check seat belts as the plane started its descent. Peg sucked in her stomach and pointed to the latched belt.
“Like this is really going to save us from a fiery crash at 400 miles per hour.” She clutched Clark’s knee.
“Safer than driving a car, Peg.” Clark patted her hand and stared out of the airplane window.
Hmm, maybe, but what about driving a car on a bridge?
Miami International Airport was bustling with travelers. The short skirts and stiletto heels were a far cry from the layered coats and heavy boots of three hours ago.
“I need a coffee.” Peg rubbed the sleepies out of her eyes. “Where should I meet you?”
Clark checked the flight info board. “Key West – leaves from D60.”
“Okay, I’ll meet you there.” Peg wandered up and down the terminal for a sign or a symbol of a coffee cup. She walked up to an official-looking man. “Excuse me. Is there a Starbucks around here?”
The man looked at her quizzically.
“Starbucks?” Peg repeated. “Coffee?” She mimed a coffee-drinking motion, complete with blowing on her hand shaped like a cup.
“Ahhhh. Starbooks. No.” He shook his head. “Cafe. Si, Senora.” He pointed past several gates to a bakery.
Peg thanked him and took her place in the long line of stylish women, businessmen, large families and NO ENGLISH. Both customers and shopkeepers were relaxed as they bantered about God-knows-what.
The man in front of her asked for something.
The salesgirl nodded and delivered something.
Peg wondered if it was the same something that she wanted.
She cursed herself for not paying better attention when the something had changed hands.
She read the menu posted above the workers.
What is this stuff? Ajiaco? Medianoche? Cortadito?
Peg’s coat and scarf started to create extra heat as she got closer to the counter. With each step forward she became more anxious. She just wanted coffee, milk, no sugar.
Why didn’t I take Spanish instead of French? I had a choice in fifth grade, but nooo, that cute boy in the neighborhood took French. Ugh, I was such a follower, if only I had–
“Senora?”
It was her turn.
Beads of sweat formed around her temples. The salesgirl looked at her expectantly. Peg pointed at an item on the board that looked like it could have possibly been a cup of coffee. The woman acknowledged the request, turned to the coffee maker and worked feverishly at the beverage.
Okay, good sign.
Having finished her creation, she handed Peg the drink.
I must have asked for the itty, bitty smallio.
The tiniest of tiny cups held the blackest and darkest of liquid – thicker than tar, yet smelling the same. Holding the styrofoam thimble between her thumb and forefinger, she took a sip.
Yechhh.
She scraped her tongue against her teeth and made a face. The flavor and texture reminded her of her youth, when she had lost a bet and had to lick the neighborhood swing set.
She tossed the miniature cup of poison in the garbage can before descending on the escalator to gate D60. Walking off of the bottom step, she plunged into the alternate universe of gates in the basement of Miami International Airport.
Twelve gate agents in close proximity announced 12 flight numbers, in multiple languages, to a sea of humanity. A family with five children jostled their way toward the Costa Rica flight, next to the three-piece-suited businessman trying to get to Huntsville, Alabama, next to the boozy tourists hooting and hollering in the line for the flight to Key West.
Peg scanned the crowd to find Clark.
My God. This is like a bus station… with wings.
She located him in a corner seat wedged between Santa Claus in a brightly colored floral shirt and a woman with a slobbery 100-pound pit bull service dog.
Clark was laughing while talking on the phone. He hung up when he saw Peg. “Where’s your coffee? Did you get me one?” He yawned.
“No, but now I seriously wish that I’d gone for a mojito at the bar upstairs before coming down here. What is this place, anyway?” Peg’s head spun as her eyes darted right and left. “Who was on the phone?”
“Business stuff.” Clark stretched his arms and legs casually.
She plopped her now unnecessary outerwear on the floor next to him. “What kind of business stuff? We don’t own a business anymore.”
Clark cocked his head and held up a hand. “Did she say final boarding to Key West?” He jumped up and saw the gate agent ready to close the door. “That’s our flight. Let’s go.” He yanked up his backpack and motioned for Peg to follow.
Peg scooped up her belongings and bumped her way through the crowd. “I’m coming.” She shifted the coats to one arm and gave the agent her ticket with her free hand. Scurrying behind Clark in an outdoor hallway, she climbed up the long metal ramp into the plane.
“Only 30 seats on this plane?” Peg grabbed Clark’s arm and spoke into his ear. “Propellers? What year was this plane made, 1914? My seat is right behind the pilot. Who looks like he’s six years old, by the way,” she whispered as they sat down.
Clark gave her hand a double pat, then closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep as the plane took off.
Peg removed the airline magazine from the seat pocket in front of her. The sudoku and numbrix had been completed by a previous passenger. The magazine in front of Clark’s seat was sealed shut with a sticky piece of chewed gum. She sighed and placed her forehead against the plane window to look down at the islands below.
So bright… blindingly bright.
Fine lines of white connected the tiny puzzle pieces of land in the middle of endless blue. Closing the window shade with clammy hands, her stomach sickened.
Those are miles and miles of bridges. Never ending, limitless. Trapped. No way out.
She moved closer to Clark, who had started to drool. She closed her eyes.
I must be strong. I can do this.
The self-flagellation came to a premature halt as Kindergarten Captain announced the imminent landing. “Ladies and gentlemen, I just want to tell y’all that this’s gonna be a quick landing. I’m a Navy-trained pilot and I can do this with my eyes closed,” the pilot showboated, “but today, I’ll keep ’em open. Runway’s pretty short – makes it kinda fun.”
Peg gripped the armrest and elbowed Clark. “Wake up. The pilot said…”
With a fast descent, big bounce and screeching brakes, they touched down on the tiny runway in Key West. The passengers whooped a drunken hooray. Peg re-swallowed the food from that morning’s breakfast.
She stepped down the narrow metal airplane stairs onto the tarmac. “Don’t they have jetways? What happens if it rains?” Peg yelled to Clark through the engine noise on the tarmac. “Might be possible to get sucked into a propeller. Not safe.”
Kind of like a third world country.
“It’s always beautiful here. It never rains. Doesn’t this tropical air feel amazing?” Clark yelled back with his arms in the air.
Peg noticed a group of gigantic lifelike mannequins on the airport roof, arms opened wide: WELCOME TO THE CONCH REPUBLIC, the sign read. The looming figures looked weather-beaten and tired.
Seriously hoping that this is not prophetic.
At the one and only airport gate, the realtor met them with bottles of water and a pile of listing sheets. Crossing the parking lot, Peg realized she was overdressed in her white belted Burberry jacket and Italian Aquatalia leather boots. The sun seared through her scalp. The arch of armpit moisture grew larger. Her hair immediately expanded to an afro that rivaled the likes of a young Michael Jackson.
She glanced at her reflection in the window through fogged sunglasses.
Socks and boots? What was I thinking?
Her feet swelled like dim sum in their leathery incarceration.
The real-estate hunt slogged at first. The houses were turn of the century, with clusters of chopped-up rooms, bang-your-head ceilings, and closets instead of basements and garages. Most places didn’t have laundry facilities and, if they did, the machines were located outside of the house, under a lean-to, in the yard. With no driveways, and a general lack of available parking, the car would be able to do lots of sightseeing as it made its daily move to different spaces on the dusty city streets.
Clark looked at outdoor space – for his outdoor lifestyle. Peg looked at indoor space – or lack thereof.
As they toured another underwhelming property, Peg shook her head, “Ugh. Like the other houses we’ve seen, this master bedroom won’t fit any of our furniture.” She was getting discouraged.
Clark was not to be deterred. “We’ll be living outside mostly.”
“Our bed will not be outside.” Peg’s hairs at her neckline were clumped in a wet, kinky roll.
After inspecting eight disappointing, doll-sized houses, some that looked like they kept a century of termites very happy, the three of them were ready to call it a day. Walking to the car, Peg saw a real-estate listing sheet on the ground. The wind suddenly picked up, and the paper blew round and round until it settled against Peg’s leg. Her neck sweat chilled in the breeze and she shivered.
“Here, you dropped this.” Peg handed the sheet to the realtor.
“Hmm. It’s not mine… weird. I didn’t know this house was on the market. It’s been vacant for a couple of years. I always wondered why, ’cause it’s a great house. And it’s right across the street. I’ll see if we can get in.” The realtor pointed to a house on the other side of the intersection. She glanced at the listing sheet and dialed her phone.
Peg and Clark followed behind her as she walked and made arrangements.
“Good news. We’re in luck. We can look at it now.” The realtor led the way to the house, up the porch steps, to an unlocked front door. “Hmm, apparently the seller isn’t worried about break-ins. Funny there’s no lock-box. Never seen that before. Oh well, let’s go in.”
Peg shook off a shudder as she entered the house. “Whoo, I must be dehydrated.”
The realtor called the house a Key West Conch. “It was built in the early 1900s on the other side of the island. At some point it was lifted off the ground and carried by mules to this location. No one knows exactly when or by who. One of the many Key West mysteries.” She laughed and game-show-hosted the room with a flat hand. “The floors and walls are Dade County Pine, although the walls are whitewashed, giving it more color and texture. This wood is nearly extinct now.”
Peg noticed the striping of dark brown and burgundy at her feet. “Wow, a lot of trees sacrificed their lives for this house. I hope they’re not still mad,” she joked while caressing the grainy wall. A tiny splinter wedged its way into her thumb. “Ouch.” Narrowing her eyes at the seemingly innocent walls, she followed Clark and the realtor out of the large white back door.
“The deck is made out of Brazilian Ipe wood – one of the heartiest woods available. It’s naturally resistant to rot and decay – and bugs.” She laughed. “We got a few of those down here.”
The yard was overgrown with a variety of lush palms interspersed with alien-shaped flowers. “Hey, is this a baby lime tree?” Peg picked up a tiny green ball from the rocky ground.
“Yes, your very own Key Lime tree.” The realtor checked her phone as she spoke.
“That’s cool. I don’t think we could grow one of these in Chicago.” Peg smiled. As if on cue, the Caribbean breeze whistled around the yard.
“Margaritas in our own backyard.” Clark grinned from ear to ear and said, “Oh yes. Yes. Ohh yes. All of the Key West charm – old but renovated. Small but open floor plan. Yeah baby. Gated yard. Ohh yes.”
He was, quite possibly, orgasmic.
He looked to Peg for confirmation. “We could afford this right? After the house is sold? You’ll do the numbers?”
The realtor looked up from her phone. “The sellers are motivated, they’ll negotiate.”
Peg turned away from him to gaze at the picture windows overlooking the swaying palm trees. Sunshine beamed throughout the room – like heaven itself had opened up its portals.
Yes, this was the house. She did the math in her head. Even at list price, it was doable. Seeing the rapture in her husband’s face, she realized that they were, in fact, going to relocate to Key West, Florida.
The Savages were moving to the island.