twenty-one

By lunchtime on the first leg of his trip, Peyton had made it to Flagler Beach, where he had a cheeseburger and a mountain of fries at the restaurant on the fishing pier. The ride through Flagler was especially nice because A1A ran like a ribbon along the ocean, hugging a watery view. After lunch, he had walked onto the pier and watched the surfers for an hour or so before hopping back on his bike—and realizing he had the first flat tire of his journey.

He found a shady spot across the highway from the pier, took out his pump and an inner tube, and soon had his bike road-ready again. He refilled his water flask and was repacking his supplies into the saddlebag when he spotted something he didn’t remember seeing in there before—gray leather fingerless gloves. Peyton pulled them out and read the note tucked inside: “To keep those blisters on your hands from getting any worse. Love, Mama.”

He turned his palms up and examined the red places already forming at the base of his fingers and the inner sides of his thumbs, where he gripped the handlebars. For whatever reason, the sores on his hands made him think of the watch on Doctor Crenshaw’s wrist the day of his father’s accident. Peyton remembered how he had studied the watch, wondering whether it had been an heirloom passed down from the doctor’s father. Maybe the blisters on his hands were his legacy, his inheritance, wounds handed down with no promise of healing. This much Peyton was sure of: He needed to get this journey done. He needed Lisa.

The afternoon ride into Daytona proved much more taxing than his morning travels. Even in late May, which was nowhere near the hottest part of summer, the Florida sun was beating down. He had drained his flask, and his T-shirt felt heavy and sticky, clinging to his body like moss on a rock. While his ball cap protected his face, his exposed arms and thighs were feeling the effects of a full day in the sun, and his eyes were stinging from salty sweat, which found a way to trickle in, no matter how much he swiped at it. His throat felt like sandpaper. Peyton could think of nothing right now but water—water to drink, water to cool his blistering skin, water to wash himself clean.

He followed the signs to the beach. Peyton had heard about Daytona but had never seen anything like it—sand packed so hard that you could drive on it, which everybody did. Fronting the water was a line of parked cars. Another row lined the sand closest to the beachfront hotels. Tourists simply loaded their trunks with snacks, towels, and umbrellas and played in the surf, returning to their Fords and Chevys whenever they were hungry or thirsty. Between the two rows of parked cars was a slow-moving roadway, with cruisers driving up and down the beach, checking out the sights.

Peyton found a public park with bathhouses, where he drank blissfully cold water from a fountain, downing so much of it so fast that he almost made himself sick, before refilling his flask, changing into his bathing suit, and washing his clothes in the sink. More comfortable with his bike in sight, he pushed it across the sand and parked it next to a station wagon where a family was having a picnic. After hanging his wet clothes over the seat and handlebars, he waded into the surf.

Nothing—nothing—felt better than bracing ocean water on hot, sweaty skin. Peyton let wave after wave roll over him to wash away the residue of the road—dust, salt, and sweat, all mingled into a sticky grime that coated his whole body, as if A1A wanted to leave a lasting stain on him. Relaxing in water up to his chest, he turned to face the beach.

The picnicking family looked out of place in Daytona. They were all barefoot, but the mother was wearing a dark brown dress, her little girl a navy skirt and white blouse. The boy, who looked about four, had on a dress shirt but had taken off his pants, while his dad had rolled up his trousers along with the sleeves of his shirt, and Peyton could see an undershirt peeking out where he had unbuttoned the collar. They were all very pale and clearly more at home in cooler climates. Focused on her children, the mother was pointing out seagulls and pelicans flying overhead. The father, Peyton thought, looked distracted, as if this sojourn on the beach were something to be endured, not enjoyed.

Down the beach, he heard music coming from an outdoor theater shaped like a castle. The band was playing Benny Goodman’s “Sing, Sing, Sing,” which made him miss Aunt Gert and their jitterbugging at the VFW. Strange to think about it now—while he and Aunt Gert were dancing that night, his mother was crying, grief-stricken over a loss he wasn’t yet aware of. He had danced when mourning was called for, but he couldn’t see it at the time.

Peyton tipped his head back and ran his hands through his wet hair. The ocean air was cool and refreshing, though he knew that if he were to wade out of the surf and walk just a few feet onto the sand, he’d be sweating again in no time. At least the sun was slowly dropping lower in the sky, making its way toward sunset. That would cool things off.

A pickup truck pulled onto the beach a few yards away from Peyton’s bike, and a couple who looked somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty got out. Their engine was steaming. The man raised the hood to let the ocean breeze cool the old Ford motor, then took a water can out of the back and struck out for the bathhouses across the beach. The woman stood on the sand, watching a flock of seagulls overhead. She was wearing a dress and heels. It looked so disjointed—a woman in her Sunday best, standing on a beach filled with people in bathing suits. Apparently, something about this drivable sand compelled people who were ill prepared for the beach to venture onto it.

Soon the man returned, filled his radiator, and slammed the hood. Just like that, they were gone—empty space where people had been just moments ago.

Now a sightseeing tram was cruising by, pulled by a golf cart rigged up to look like a locomotive engine. The driver had a train whistle of sorts, which he would blow at every stop along the shore as he shouted, “All aboard!”

The train had just gone by when Peyton heard a man call out, “I can’t swim!” His cries quickly grew desperate as he called out again and again, “I can’t swim! I can’t swim!”

It took Peyton a few seconds to figure out that the cries were coming from the beach, not the waves. They belonged to the man with the rolled-up sleeves and undershirt, from the family with two kids. But where was the little boy? Peyton scanned the water around him. A few yards to his left, he spotted the child bobbing up and down in his white dress shirt. What looked like a rip current was quickly pulling him out. The boy must’ve gotten caught in it when he was playing close to shore, and it had dragged him into danger so quickly that, once his parents recognized it, they were too late to stop it.

Peyton swam toward the drowning child as hard and fast as he could, catching the boy by the collar just before a swell took them both under. Once it passed, Peyton was able to get a firmer grip, holding the child with one arm while swimming across the riptide to get them free of it. Once they made it to shallow water, Peyton ran to the beach, carrying the boy, who was completely limp, his lips pale blue.

Struggling to remember everything his dad had ever taught him about water safety, Peyton laid the child on the sand and began pressing on his chest. He remained still, but Peyton kept on until at last came the coughing and breathing. It was only then that he realized the family was kneeling on the sand around him, the mother praying out loud, her daughter clinging to her, the father staring hopelessly at his son. The minute the child was breathing again, his mother gathered him in her arms, rocking him back and forth as she knelt on the sand.

“I did the best I could, sir,” Peyton said to the father. “But y’all might want to let a doctor look at him.”

“I can’t swim,” the man said again.

“We don’t know how to thank you,” the mother said, clinging to her child. “If we had any money, we’d give it to you, but that’s how come we’re down here—lookin’ for work. You really think Billy here needs a doctor?”

Peyton thought it over, then went to his bike and took out fifty of the one hundred dollars Aunt Gert had hidden in the saddlebag on his bike. He sat down next to Billy and his mother and handed it to her.

She stared at the money wide-eyed, as if she had never seen anything like it before. “We can’t take your money. That’d be a handout. Wouldn’t be right.”

“Wouldn’t be right not to get your boy the help he needs if there’s a way to do it,” Peyton countered.

Again, she stared at the money he was holding out, finally reaching to take it.

“Good luck to y’all,” he said.

He pushed his bike through the cruisers on the beach and changed into dry clothes at the bathhouse. Then he had an early supper—a footlong and fries at a beachfront joint called the Sawlty Dawg. By the time he finished, the sunset was painting the sky with soft blues and corals, and a cool ocean breeze was blowing. He knew he should save his money and look up the local police chief, but he was exhausted, and the little motor court next door had a vacancy sign.

He made his way to the motel office, stepped inside, and felt the blessed chill of an air conditioner. They had been popping up all over the South since the war.

“Welcome to The Sandman!” called the woman behind the front desk. “How can I help you today?” She was probably in her sixties, tall, with reddish-brown hair, which she wore in a twist on the back of her head. Her fingernails were long and red. She had a twinkle in her eye and the kind of smile that made you think she could take the worst situation and make everything alright.

“I was hoping to get a room?” Peyton said.

“Sure, honey. How many nights?”

“Just one, I guess.”

“Okay, then. That’ll be six dollars for a garden view—that means facing the swimming pool—or ten for an ocean view. What’ll it be?”

“Better go with the cheaper one.”

“You want to pay twenty-five cents to unlock the phone in your room?”

“No, ma’am. I don’t reckon I’ll be making any calls.”

The woman handed Peyton a form to complete. He filled in all the spaces, gave it back to her, and watched as she reviewed it, wondering if he had done everything right. He had never rented a motel room before.

The woman peered at him over her reading glasses. “Now, honey, I notice right here where it says ‘tag number,’ you wrote ‘bicycle’?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Peyton said. “This is the first day of a bike trip I’m taking.”

“Where to?”

“Key West.”

“Key West? You got any idea how far that is?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you’re gonna ride all the way from—where’d you say you came from again?”

“I didn’t, but I started in St. Augustine.”

The woman looked Peyton up and down. “How old are you, honey?”

“Fifteen.”

“I woulda guessed eighteen or nineteen. Your mama know where you are?”

“Yes, ma’am. She’s not thrilled about it, but she let me go. My daddy made this ride when he was my age. I just want to see if I can make it too.”

“And what about your daddy, honey—what does he say about this?”

“Well, he’s not here anymore. I mean . . . he died. Recently.”

The woman laid her hand against her cheek. “Well, now that just breaks my heart. I’m sorry, honey. You need anything at all, just come and get me. I live over the office here. My name’s Jackie, but everybody in Daytona calls me Aunt Jack.”

Peyton smiled at her. “Thanks, Aunt Jack.”

“Here’s your key. And like I said, you let me know if you need help, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “And thank you.”

Leaving the office, Peyton followed the sidewalk to a rectangular pool behind the oceanfront units. It overflowed with little kids in bright-colored inner tubes. Teenagers showed off for each other on the diving board or flirted on the pool deck. He felt a pang of loneliness as he wondered what Lisa was doing right now.

Peyton circled the pool, reading room numbers until he found one that matched the long wooden tag on his key: 105. It was small but cheery, with turquoise walls and a bright yellow bedspread and curtains. And it was air-conditioned. There was even a tiny bathroom.

He pushed his bike inside, unstrapped his saddlebag and duffel, and tossed them on the floor next to the bed. Then he stripped down to his underwear, pulled back the covers, and fell onto the mattress. He had never been so exhausted. Just outside, he could hear the shouts and laughter of a pool full of strangers. But he had no desire to join them. Right now all he wanted was sleep and—if he were very, very lucky—another dream of Lisa.