thirty-six

The sky was getting dark as Peyton pedaled down A1A. He stopped to watch a squadron of Mustangs fly overhead—practicing night maneuvers, he guessed. What that must feel like, to pilot such a machine. He’d gotten to sit in the cockpit once at an air show during the war. So many dials and switches, all needing a pilot’s attention as enemy planes buzzed in every direction and artillery fired from below.

“Hey, buddy, where ya headed?”

Peyton turned to see a couple of Army guys in a Jeep stopped in the road. “Key West,” he said.

“Say, are you that Bike Boy from Georgia?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You ain’t gotta ‘sir’ me—I ain’t no officer. Want a ride somewhere? It’s gonna be night soon—the mosquitoes’ll eat you alive and sell your bike for scrap.”

“Well, yeah, if you don’t mind.”

“Pitch your bike in the back and climb in.”

Peyton hurried aboard, and soon they were speeding down the highway toward Homestead, enjoying the cool early evening air.

“I’m Ezell and our chauffeur here is LeBlanc.”

“Peyton Cabot. Pleased to meet y’all. And thanks for picking me up.”

“You lookin’ for anyplace in particular, Cabot?” Ezell asked.

“I’ve been stayin’ in firehouses mostly. Jails are too noisy.”

“Wanna stay at the base?”

“You serious? They’d let me do that?”

“Most of us are already sick o’ you,” LeBlanc said with a grin. “Sarge keeps all o’ your newspaper articles tacked up in the trainin’ room. And every time he drills us, he hollers, ‘If a boy from Georgia can ride a bike to Key West, you lazy sons o’—’scuse me, Peyton—you lazy so-and-so’s oughta be able to run another mile!’ We kinda hate you, Cabot.”

“Reckon I better sleep with one eye open,” Peyton said.

On base, the sarge did indeed make a fuss over Peyton and wanted to see if the officers would allow him to stay in their quarters. But Peyton insisted on a bunk in the barracks. He didn’t want the guys to think he was full of himself. After chow in the mess hall, he crashed on his bunk and never heard another sound.

Early the next morning, Ezell and LeBlanc were showing him the airfield when they spotted a pilot headed for one of the planes. At a distance, the pilot looked a lot like Peyton’s father—tall with sandy hair bordering on blond, his eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses. Ezell jogged out to catch him before he boarded the plane. Over the roar of engines, Peyton couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he saw Ezell salute the pilot and point in his direction. Then Ezell motioned for him to join them.

“I hear you’re a wing nut,” the pilot said with a smile.

“Yes, sir,” Peyton said.

“This one’s been out for repairs. I’m just taking her up to make sure she’s good to go. Want to come along?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Climb in and I’ll give you a little preview of the island you’re heading for.”

The pilot showed Peyton how to strap in. As the buckles clicked shut, one after another, whatever barrier had existed between boy and machine melted away. The plane felt like an appendage, an extension of himself that he didn’t know he had. It was exhilarating. Before long, the engine fired, the props whirled, and they were taxiing down the runway, faster and faster until the ground fell below them, the base diminishing as they climbed ever higher. Peyton looked up through the clear canopy that covered the cockpit at a brilliant blue sky and an occasional drift of clouds, which looked like the cotton he used to pull straight from its bolls and stretch through his fingers when he was a little boy.

They had been flying probably less than an hour when the pilot dropped his altitude, tapped on the canopy to get Peyton’s attention, and pointed down.

“Oh, man!” Peyton couldn’t believe what he saw—a string of islands floating in a sea of turquoise. They must be over the Florida Keys. The pilot tipped his wings over the largest island farthest south. Key West. At this very moment, Peyton thought, Lisa was somewhere down below while he was high above. They occupied the very same dot on the map, yet they were a world apart, unable to touch each other. If it was the last thing he ever did, he meant to cross that divide.

The plane banked at the southern tip of Key West and turned back to base. Peyton could feel the mechanics of a landing in play and wondered what it would be like to have the knowledge and skill to bring a flying machine down onto a precise strip of earth without a scratch.

Once on the ground, he and the pilot climbed out of the plane, and Peyton shook his hand. “I can’t thank you enough, sir.”

The pilot looked up at the sky. “Think you might climb into the cockpit one day?”

“Sure hope so. I mean to try. Won’t ever be as good as you, but maybe I’ll be good enough.”

“You never know. You might turn out to be the best there is. Here—you’ll need these.” The pilot took off his aviator sunglasses and handed them to Peyton. “If you’re going to fly, you need to see where you’re going.” Then he winked and walked away.

Peyton stared down at the sunglasses, which had an irresistible pull. He slowly raised them to his face and slipped them on. Instantly, they tamed the sun’s glare and made his way clear. One day, he was going to fly.

Some of the guys on base had helped him tune up his bike and put on new tires before he set off, and now he had left the mainland behind. Once on the Keys, Peyton expected to see ocean all the way but was surprised to find palms and mangroves blocking the view. It was a strange feeling. Pedaling through small island villages, past fishing camps and little motels, he would forget that he was in the middle of the ocean until a bridge pulled back the curtain, revealing the vast waters beyond the highway and redefining the supposedly solid ground he traveled: It was nothing more than a string of tiny stepping-stones floating in the deep.

Fish camps were his home as he stopped over in Islamorada and Marathon, finally closing in on Key West. Just as the sunrise pierced the darkness, he packed his bike and pedaled out to the one leg of his journey that gave him trepidation—Seven Mile Bridge, seven miles of two-lane highway surrounded by water. If he encountered any kind of trouble, there would be nowhere to go. He would literally be at sea. He felt for the St. Christopher medals hanging around his neck and turned them over and over between his fingers. If his dad could muster the courage to pedal a railroad track across the very same water—and trust the train wouldn’t change its schedule—surely Peyton could manage a smooth highway.

As he started across, the sun lit the sky enough for him to see the water. It took his breath away. Neither blue nor gray—the shades of the Atlantic—the water here was turquoise, more green than blue but not quite either. With the sun growing brighter, the water lit up, as if a fire were burning beneath it someplace far below the surface.

A passing fisherman pulling a boat waved and gave his horn a friendly tap as someone leaned out the passenger window to shout, “We’ll tell ’em you’re almost there, Bike Boy!” Peyton gave them a thumbs-up.

By the time he was midway across the bridge, the Florida sun was high and bright, and he found himself squinting. Pulling over and getting as close to the guardrail as he could, Peyton reached into his saddlebag and pulled out the aviator sunglasses. His view of the world immediately changed as he slipped them on, just like the first time he wore them. The shadows were gone, the glare dissolved, the roadway clear. He wasn’t afraid of Seven Mile Bridge anymore. It was taking him where he wanted to go, across a watery divide to Lisa.