Death in a Stock Island Bathroom

         “Look, there it is,” she said, pointing out the driver’s window. “That’s sure pretty, don’t you think? This is the first time I’ve ever seen the sun come up over the ocean. It’s just a tiny sliver at first. Man, look how fast it goes. Can you believe it comes up that fast? George, look at it.”

         “I need to watch the road, Ellie. Sorry.” He continued massaging the hard bulge under his ribs with his right hand while he kept his left on the steering wheel. It wasn’t so big last week, he thought. And I sure didn’t feel like throwing up as much as I do now.

         “How long were you down here?” she asked.

         There was one spot, kind of towards the back, where it poked out further than the rest. He imagined it looked like a balloon inside his body and that little bump was where you blew in the air. He couldn’t feel the floppy little knot and ring thing though.

         “George!”

         Both hands went to the steering wheel like he’d tried to touch her leg on the first date. “What?” he said.

         “I said how long were you stationed down here?”

         “Two years.”

         “So you got to see this all the time then.”

         “What?” He measured each word carefully every exhalation brought him a little closer to vomiting.

         “The sunrise over the ocean,” she said.

         “Yeah,” he said as his hand crept back to his stomach. If it was a balloon it would be filled with rocks from the way it felt.

         “Are you alright?” she asked. “You seem distracted.”

         “I’m just tired,” he said. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

         “Oh yeah. What was that nightmare about?”

         Remembering the man’s head bouncing off the concrete, the feel of blood spraying his face in a hot, sticky mist, the sound like a melon dropped from a window made him forget about the lump under his shirt. “Nothing,” he said. “I don’t even remember.”

         “You scared me when you woke up screaming.”

         “Sorry. Hey, look,” he said pointing out his window and leaning back in the seat. “The sun’s almost all the way up, now.”

         She leaned forward. “That’s amazing. It’s only been a few minutes.” She continued looking past him out the window. “Did you like it down here?”

         “It was a different time when I was here, Ellie. It was during the Cuban missile crisis, and we were on the front lines, so everyone was pretty edgy. We didn’t get to have a whole lot of fun. We were too worried about nukes coming at us. Plus, that was a long time ago, things down here have changed quite a bit.”

         “Not that sunrise though,” she said.

         He looked out the window briefly, then back to the road. “No, that too,” he said.

         “How?”

         “The sun was brighter back then, the sky was bluer. It was like the ocean never ended, like there was no break between the sky and the water.” He pointed out the window, “You see that hazy line above the water?” he said. “That didn’t used to be there.”

         “Jean, from bingo, said the sunsets are great in Key West. She said there’s a party every night in this big square right at the edge of the ocean. Her and Frank went while they were down here. She said everyone gathers and watches the sun go down right over the water. As soon as it disappears, everyone claps. After, it’s like a festival with acrobats and mimes. She said it’s a great time. And, it’s supposed to be the only place on the East coast where you can see the sun setting over the ocean.”

         “We’re only staying long enough for the crew to unload the trailer then we’re getting back on the road. Sorry, but I’m really tired and I want to sleep in my own bed tonight,” he said without looking at her. He already knew what she’d look like: her wide face sagging like a Basset Hound’s, her eye’s cast to the floor of the truck with heavy lids, a slight pooching of her fat lower lip. He hated to see that face. It always made him feel guilty.

         “Okay,” she said. “It will be nice to sleep in our own bed again. That hotel mattress killed my back last night.” She was staring out her window, watching the palm trees rapidly passing by. “Do you think we can stop for breakfast soon?" she asked. "I’m getting kind of hungry."

         Eating hadn’t even occurred to him. “There’s a little breakfast place on Marathon Bob told me about. It’s only a couple of minutes up the road.”

         “I like Bob. Why don’t we have him over more often.”

         “Bob’s an idiot.”

         “He’s pretty nice for a boss. What’ve you got against him?”

         “He knows how bad I’ve been feeling lately. He could’ve asked one of the other guys to take this load, and let me have that nice Williamsburg run. We would’ve been home yesterday afternoon. Then you wouldn’t have had to sleep on that hotel mattress last night, and your back wouldn’t be hurting you right now.”

         “I still think he’s pretty nice for a boss,” she said.

         “Yeah, well if he was pretty nice, he’d have given me the advance I asked for. Then we’d have some money for this trip,” George said as he steered the semi truck into the parking lot of Stout’s: mile marker #50.

         “Did Bob tell you what to try?” Eleanore asked after they were seated.

         “He said everything’s good.” Although nothing looked appetizing at the moment, he thought. He slipped his right hand under the table and started feeling the lump in his belly again. If I squish it against my ribs it doesn’t even hurt. What the hell is this thing?

         “What’ll you have,” asked the forties, white, burned out looking waiter, as he poured coffee into the cups in front of them.

         “I’ll have the Flagler flapjacks, please,” Eleanore said without hesitation.

         When George weighed himself on their bathroom scale in July, he was two hundred and seventy pounds. Last night, he found a scale in the bathroom of that sad little hotel and he was down to two-seventeen; it was only mid-October. Eleanore hasn’t noticed yet, he thought. But if I stop eating she will.

         “Give me your Oven-Mit Special,” he said, reading off the first thing he saw.

         She looked back at her menu, “Diced sausage and ham over hash browns, smothered in country gravy, oh man, I should’ve gotten that.”

         George continued fingering the mass in his abdomen while she talked, not really hearing her and not really wanting to; this thing was starting to bother him.

         A few minutes later, the waiter returned with burned, stained oven-mits over his hands, and dropped a skillet on the table in front of George. Gravy bubbled and dried to a dark brown when it touched the sides of the plate.

         “Careful, it’s hot,” he said.

         The smell punched George in the nose like a prize-fighter’s jab. His stomach twisted and turned. This is going to be tough, he thought grabbing his fork.

         The first bite was bad. Every one after that was worse, but he bravely stuffed the fork in his mouth, forcing back the urge to vomit behind mouthfuls of potato and meat, until he was finished. He dropped his fork and pushed his chair away.

         "I’m gonna use the bathroom,” he said.

         Inside, he saw two stalls, both with the doors opened part way, and there was no one standing at the pair of urinals against the wall. Mercifully, he was alone.

         After throwing up so hard the muscles of his eyes strained against his skull, George went to the sink and, leaning his elbows on the porcelain, scooped handfuls of water from the tap into his mouth. When he stood up, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. What he saw frightened him.

         His eyes were heavy, surrounded by dark rings, the whites no longer white, but the color of a discarded filter-tip cigarette and streaked with burst blood vessels from his forceful vomiting. His wrinkled skin was pale yellow and hung from his face like it was one size too big, or the bones of his skull were one size too small. This has got to be the worst case if the flu I’ve ever had, he thought, as he dried his face on his shirt.

         “You feeling okay, George?” Eleanore asked when he returned to the table.

         “Yeah, this flu’s really getting to me. You ready?”

         “I guess,” she said, even though her coffee cup had just been refilled.

         “You want to stop and get some medicine?” she asked when they were back on Route 1, heading south.

         “No. I don’t want to make anymore stops. We’re going to Albertson’s anyway. I’ll get something there.”

         “What’s that?” she asked.

         “It’s a grocery chain. They’re pretty big around here, like Kroger’s is in Richmond.”

         “Oh, okay. If you feel any better after your medicine, do you think we could see a little of the town? I’m just curious to see some of the sights down here. You know Truman spent a lot of time down here when he was President,” she said. “They call his house, ‘The Little White House’. You can take tours and everything.” She paused for a minute, assessing if she was having any success, then continued. “Hemingway’s house is also down here.”

         “Have you ever read anything he wrote?” George asked.

         “Um...well, no, but I’d still like to see where he lived,” she said.

         “I don’t want to see anything other than the inside of the store’s employee break-room,” he said.

         “You know, you’re being really nasty today.”

         “I’m sick,” he said.

         “You haven’t been down here in forty years. You’d think you would want to see how things have changed, you know, see where you used to hang out. Don’t you have any sentimentality?”

         “Some things are better left forgotten, Ellie.”

         “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

         “Nothing,” he said, and he saw the man’s head hitting the concrete again, felt his hands squeezing the stranger’s neck as hard as he could, the trachea cracking like chicken bones under his fingers. “I just don’t have any reason to see the sights down here, that’s all. I’ve spent the last forty years trying to forget what happened down here.”

         “What, the war?”

         “It wasn’t really a war,” he corrected.

         “I know, I just mean the stuff that was going on while you were here. Is that what you’ve been trying to forget?”

         “Um, yeah. That’s it. It was a pretty scary time. We were all acting strange, right? Scary.”

         “Why’re you acting weird, George? What’s going on?” she asked.

         “Nothing. Look, I’m not feeling well, you know I’ve been sick with this flu. My stomach’s killing me and I’m so tired I can hardly see straight.”

         “Yeah, but being sick doesn’t account for how strange you’ve been acting. And you been having these nightmares,”

         “I only had the one last night,” he said, knowing it was a lie. He’d woken up covered in sweat every night since coming home from the dispatch office with this assignment. She’d only heard him screaming last night.

         “You haven’t been sleeping right since you came home from the office, now what’s going on? Jesus, George, you don’t have any bastard kids down here, do you?”

         “I killed someone,” he blurted.

         “What?”

         “A Cuban kid, down in Key West.”

         Her face softened. “Like an enemy? When were you in combat?”

         “Not combat, Ellie. I told you, it wasn’t a war. I murdered him.”

         She just stared at him, her mouth slightly agape, her head shaking in faint disbelief. “Why?”

         “It was a stupid fight, just a stupid bar-room fight.”

         “What Happened?”

         “I heard this woman shouting something and I looked over to see the commotion. This young Cuban kid was putting his hands all over her, and it was clear she didn’t want no part of him. Well, I’m drunk, and I look over and see this going on, and I decide to get involved. Only the bartender comes over first and tells the kid to get out, so I followed him outside and across Duval Street into an alley between two buildings. I caught up to him and started yelling at him. We got to fighting, and I kind of lost control. I just saw all the problems we’d been having with Cuba and the Communists in this guy. I don’t really even know how it happened, how I got so carried away. But when I came to, the back of his head was all smashed in and there was blood all over my face. I left him in that alley and ran back to the barracks and got cleaned up.

         “His story ran in the paper the next day, said his name was Miguel Guitterez, twenty-two in town running the water lines down from Miami. It turns out he was American, naturalized. He’d been here as a political refugee for three years, came over on a make-shift raft. A few weeks later, there was another story about the kid's family in Cuba. They weren’t allowed to give a statement to American media, but their State Department called the killing an outrage and demanded justice. The whole thing got lost in the tension about the nukes on the island, and I never heard anything else about it.”

         She continued to stare, mouth open, a look of horror in her eyes.

         “I’m not crazy,” he said, mainly just to fill the silence.

         “You killed him?”

         George watched out the windshield, his eyes seeing the traffic pattern, but his mind not registering it. Almost fifty years had passed, and he hadn’t said a single word about that incident to anyone other than his own reflection. I thought confession was supposed to make you feel better. So how come I still feel like shit? How come I still feel like I shouldn’t have said anything, maybe I should’ve told her that I might be a hell of a lot sicker than she thinks. How come I couldn’t just keep my mouth shut and take it to the grave?

         He looked over to her. She looked like he’d just told her he killed someone. “I always felt really bad about it, you know. I never turned myself in because I’m scared of jail, but don’t think I didn’t suffer. They say you need to go to jail to be punished for your crimes, and if you don’t get caught then you’re a free man. But they don’t know what it feels like to carry that regret and pain for the rest of your life; they don’t know that there’s no worse punishment than that. I’d have turned myself in the very next morning if jail would’ve taken away the memories of that night, the hatred I felt for that guy because of what his country was doing. That’s been the worst. I’d give anything for it to be gone. I still hurt everyday from that.”

         He’d felt tired for the last week, but the added weight of his confessed guilt nearly crushed him. His chest felt heavy, his shoulders drooped. He expended all his energy just keeping his hands on the wheel and steering the big truck down Route 1.

         “You’re probably scared of me now,” he continued, the confession sapping his body of its remaining strength, “like at any minute I’ll loose my temper and hurt you. You’ll probably lose sleep thinking about laying in bed next to a killer, but I’m really not dangerous. Please don’t leave,”

         “George,” she interrupted. “Stop it. I’d have noticed in the last forty-two years if you were dangerous, and I’m not going to lose no sleep over this, and I’m certainly not going anywhere. Where would I go? I’ve lived my whole life for you, I ain’t about to start over now. Nothing you did that long ago is going to change what we’ve had ever since. I’m just surprised you carried this for so long. I wish you told me sooner, we could’ve talked about it and maybe you’d have felt better.”

         “So you’re okay with this?” George asked.

         “I wouldn’t say that, you killed somebody, of course that bothers me. But I’m not going to worry about my own safety around you. I don’t think you’re dangerous, it sounds like you just let your temper get the best of you. I remember what it was like back then. I was scared all the time thinking we were going to have a nuclear war. Those missiles would’ve been here so fast all these shelters everyone had would’ve been useless. There’s no way anyone would’ve made it in time. I remember hating the Cubans with everything inside me. I remember wishing the people who made the important decisions for us would find a way to sneak in that country and kill the ones making the important decisions for them. I understand how you felt, because I felt the same way. I don’t think I could have killed anyone though, but you were in the Navy; you were trained to kill. That probably had something to do with it, right?”

         “I guess,” George said. His stomach began turning on him, tying itself into knots like a hag-fish.

         “You reacted like most guys in the military would’ve. That’s what the Navy wanted from you, right? to be willing to kill for your country. You just didn’t do it on the battlefield, that’s all. I still love you, nothing’s going to change that. I’m not leaving you for anything. I don’t even know what I’d do. I’m too old to start over now, besides, who’d want a fat old woman with no money? You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, George.”

         His hands squeezed the steering wheel. “I love you, Ellie. I don’t think I ever told you that enough, but it’s true. I’m not a real gushy person, you know that. But I don’t want anything else to happen before you know that you are the only reason I lived. You made me feel like I was the best man in the world, like no one could even come close to me. You always gave me a safe place to come, someone I could trust with the ugliest parts of me. I’m sorry I thought this was too much for you, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I love you, and I don’t know how else to say it. I never wanted to hurt you, and that’s why I didn’t tell you. I thought it would wreck the image you had of me. I thought it would break your heart to know that I’m a killer, the lowest of the low. I couldn’t bring myself to do that to you.” The words sapped his strength and left him a hollow shell, all skin and bones, but no organs, like a dried out insect.

         They passed a green sign that read Stock Island, three miles, and, Key West, Home of the Sunset, six miles. His stomach was a solid lump of burning embers, and an enormous pressure was at the base of his throat.

         “I don’t think of you as a murderer, George. You made a mistake. You acted on emotion. That doesn’t define who you are,”

         “Just what I’m capable of, right?” he added.

         “We’re all capable of terrible things when our backs are to the wall. You’re no different from the rest of us.”

         “I love you, Ellie.”

         “I love you too, Georgie.”

         Up ahead, George saw a service station on the left side of the road.

         “I gotta run inside here for a minute,” George said as he pulled into the parking lot. “I think that flu’s catching up with me.”

         “I thought you weren’t stopping anymore,” she said.

         “Sorry, but I got to.”

         “Why don’t you pick up some medicine while you’re in there?” she said.

         “Love you,” he called out as he closed the door to the truck.

         Inside the small Stock Island bathroom, George knelt down and vomited a vile, bloody mess into the dirty toilet. His large body slumped against the side of the toilet, and his head came to rest on the cold, porcelain bowl stained with the urine of a million strangers. His stomach finally stopped hurting, his nausea finally passed. And as his eyes closed for the final time, his thoughts were of his wife, of the unconditional love she gave him, and the life they’d shared. Peace filled him, and he closed his eyes, a faint smile on his face, despite the surroundings.

         In the cab of the truck, Eleanore sat, thinking about what a wonderful man she’d found, how lucky she’d been to spend her whole life with such a person, to share it with someone so perfectly suited for her. There’s not too many like my George, she thought. Strong, handsome, even at his age, and loving, like I’m the only woman for him. He never tells me how fat I am, how old I look, how bad my cooking is. He never complains about anything. When I was a little girl, I never thought I’d be so happy. I was sure I’d end up alone and miserable like my aunt Margerie. She’d always tell me that George was no good and he’d leave me someday and I’d be all alone. She always told me I should never trust a man cause all they do is break your heart. Well, I showed her. I only wish she was still around to see how good it is for us. If she was still alive, I’d tell George to stop in Lynchburg on our way back home just to show off what a great marriage we have, and how wrong she was. Boy, I wish he’d told me earlier about his secret. I never wanted him to hide things from me. I wish he’d known that I would’ve supported him through anything. But it’s out now, and he looked like he felt a little better about it,

         A loud rapping on the window shook Eleanore from her thoughts, though the warmth of a life-time of love remained in her fleshy chest. The knock came again. A young man with dark, messed hair and a face-full of stubble from a few days worth of missed shaving, stood at the side of the truck, motioning for her to roll down the window.

         “Hey, you wanna come check on your husband,” he said. “He’s been in the bathroom for a long time.”

         She followed him inside and waited while he unlocked the bathroom door. He stepped back and looked at her. She’d been hoping he’d open it; she had a bad feeling about what was behind that door. He just stared at her, waiting until, finally, she gathered enough courage to push open the thin wooden door. It was bad, just as bad as she’d feared. A pair of boots, worn, tan boots, George’s worn, tan boots, were protruding from the stall, twisted on their sides in an unnatural way.

         “Oh no. No, George? George! Oh shit.” She felt faint and reached out to grab the kid, but he’d already gone to call an ambulance. Instead, she fell into the doorjamb as the horror of loss washed over her.

         The minutes passed with agonizing slowness as she waited for the ambulance to arrive. She held his hand, cradled his head in between her large breasts, wiped his damp forehead with her shirt, cleaned the small amount of vomit that had run down his chin, smoothed his hair back from his face so he’d look presentable for the paramedics.

         One medic held her around the shoulders and led her out of the bathroom while the other was alternately pressing on George’s thick chest, his ribs emitting a muffled popping sound as they broke under the medics weight, and leaning his ear down over his mouth to listen for breathing.

         They loaded him on a stretcher and then in the back of the ambulance. She climbed in and sat next to him. They didn’t press on his chest anymore, and she was glad for that, that sound was getting old, but they’d pulled the blanket up over his face, and she really didn’t like that, and suddenly she wished they would start pressing on his chest again.

         Someone else, wearing palm-tree covered scrubs, obnoxiously colorful compared to how she felt, led her through the halls of the hospital, stopping at a small room and letting her sit down. Then a man in a white coat came in. He had a small plastic bag in his hands.

         “Mrs. Parnell?” he asked.

         “Um...yeah,” she said

         He sat in the chair across from her, a small desk between them. “I’m Dr. Tobeck. This is never easy to say, ma’am, but your husband has died.”

         She just looked at him. Her brain felt like it had turned to vapor in her skull. She already knew he was dead, had known since they’d stopped pressing on his chest and pulled that blanket over his face. She knew when she saw the kid standing at the truck window that George was dead.

         “On initial exam, we found large areas of cancer in his large intestine and liver. An autopsy will be more precise, but I’m pretty sure that was what killed him. Had he complained of anything over the last few months? abdominal pain, nausea, vomiting?”

         She hated this man right now, she understood exactly how George must’ve felt that night in the bar. She understood how he could’ve beaten that kid to death, because she could do exactly that right now, just grab this little jerk by his starched, perfectly fucking white collar and shake him until his neck snapped like a chicken’s.

         “He said it was the flu,” she said between her clenched teeth. But he’d never say anything ever again. He’s laying on a steel table in an overly bright room somewhere in this hospital. His body’s cold, stiff, just like he was filled with ice. He’ll never get up from that table, she thought and started to cry silently, her wide shoulders convulsing as the sobs came.

         Dr. Tobeck slid the plastic bag across the desk using only the tips of his fingers. “These are his possessions. I’ll leave you alone for a moment. I’ll be back to discuss the matter of his remains.” He closed the door behind him, and Eleanore was alone.

         She opened the plastic bag and pulled out his wallet, then threw the empty bag back on the table. One hundred and forty-two dollars. She folded it in half and stuck it in her pocket. As she closed the wallet an old photograph caught her eye. Him and her standing on a beach, many years ago, years before the cancer stole his life, years before his ice cold body was laying on that steel table.

         It was their first vacation, their honeymoon really, though by the time they’d saved enough money and secured time off from his job, they’d been married seven years. The wind was blowing off the Atlantic, chilling them as they walked along the beach. Nag’s Head, North Carolina was his choice. He’d passed through on a delivery for the Win Dixie downtown and fell in love with the area.

         Not five minutes after that picture was taken by an old man they passed on the beach, she stepped on a jellyfish washed up on shore. Up to that point, walking barefoot on the beach, wet sand squishing between her toes, seemed like the most natural thing in the world, like butter with biscuits. The pain changed her mind though.

         George picked her up like she was his new bride and carried her all the way back to the cabin they’d rented. It was nearly two miles. He never complained, he never made her feel like a burden, he never made her feel anything other than that he would’ve carried her just for the fun of it, just for the intimacy it brought.

         Now it’s my turn, she thought. Now I gotta start carrying him like that. God I wish I could use my shoulders and not my heart, though. My shoulders are broad, and still pretty strong, but my heart’s hurting so bad right now it’s gonna be tough. What choice have I got? What else can I do? go back there and lay down on the table with him, go see if I can get my body as cold as his? die right along with him? I could do that. That’d be a lot easier than the other thing. Maybe I’d get to see him again, too.

         Eleanore stared at the faded picture. He was a good looking man, but not in the traditional sense. With his broad nose, flat forehead, and wide jaw, he wouldn’t have made the cover of any of those magazines in the beauty parlor, but she always found undescribable beauty in him, that certain beauty you find when someone loves you back. His big arm was around her waist in the picture, holding her close. Those big arms had carried her when she couldn’t walk. He didn’t give up on her, how could she give up on him? how could she give up on herself?

         She felt the muscles of her face tighten, suddenly her neck felt stronger. The faintest traces of a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. I’m gonna get through this, she thought. Now it’s my turn. Now I get to carry him.

         She slipped the picture in her pocket as she heard the door opening. It was that doctor, back to ‘discuss the remains’. God, I don’t want to do this, she thought. Help me, George.

         “Hi, Ms. Parnell,” Dr. Tobeck said as he sat across from her again, this time with a small stack of papers in his hand. “As I said earlier, we have some things to discuss which aren’t the most pleasant at a time like this, however, they must be done. I can come back in a few more minutes if you’d like?”

         “Now’s as good a time as any,” she said, feeling George’s hand around her waist, holding her up.

         “Alright then,” he continued, “arrangements need to be made concerning your late husband’s remains. We have a couple options for you to consider. Traditionally, the bereaved will arrange for a funeral home of their choice to prepare the body for burial,”

         “I’m from Virginia,” she interrupted.

         “Oh,” he said. “Well that’s okay. Funeral homes typically provide transportation when the death occurs in another part of the country.”

         “What’s that going to cost me?” she said, thinking about the one hundred and forty-two dollars in her pocket.

         “I don’t know what deals the funeral industry has with the airlines, but I’m sure there’s a fee, though I imagine it’s significantly less than full ticket price.”

         Eleanore sat there staring at him forever. Finally, she said, “What else then?”

         His face showed a brief look of shock and indignance. “I’m sorry, what?”

         “You said there were a couple others, so, what else then?”

         “Oh, right...well, we have a arrangement with the University of Miami School of Medicine. We could, at no cost to you, of course, send your late husband’s body up there to be used for research and educational purposes.”

         So, it’s either go broke getting him back to Richmond, or leave him here to be cut up and pulled apart by half-witted medical students. I don’t want to make this decision, she thought. I really don’t. But I can’t just get up and walk out that door, leaving this guy to stare at my empty seat. Plus, I’ve got to start making decisions for myself, cause there’s no one else to make them for me anymore. I wish you were here to help me right now, Georgie.

         “Nelsen’s Funeral Home on Laburnum Avenue,” she said almost without thinking. “They buried my dad.”

         Almost immediately she felt better, not great, not even good, barely average, but at least she wasn’t standing at the bottom of the canyon of despair looking up at the endless, unscalable walls. Making even that small decision empowered her, revealing to her a source of strength deep inside she was unaware of.

         “And you’ll meet him there?” he asked.

         “Yeah, I’ll just...” What stupid? You’ll just do what? go hop in the truck and drive it back to Richmond? You can’t drive that thing. And just that quickly, she was back staring up at those canyon walls again, helpless and alone. She looked to the floor and mumbled, “I don’t have a way to get home.”

         He leaned forward. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.”

         She dragged her face up to look at him, and with fat tear drops collecting at the outer corners of her eyes, she said, “I said I don’t have any way to get home. My husband was a truck driver and we were taking a delivery to Ackerman’s, or some damn place on Key West.”

         “Albertson’s,” he said, but his expression changed when he realized what a useless piece of information it really was. “Um...well, you don’t have anyone you can call to send you some money?”

         “No,” she said as she watched the walls of the canyon closing over top of her, blocking out the sun.

         They stared at each other across the desk for a few minutes before he said, “I’ll pay your bus fare to Virginia–there’s a Greyhound terminal on Key West.”

         At seven years old, Eleanore Whelty saw her father refuse to accept three hundred dollars from her uncle in the kitchen of their farmhouse outside Lynchburg, Virginia. The next morning she saw a man in a dark suit, with a beautiful tan leather briefcase, the nicest briefcase she’d ever seen, take her father’s corn harvester because he couldn’t pay for it anymore. Her mother cried as she watched out the kitchen window while her father went out to the forty acres of fields and started picking the corn by hand. Her father joined the Army to fight in Japan, sending every dime home to keep them in the house. He stepped on a piece of coral while swimming in the Pacific Ocean, something he’d wanted all his life, to swim in both the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. His foot became infected and his right leg had to be amputated below the knee, ending his military career. They sent him home to Lynchburg and gave him a small disability check every month. He never farmed another day in his life.

         During the cab ride to the bus station she was numb. She’d refused to take Dr. Tobeck’s money, but did accept his paying for the taxi. She bought a ticket from a pretty young Cuban girl behind the counter and got on the bus. There were only five other people on the bus with her, so she had her choice of seats. She took one almost in the back, farthest away from the others, slid in to the window seat, and rested her head on the cool glass, the familiar weight of her grief pressing on her chest.

         Seventeen dollars to my name, she thought. I wonder what I’m going to do now. I’d like to get off this bus and lay down under the tires and let it roll over me, but that wouldn’t work. Someone would stop me. She felt the bus lurch as it started backing out of the terminal and knew she’d lost her chance.

         Out on Truman Avenue, cars passed by and people walked along the sidewalk at the oceans edge. Tourists happy in paradise, she thought. But do any of them really know what it means to hurt. Do any of them ever have to feel this heaviness in my chest? I wonder if this pain ever goes away, or does it reach out and take root like those mangrove trees? I’ll bet that’s exactly how it’s going to be. My heart overtaken by the long, thick fingers of grief, forever.

         She looked out her window and saw a convertible coming toward them in the opposite direction. A young man was driving and a beautiful woman sat in the seat next to him, her long black hair blowing behind her like the tail of a comet. Both had smiles bigger than their heads. Their first vacation, Eleanore thought. On the other side of the island, the sun dipped below the surface of the water, and the crowd cheered as another day in paradise ended.