Writer
G.G. Elliott
Write to breathe; breathe to write.
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Page 3
Today I am wearing $60 underpants. My husband does not know this. He is unaware that it is possible to spend $60 on underpants. The secret underpants are hidden beneath 99-cent Goodwill shorts. My husband knows you can get shorts for 99 cents at Goodwill, but he cannot comprehend that anyone would buy, or worse, wear them. This, it occurs to me unbidden, illuminates the core difference between us: I live in extremes, at least in my head, while he dwells in the middle of the road.
The underpants are an effort to explore the rumblings of feelings that lately keep bubbling up inside me like a wild, fizzy elixir I inadvertently swallowed—no doubt when I was much younger.
This morning, we will take our nearly grown children for a summer getaway to Key West. We will ride the hokey Conch Train, dine among the chickens at Blue Heaven, sip the obligatory margaritas at the Margaritaville Café, and when we return home I will tell my husband, Jonathan, that I am filing for divorce. I have been planning this for only a short time, or since the beginning of our marriage 22 years ago, depending on how you look at it.
I feel surprisingly flat about this decision, not excited at the prospect of dating, which is actually entirely unimaginable, and there is none of the wrenching sorrow I recall from many years ago, when I first began to flirt with the idea.
As I am musing about my lack of passion over my pending announcement, a surprising sweet whisper of anticipation rushes to the surface of my consciousness. For the tiniest moment, I see myself in an old, soft linen sundress, my hair grown out and pulled loosely back. I glide across highly polished wood floors, extending my hand to the newest arrival at my quaint Bed and Breakfast. This is easy for me to envision, though I have never owned a Bed and Breakfast, as we have often stayed in them. For years I have been entranced by their unique romance and charm.
My husband, of course, came reluctantly to the B&B experience. He chafed at the thought of eating breakfast with strangers, of sleeping in someone else’s house, going down the hall to the bathroom. After some research on the internet, I found out that none of this was necessarily accurate, and went ahead and booked us at one for a couple of nights during our summer vacation in Maine several years ago.
The children were immediately enchanted by the old restored farmhouse with its cozy well-appointed rooms, especially theirs—which were nestled snugly under the sloping attic eaves.
However, Jonathan was another story. He scowled and responded to our enthusiasm with monosyllabic grunts. I did my best to ignore his dampening presence and was rewarded when he finally commented to me the next day; after a splendid home-cooked morning feast served on the old expansive front porch encircled by sheltering trees among the small group of tables where guests came and went at their leisure; that this was, after all, a better way to spend a vacation. He called this comment over to me as I was having an after-breakfast soak in an old claw-foot tub graced by sweet chintz curtains, tucked into a sunny corner of our suite.
Since that memorable Maine summer, Jonathan, always known for his consistency, has insisted that we stay in Bed and Breakfasts. Now it is always his idea.
This has been a trend with us forever: Jonathan hangs back and digs in, like a donkey being yanked forward to no avail, until I finally stop pulling, and proceed to go on down the path doing exactly what I set out to do, only to look up and find that he has skulked along and joined me. But I am tired of the pulling! I am tired of the leading and I am tired of the prodding. I am thinking it is time to trade in the donkey.
Maybe for a racehorse, maybe a stallion. Yes, definitely a stallion.
#
“He keeps grabbing my headphones!” my daughter wails, sounding not unlike her past four-year-old self. I glance back at her in frustration, then glower at my son, his face a caricature of surprised innocence. “Knock it off!” I implore them both. Heather elbow-jabs her brother in the side, then squeals as Ian yanks the headphones away from her and tosses them into the back of the SUV.
“Get them for her right now,” I hiss at my son. He breaks into an easy grin, reaches back with his long, muscular arm and effortlessly retrieves the headphones, handing them with a shrug over to his sister. She sticks her tongue out at him, replaces them on her head, and leans into her pillow against the door of the vehicle. I see Jonathan checking out the situation via the rearview mirror then I watch as he reaches over to hit the electric door lock switch one more time, the third, I believe. We are not yet out of our small development.
I never lock my car doors while traveling. I theorize that if I am in a terrible accident no one will be able to pull me, unconscious, from my burning car because they will find locked doors. Jonathan is religious about locking the doors whenever we are in the car. He insists that this will keep them from popping open in an accident, thereby spewing our bodies like rag dolls all over the road. I suspect that this is simply his inverse response to my theory; if I had chosen the locked-door theory first, would he insist that we never, ever lock the doors? Of course, there is no way for me to know if this is true, but the ongoing pattern of dissention has made me weary almost beyond comprehension.
The $60 underpants, hand-washed and carefully dried, cling lusciously to my derriere as I shift on the sticky leather car seat. I saved them for this trip. I don’t know why, the only person who will see them is Jonathan.
In addition to my L.L.Bean khaki shorts from Goodwill, my feet sport black flip-flops from Publix. I do not know why I derive such an inordinate amount of satisfaction from, as I decided to do this morning, pairing a chic Nordstrom black raw-silk tank top with rubber shoes tossed into the grocery cart last night along with the yogurts, crackers, and bananas for the trip to the Keys. All I know is that it delights me to know how good I look and where they came from, not to mention that with my little discount key-chain card the shoes were only $1.97.
Our destination, the Florida Keys in July, might seem a little odd given that we live only a few hours away in South Florida. In our yard live palm trees of many varieties, and 2 minutes from our neighborhood lie the sugar-sand beaches and sparkling turquoise waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Still, we go to Key West because it is such an utter contrast to the culture and sensibility of the area in which we reside, it might as well be Alaska.
Anyone who lives in Florida knows that the only time to enjoy the Keys is summer, when the tourist population is small, the lines short, and the glassy blue water always only steps away for cooling off. Much of what we do in Key West involves the water. We ride out on an old ferryboat across the luminous, crystal sea to snorkel at a teeming reef. (We bring our own state-of-the-art equipment, of course, due to Jonathan’s concerns regarding germs and mask leakage with the equipment they provide in the price of the ride ticket.)
This year we are also bringing our own jet-skis. They are, in fact, barreling down the highway behind us right now, on a trailer attached to Jonathan’s shiny new silver SUV. He spent most of yesterday checking the trailer’s wheel bearings, tire inflation, wiring, the solidity of the trailer hitch, the SUV’s tire pressure, fluid levels, headlights, and more. Did I mention that the Keys are less than a 4-hour drive away?
We have just stopped for Heather’s bathroom break, she “forgot” to go at home, and as we enter the highway, Jonathan sets the cruise control for exactly 4 miles per hour over the speed limit. I shift my pillow, grabbed from my side of the bed at the last minute, and try to get comfortable. I close my eyes and try not to imagine how I will announce my intentions. Instead, I conjure up mental images of Plumeria House, its graceful expansive two-story porches, sherbet-hued cozy rooms, and shining hardwood floors—all nestled under a canopy of voluminous palms and frothy bright green Poinciana trees.
I glance back again at the children, tanned and looking so grown up, and see that they have both fallen asleep, Ian resting against Heather’s shoulder, Heather’s face half buried in her pillow. I know that her music is still screaming into her ears and I know that Jonathan would have a fit, would insist that it be turned off, but he does not hear it. He is absorbed in a program on NPR, and he is focused keenly on the road in front of him.
I remember falling asleep with my little red plastic transistor radio tight to my ear—my favorite music boring into my head, while my parents snored in their bed next to my room, and I smile at Heather. I’m fine. She will be also.
Knowing all is well, I am able to return to my private slide show of our destination behind my eyelids, and with deliberately deep, slow breathing I fall asleep.
* * *
The young woman who greets us at the door of Plumeria House is not familiar. Talking over her shoulder as she leads us to our rooms, we come to understand that Teri, the owner who has always been there before, is up in Chicago. Sofia, as much as we can gather in spite of her very pronounced accent, is from Ukraine. With a cheerful smile and flipping motion of her silky short blonde hair, she begins the familiar climb up the narrow wooden stairs that lead to the second floor guest rooms. Also not familiar to us this time around is the view. Sofia is fairly tall, about five-foot-seven, slender yet curvaceous. She is wearing white softly fitted pants made out of a fabric airy as cheesecloth; and I hope she didn’t pay $60 for her underpants as there are not 4 square inches of fabric to them. Clearly visible, they are a thong, and her very tanned bottom, cleaved by a dark purple tiny string is now inches from Jonathan’s face as we heave our way up the steep stairway, each lugging our own suitcase. I find myself trying to look everywhere else, notice Ian’s eyes virtually popping out of his head, and see that Heather has noticed nothing, her headphones in place, she is lost in her music. Jonathan, of course, keeps right up with Sofia’s climbing backside, his cumbersome bag not slowing him the tiniest bit. As I heavily ascend the old staircase, I realize that I’m pondering how I will get some sun on my rear considering that the children will no doubt be with us every minute of the trip.
And then I wonder, why do I care if my behind is tan? I am getting divorced. It does not need to be tan until I someday find the person that I want to impress with it. The thought occurs to me that by that time, no one will want to see it anyway, and I feel myself sag as, finally, out of breath, I stumble into our room and inelegantly drop my suitcase, somehow managing to allow the corner of it to catch my toe. I hop on one foot over to the bed, wincing with pain, and as I turn to perch on its edge, through the open door I see the back of Jonathan’s head, retreating hurriedly down the stairs, catching up with Sofia.
* * *
“Knock yourself out,” I mutter silently at the crown of his silver-laced blonde head as it disappears from view down the stairs in pursuit of Sofia. I assure myself he is off on a quest only for extra towels. “Mom, the conch train just went by and I want us to ride on it now. But Ian wants to go right out on the jet-skis. He always tries to screw everything up!” Traditionally, we have always ridden the funny little train—no more than a bunch of old jitneys hooked together with a squawking tour guide’s voice crackling out over rusted speakers—first. We have all memorized the entire thing, although there are large gaps in it due to the unintelligible garble that comprises at least a third of the spiel.
Traditions, our little funny family rituals, are very important to Heather. As I look up into my daughter’s troubled face I can’t help but wonder “she’s upset at possibly not riding the conch train before the jet-skis; how will she take learning her family unit is history?” I must have shuddered or something because the look on her face goes instantly from grouchy to alarmed, and she asks me plaintively, “What’s wrong?”
“I, uh, dropped my darn suitcase on my toe, and it hurts like crazy,” I’m still sitting on the edge of the bed and I bring my long-forgotten toe up to my hand, rub it. Heather sighs with deep resignation and whirls around to go, I presume, fight it out with her brother.
After I have put the contents of my suitcase into the antique white-washed bureau, brushed my teeth, and generally freshened up, I ponder what to do next. There is still no sign of Jonathan. The butterflies in my stomach annoy me—why do I care where he is, or what he’s doing? I’m getting divorced.
Finally, I pull the paperback novel I’m currently reading from my tote bag and drop into a white wicker chair with a puffy chintz-covered cushion, located in the small bay window of our room. The old many-paned floor-to-ceiling windows, sparkling in dappled sunlight, look over the narrow brick street below. As I try to focus on my book, the corner of my eye keeps catching glimpses of couples, all of whom of course right now seem to be strolling along the charming street hand-in-hand, arm-in-arm, cheek-to-cheek, life-to-life.
Minutes tick by as I find myself reading the same paragraph over and over. My mind wanders reluctantly back to a time when we, Jonathan and I, must have appeared just like the couples in the street. I cannot read the book, cannot think of anything besides where the hell is Jonathan? And why the hell do I care?
Exasperated, I rise from the chair, drop the book back into the bag, and head out the door to see what—or who—is keeping my husband.
* * *
Key West, aka The Conch Republic, lies glistening in the sun—a cacophony of jewel-toned colors and checkered-past characters—surrounded on all sides by warm seas glowing in an achingly crystalline shade of deep turquoise. The very air, balmy with the scent of plumeria blossoms; from which flower-leis are made and after which our inn is named; feels dangerous and promising all at the same time. This vibrant seaside locale has been home to artists and pirates, both long ago and right now. Plumeria House, our favorite of all of Old Town’s historic inns, sits in renovated splendor right up to the street, separated from the narrow road only by a cracked and wavy sidewalk. Its dove-gray shingled walls boast gleaming white trim, with just enough ‘gingerbread’ to make it memorable. Resting sleepily under its sheltering green canopy, it is nonetheless just a 5-minute brisk walk to throbbing Duval Street, and only a few more to Mallory Square, where there is a daily evening celebration of the setting of the sun, replete with street performers, food and drink, and young and old lovers feeling frisky in the golden waning light.
Back downstairs, I turn the corner into the small entryway where I see Sofia’s shiny bright head contrasted against the warm cypress wood walls. Intently studying a large black reservation book, she looks up startled when I say to her, “Have you seen my husband, Jonathan?” A truly blank expression crosses her face momentarily, followed immediately by a quick uplift of her shoulders, the international sign for “no clue”. It is the last thing I expected. It has not been very long since I watched Jonathan’s head bobbing down the stairs right behind her.
“Did he ask you for extra towels?” The blank look continues, and I am thinking, surely she is understanding me, she seemed to comprehend everything just fine when we were checking in.
“No,” she finally says, “I haven’t seen him at all.” She stares evenly at me, her expression making it clear that she has nothing more to add. I stand there dumbly, looking back at her. Finally I smile at my confusion, and with a little wave, walk past her and out the door, which is propped open with a lead chicken, reminiscent of the ones that wander everywhere in this strange and tricky place that is Key West.
* * *
