She looked back, her eyes filled with tears. “Because I’m getting married.”
I was stunned. When I could speak I said, “Married?”
She again turned away from me.
“To whom?”
It was a full minute before she spoke. “His name is Jason. He’s one of the owners of the agency.”
“How long have you known him?”
She didn’t answer.
“Falene, how long have you known him?”
“It doesn’t matter how long I’ve known him.”
“Do you love him?”
Again she said nothing.
“I’ll take that as an answer,” I said.
“Love isn’t everything,” she blurted out.
I must have looked at her for a full minute before I said, “Then what is?”
She sat quietly for a moment, then stood up and walked back the way we had come in. She never answered my question.
The drive to Falene’s hotel was silent except for her occasional sniffling. I tried to think of something powerful to say, but words failed me. I parked in front of the hotel. We sat a moment in silence, then I said, “Whatever you’ve planned can be undone. It’s not too late.”
She looked at me with red, puffy eyes and said softly, “I love you, Alan. I always will. But it was too late before we even met.” She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek, then opened the door and walked into the hotel.
I just watched her disappear. My Dulcinea. I didn’t think my heart could break more than it already had. But I was wrong.
CHAPTER
Twenty-Three
Two million steps forward, three million back.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
Nicole walked into my room around noon. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor going through my pack. Clothes and supplies were strewn all around me.
“Kailamai get off all right?” I asked.
Nicole nodded. “Yeah. Her flight was a little delayed, but it finally left.” She sat down on my bed and sighed. “I’m sorry, Alan. I don’t know what to say.”
“Maybe some people just weren’t meant to be happy,” I said.
“You don’t believe that.”
“Maybe,” I said.
She took a deep breath. “When are you leaving?”
“As soon as I finish my father’s list. Maybe next Friday.” I nodded as if I’d just made an agreement with myself. “Next Friday’s good.” I looked at her. “How about you?”
“Maybe I’ll leave Friday too.”
“You don’t need to stay here for me.”
“Yes I do,” she said. The room fell into silence as I arranged my belongings. Nicole reached down and lifted the yellow envelope with my name written on it. “What’s this?”
“My father asked me to take it with me to Key West.”
“What’s in it?”
“I don’t know. He asked me not to open it until I get there.”
She set the envelope back down. “How much longer will it take you to get to Key West?”
“It’s a little more than five hundred miles. About a month.”
“Then you’ll get there just before Christmas.”
“Probably. I’ll call you when I reach Miami.”
“And we’ll be there when you cross the finish line. I promise.”
We just looked at each other for a moment; then she held open her arms. “Come here.”
I stood up and went and sat down on the bed next to her. She wrapped her arms around me. “I’m going to miss you. I love you, you know.”
I laid my head on her shoulder. “It’s a good thing. You’re the only one left in my life.”
CHAPTER
Twenty-Four
When you’ve got nowhere to go, walk.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
There’s a saying among frequent fliers that the routes to heaven and hell pass through the Atlanta airport. I’ve mostly experienced the latter. The last time I passed through Atlanta I was worried about my father and anxious about Falene. Now, returning to Jacksonville through Atlanta, I was mourning both of them. My heart felt almost as heavy as it did leaving Seattle.
In Jacksonville I retrieved my pack from the carousel, then took a cab about forty miles northwest up Highway 1 to the town of Folkston, Georgia, where I had ended the last leg of my journey. Before leaving California I had again booked a room at the Inn at Folkston—the bed and breakfast I had stayed in before returning to California. The B&B had undergone a change of management since my last stay, so the new innkeepers, Pastor Ted and his wife, Alease, didn’t know me. I doubted that the previous owners would have remembered me from my short stay, but B&B owners tend to make you feel like you’re part of the family.
The room I had booked was called the Funnel Room—a peculiar name derived from the town’s nickname, the Folkston Funnel. Because of its unique location, Folkston is on one of the busiest train routes in the world, and all the trains in Florida “funnel” through the small town. Train watchers (previous to my stay I hadn’t known there was such a thing) come from all around the world to watch the trains pass through town—up to seventy a day.
Folkston also lays claim to being the Gateway to the Okefenokee—a title also claimed up north by Waycross, where I had toured the swamp.
I left my pack in my room, then returned to the front lobby. Pastor Ted was sitting in his office just right of the front door. He looked up from his paperwork as I walked by.
“May I help you with something?”
“I was just going to get some dinner,” I said. “Do you have any recommendations?”
“If you like southern food, I’d recommend the Okefenokee Restaurant.”
“Is it within walking distance?”
“Everything in Folkston is within walking distance,” he said. “But the restaurant is only a few blocks from here. Just walk out the door, turn right, and go about five blocks. You’ll see it on your right-hand side.”
“I’ll give it a try,” I said. “So how’s the inn business?”
“It’s glorious,” he said. “We’re still getting our bearings, but Alease and I are both people people, so it’s a treat getting to meet new people each day. It’s like traveling without going anywhere.”
“Are you from Folkston?”
“No, sir. I was born and raised in Jacksonville. As a matter of fact, I’m still the assistant pastor at the Jesus Christ Community Baptist Church in Jacksonville.”
“How did you end up in Folkston?”
“The wife and I had decided to purchase a B&B once we retired. We’d been researching B&Bs for a couple of years, and one weekend we came up here to Folkston to get away for a few days. We asked the previous owners a lot of questions about the business. They asked why we were so curious. When we told them, they made us an offer we couldn’t refuse. So I ended up taking an early retirement and we bought the place.”
“And so far so good?”
He chuckled. “The wife hasn’t left me yet, so yes. So far so good.”
“Well, you hang on to her,” I said. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Enjoy your dinner,” he replied.
I followed his directions to the Okefenokee Restaurant. The walk was pleasant. The road was wide and lined with trees and interesting old homes. Many of the trees were draped in Spanish moss.
About halfway to the restaurant, the residential area turned into the business district, and I had to cross a wide swath of railroad tracks. There were people standing on both sides of the tracks waiting for trains.
The restaurant was just a couple blocks from the tracks. A young black woman with tightly braided hair and deep purple eye shadow greeted me at the door, then led me to the closest table, which was set with utensils rolled in paper napkins.
“We got our buffet,” she said. “There’s a menu too.” She pointed to a folded sheet of paper. “You want something to drink?”
“Just water,” I said
.
“I’ll get your water. If you decide to have the buffet, just help yourself. Most everyone just gets the buffet.”
She walked away. I lifted the paper menu. I quickly deduced that you didn’t have to order the buffet, but it was near sacrilege not to. The menu said:
If you don’t want our buffet, this is what we can offer.
It offered a grilled cheese sandwich and hamburgers in various stages of dress. I got up and walked over to the buffet tables. Pastor Ted was right about the cuisine—it was as southern as cotton. There was okra, mustard greens, grits, fried catfish, fried shrimp, fatback, fried chicken, biscuits, and clam chowder. To the back of the room was a salad bar with sweet coleslaw and bread-and-butter pickles, which were delicious. I loaded up my plate, then went back to the table.
When my waitress returned with my water, I asked her what fatback was.
Her forehead furrowed. “You don’t know what fatback is?”
“No, ma’am.”
“It’s fried bacon fat.”
“Like chicharrón?” I asked.
She looked at me blankly. “I don’t know what that is.”
“Fried pork rinds?” I asked.
“Y’all just try it,” she said. A moment later she returned with a bowl full of fried strips of fat. The first piece I tried was too chewy for my taste, and I ended up discreetly spitting it out and wrapping it in my napkin. So much for fatback.
The chicken and fish were good, as were the biscuits, but I wasn’t used to ingesting so much fried food, and I left the restaurant with a stomachache.
As the sun fell, I walked back to the inn. The lights were on, and Ted and Alease were sitting on the porch next to two middle-aged women who were bent over a large cardboard box full of mail.
“Good evening,” I said.
“Evening,” they all replied.
“We’d shake your hand,” the blond woman closest to me said, “but we’ve been handling all this mail. I’m sure it’s got nasty germs all over it.”
“You get a lot of mail,” I said. “You must be a celebrity.”
The redheaded woman next to her laughed. “She’s the queen of England,” she drawled.
The blond woman shook her head. “It’s my brother’s mail. He’s recently passed away, and we came down to settle his affairs. He had all this mail piled up.”
I thought of my father and what I’d just been through working down his list. I thought of mentioning it but decided not to. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.
“Thank you,” she replied.
I sat down in a wicker chair between the pastor and his wife and the two women.
“How was dinner?” Ted asked.
“It was fine,” I said. In a town as small as this it was likely that he knew the owner, and I didn’t want to insult a friend of his.
As the sun set, the street fell into darkness. The moss on the trees looked as black and intricate as lace.
“It’s beautiful here,” I said.
“Yes it is,” Ted said. “The leaves turn later in the South. One doesn’t think of southern Georgia or Florida for changing leaves, but we’ve got red maple, sugarberry, persimmon, black cherry, maple, flowering dogwood, sassafras . . . Course, it’s nothing like the Carolinas, but it’s still beautiful.”
“It’s the snap of cold that turns the colors,” Alease said. “So the farther south you go, the later the leaves turn. You’ll see it. The turkey oaks turn a brilliant red in December.”
“I love the Spanish moss,” I said. “It’s so uniquely southern. We don’t have it on the West Coast.”
“We’ve got plenty here,” Ted said. “In the old days, they used it to stuff bed mattresses and furniture cushions. The problem is, it’s full of chiggers.”
Alease nodded. “You have to boil the moss before you use it. Otherwise, you’ll get those chigger bites.”
“Oh,” groaned the redheaded woman. “Itches like the devil. A couple years ago I had them all over my legs. Took forever to get rid of them. They burrow under your skin.”
“No they don’t,” the blond woman said. “They’re just so small, you can’t see them.”
“Have you ever had chigger bites?” the redhead asked sharply.
“When I was a teenager,” the blonde replied. She turned to me. “Have you ever had chigger bites?”
“Not that I know of,” I said.
“You’d know if you had them,” the redhead said.
“If you get them, don’t scratch them,” the blonde said. “That’s when the torture really begins.”
“It’s best to put nail polish on them,” the redhead said. “It reduces the itchiness.”
“I’ve heard that,” Alease said. “I’ll have to try it.”
“Hopefully you’ll never have cause,” the blonde said.
“Here’s an interesting fact,” Ted interjected. “Henry Ford used Spanish moss for padding the seats in the first Model Ts, but failed to boil it first. That resulted in the world’s first auto recall.” He laughed. “The more things change the more they stay the same.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” the redhead said.
Alease nodded, then said, “It sure is a beautiful night to be out here.”
“The temperature is just right,” I said.
We sat a moment in pleasant silence as the women continued shuffling through the mail, either dropping it in a garbage sack or piling it on the table next to them. Occasionally they would discuss one of the pieces.
Finally I said, “I guess I’ll retire.”
“What time will you be wanting breakfast in the morning?” Ted asked.
“What time do you serve?”
“Six to eight thirty.”
“Eight would be good.”
“Eight it is,” he replied. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
“I put out some banana bread in the hallway near your room,” Alease said. “It should still be warm.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Outside my room was a small round table with a plate of warm bread. Even though my stomach still ached a little from dinner, I took a slice. On the wall next to my door was a framed sampler that read:
Having a place to go is a home.
Having someone to love is a family.
Having both is a true blessing.
I had neither. Did that make me truly unblessed? Cradling the bread in one hand, I unlocked the door to my room and stepped inside. I sat down on my bed and ate the bread, then pulled off my shoes, undressed, and lay down on the duvet.
I was back again. Why? Why had I come back? I felt like I was on the edge of the cliff about to step over. From here on my walk was due south, straight down the coast of Florida, over five hundred miles to Key West. I wasn’t sure if I was up to it—emotionally or physically.
The bellow of a train’s horn interrupted my thoughts. The horn was followed by the metallic clacking of a train across the rails. I wondered if the noise was something the locals ever got used to.
I sat up and took out my map to review my route. Highway 1 ran the length of the coast all the way to Key West. It seemed simple enough, but I knew from experience that my path would likely change once I hit asphalt, based on the road and the availability of hotels and restaurants. Interstate 95 also ran south and would likely provide access to both, but I always felt vulnerable walking on freeways, and in a state as populated as Florida, many stretches would be closed to pedestrians.
I traced Highway 1 down past Miami to where the keys began, at the southeastern tip of the Florida peninsula. I studied the route for just a moment, then tossed my map on the floor and lay back in bed. On the wall behind the bed was a framed sampler that read:
Faith is the bird that sings when the dawn is still dark.
—Tagore
After all this time it was hard to believe that I was actually this close. McKale and I had once talked of visiting Key West, and, had she lived, we likely would have.
br /> I reached over and turned out the nightstand lamp, then lay listening to the train horns that blew every fifteen minutes or so. I don’t know what time I fell asleep, but I didn’t sleep well. I dreamed all night of oncoming trains.
CHAPTER
Twenty-Five
Usually the most interesting stories are written not on paper but hearts.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
I woke with the sun streaming through my window. I checked my watch, and, seeing that it was a quarter after seven, I climbed into the shower. I sat on the tile floor with my head bowed, letting the water fall over me. I was feeling a little jet-lagged, but I wasn’t going to let it slow me down.
I washed myself, shaved, then dressed. With the exception of what I’d worn the day before, my clothes were all clean, and I had several outfits to choose from—a luxury that wouldn’t last for long. The dining room was just across the hall from my room, and as I dressed I could hear the clinking of silverware on plates.
The two women I had met the night before were sitting at the main table, joined by a man I hadn’t met. He was wearing a short-sleeved Harley-Davidson shirt.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Morning,” they returned in a chorus. The man stood and extended his hand. “I’m William. Kelly’s husband.”
“I’m Kelly,” the blond-haired woman said. “We didn’t share names last night.”
“And I’m Naomi,” the redhead said.
“It’s a pleasure,” I said. “My name is Alan.”
At the sound of my entrance, Ted emerged from the kitchen, smiling. “Good morning, Mr. Christoffersen.”
“Alan,” I said.
“I just like saying your last name,” he replied. “Must be the pastor in me. Please, Alan, take a seat.”
“May I join you?” I asked the others.
“Of course,” Naomi said.
I pulled out a chair and sat down at the long table.
Ted stood at the end of the room, clasping his hands in front of him as if he were about to address a congregation. “This morning we have eggs and bacon, fruit, and homemade biscuits from scratch.” He winked. “Maybe not from scratch. A pastor shouldn’t lie.” He looked at me. “Now, Alan, you’re not from the South. Have you had grits?”