“I’m here,” I said to the empty living room. “Now what?”
I took a quick tour of the house to acclimate myself to my surroundings.
The living room was spacious and open, filled with bright floral-print furniture. The massive entertainment center was the focal point of the room. Flanked by built-in bookcases that displayed books on one side and movies on the other, it housed a wide-screen TV, a CD player, and a home theater system. Strategically placed speakers throughout the room gave the term “surround sound” new meaning.
The kitchen contained the bare essentials—sink, refrigerator, stove, dishwasher. The exterior of the refrigerator was decorated with magnets collected from the string of islands that made up the Florida Keys—Elliott Key, Key Largo, Tavernier, Islamorada, Indian Key, Long Key, Marathon, Bahia Honda, Big Pine Key, and, finally, Key West. Each magnet was accompanied by photos that documented the purchase. There were at least a dozen pictures of me or Jack and sometimes both of us, grinning from ear to ear as we exited a convenience store, gas station, or gift shop with another find in our hands.
Even though the face in half the pictures was mine—and I’d been behind the camera for the other half—I felt like I was eavesdropping on someone else’s life. Like I was invading my own privacy. I’d had the same feeling on the plane when I’d read the day planner. I tried to convince myself that it was a necessary evil. A part of the process I’d have to undergo in order to reclaim who I was.
Unlike the crowded front, the interior of the refrigerator was empty, which meant I would have to find a grocery store sooner or later. I opted for later.
I headed down the hall again. A door on the left led to the guest bedroom, which was decorated in a mélange of tropical colors that were as loud as my cab driver’s shirt had been. The walls were the color of orange sherbet, the bedding was lime green, and the throw rugs were aquamarine. I didn’t know whether to cover my eyes or my ears.
The bathroom, in contrast, was muted, with a pervasive nautical theme that encompassed everything from the rugs to the shower curtain to the toothbrush holder to the sand dollar–covered wallpaper.
The half-bathroom on the other side of the hall seemed like something of an afterthought. Unlike the other rooms, which contained several breathtaking photographs of the beach, its beige walls were unadorned.
The master bedroom was at the end of the hall. The white four-poster bed stood out in sharp contrast to the ocean blue walls. French doors led to the patio and backyard. A pool covered by a blue tarp beckoned me.
“First things first.”
I retrieved my suitcases from the living room and dragged them down the hall.
I unzipped the sturdy Samsonite bags and began to unpack while I sat cross-legged on the floor. I sorted through the neatly folded clothes. Pile after pile of T-shirts, tank tops, shorts, jeans, bathing suits, and swimsuit cover-ups joined me on the floor. I felt like the recipient of an unexpected shopping spree. Until I reminded myself that all the “new” things that surrounded me were my own. Things I had bought and paid for months, if not years, before.
The garish guest bedroom aside, at least I had good taste.
After I put the clothes away—I stowed some in the closet and some in the white cottage-style dresser at the foot of the bed—I opened the French doors and walked outside. I made a beeline for the small pool. I knelt next to it, lifted the cover, and stuck one hand in the water to test the temperature. It was colder than I’d expected but not cold enough to keep me out.
Trying not to spill any of the leaves that had settled on it since it was put into place, I pulled the cover off the pool and laid it aside. The tall fence surrounding the backyard afforded me complete privacy, so I discarded the rest of my clothes and dove naked into the frigid water.
“Last one in’s a rotten egg!”
The voice in my head was my brother’s. The shock of recognition turned my swan dive into a belly flop. I surfaced gasping for air, the chlorinated water burning my nasal passages. I held on to the side of the pool as I tried to clear my lungs.
My first swimming lesson. Patrick was eight; I was six. He had taken to swimming right away and already had a year of lessons under his belt. We were at one of the public pools in Wheaton, our hometown. I remembered my fear of the water and Patrick’s noble attempts to put me at ease. I remembered the instructor, an eager young man whose main goal in life was to drop out of college and move to California to become a lifeguard. I remembered my parents watching from the sidelines, the expressions on their faces a mixture of anxiety and pride.
I remembered.
Not everything. Just bits and pieces from my childhood. My first pets—a pair of goldfish named Bert and Ernie that had both gone belly up after six months. My first real Christmas—Santa brought me an EASY-BAKE Oven and I spent the afternoon churning out miniature cakes that Patrick scarfed down as soon as I could frost them. Patrick ended up with a stomachache and I ended up with an aversion to baking. Now when I want to satisfy my sweet tooth, I leave the preparation to the experts.
Like the flashes in the airport, these memories had come when I stopped obsessing over my situation and allowed myself to think of something else. Trying to prompt more recollections, I kept swimming until my arms felt like they were going to fall off my shoulders, but none came.
I dragged myself out of the pool exhausted but hopeful.
“I’m not a lost cause yet,” I told myself as I gathered my clothes. “I
can
do this on my own.”
Famous last words?
I took a shower to wash the chlorine out of my hair. After I dried off, I pulled on a white terrycloth robe I found hanging in the closet. I wanted to take a look at the cache of home videos that lined the bookcase to the right of the entertainment center, but hunger got the best of me.
I put on a pink Oxford shirt and a pair of navy blue Duck Head shorts. I traded in my heavy boots for airy brown sandals. I activated the alarm that had given me such pause earlier, locked the front door, and headed down the steps. I took a left when I reached the sidewalk. According to the guidebook that rested on the coffee table in the living room, United Street crossed Duval, the crowded stretch of road that was Key West’s main drag for tourists. Bars, restaurants, and art galleries lined both sides of the thoroughfare.
A few blocks from the house, down on South Street, was the Atlantic Shores, an oceanfront resort for gay men. A couple of blocks past that, back on United, was Pearl’s Rainbow, a sprawling guesthouse for women. I could hear the sound of music and raucous laughter drifting over the high privacy fence that surrounded the property. Good fences might make good neighbors, but they also make curious ones. I’m sure I wasn’t alone in wondering what went on on the other side of this one.
On the street, rainbow flags flew everywhere. I wondered whose idea it had been to purchase a house so close to a gay enclave—mine, Jack’s, or our real estate agent’s.
As I approached the former home of The Chicken Store on the corner of United and Duval, a woman on a Day-Glo yellow scooter slowed to check me out. Since scooters were the primary mode of transportation on the island, I couldn’t tell if she were a tourist or a local.
She wore an orange bikini top and a pair of skimpy denim cutoffs. The bulging muscles in her firm bronze thighs were thick and corded, as if she worked them out constantly. Her feet were shod, if you could call it that, in thick-soled flip-flops. A pair of interlocked women’s symbols was tattooed on the outside of her right ankle. Her evenly tanned skin displayed no tan lines. Either she worked in the sun or spent a great deal of time playing underneath it.
“Need a ride?” she asked.
“No, I’m fine, thanks.”
I kept walking. She shadowed me. “A tour guide then?”
“I think I can handle it by myself.”
I made a right turn. She followed suit. Combing her brown hair with her fingers, she pulled her wraparound sunglasses off her face and perched them on top of her head. Her blue eyes sparkled in my direction. “Are you sure?”
I held up my left hand so she could see my wedding ring. “I’m married.”
“Married doesn’t mean dead,” she replied.
“But it does mean committed.”
“I always thought commitment was for asylums. I’m Marcy. If you change your mind about that whole commitment thing, I’ll be around.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She smiled, revealing peach pit dimples in both cheeks. “See you at the sunset celebration?”
Every night in Mallory Square, tourists and locals joined the area’s artists, street performers, and musicians to celebrate the end of another day in paradise. “Maybe,” I said noncommittally. I was flattered by the attention but not interested. The last thing I needed was a vacation fling.
She smiled again. “See you there.” She revved the scooter’s engine and did a U-turn, speeding off in the other direction. Mallory Square was at the beginning of Duval; she was headed for the end.
I didn’t plan on taking her up on her offer to help me forgo my commitment to Jack. Even though I couldn’t remember it, I had made it. Nevertheless, her proposal intrigued me. Trying not to draw attention, I’d kept my head down all day. I’d barely given myself a second glance, let alone anyone else. But, on some level, I was attracted to her. Whether it was her carefree attitude or her killer thighs, I wanted to see her again.
The fact that I was married made it easy for me to assume that I was heterosexual, but it didn’t guarantee it. I wondered if Marcy had stopped to talk to me because she saw me as a kindred spirit or as just another pretty face.
I wondered, too, how I saw myself. Was I gay? Was I straight? Was I bi? Something as fundamental as my sexuality didn’t seem like something I could forget. Yet I was as much in the dark about it as I was about everything else.
Being surrounded by water put me in the mood for seafood. I headed to Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville for some blackened mahi-mahi. While I ate, I was entertained by diners performing their off-key renditions of Jimmy’s greatest hits. After dinner, I walked the length of Duval Street to burn off the calories. I did a little bit of window shopping but not much. I didn’t want souvenirs. I wanted memories. My memories.
I felt drawn to Sloppy Joe’s but resisted the urge to go in. When he lived on the island, Ernest Hemingway had made the bar his favorite hangout. The six-hundred-plus page book in my backpack told me I was a Hemingway fan. If that were true, logic dictated that the legendary establishment was one of my favorite hangouts, too. Which meant, more than likely, that they knew me there. I couldn’t take that chance. Not until I was myself again. Sipping a rum and Coke in the Hog’s Breath Saloon, I wondered what I’d do if that didn’t happen. Would I return to my old life or try to forge a new one?
Yet another thing for me to figure out. Good thing I wasn’t on a timetable.
The sun set while I was sitting in the Hog’s Breath, but I headed to Mallory Square anyway. I wasn’t expecting—or hoping—to run into Marcy. At least, I didn’t think I was. I simply wanted to get a feel for the place. To see if all the eccentric behavior I’d read about was real or an urban legend created to sell visitors’ guides and lure gullible tourists.
Walking into the square, I was greeted by the sight of a homeless man sleeping on a wooden bench. His right hand held a firm grip on the handlebars of a battered blue bicycle. The bike’s kickstand was up, which meant the bike could crash to the ground if its owner rolled over or let go. A white bulldog wearing heart-shaped sunglasses sat panting happily in a basket attached to the bike’s rear wheel.
So much for urban legends.
I joined a crowd that had gathered to watch a man and a woman covered in gray body paint juggle daggers with eight-inch blades. The knives’ sharp metal edges glistened in the lamplight. To enhance the sense of danger even more, the painted pair tossing the weapons back and forth were shirtless. The silver rings that pierced their nipples pealed like tiny bells each time their taut arms moved.
A few feet away from the topless twosome, I listened to a one-man band play songs from Madonna’s catalog. His rendition of “Like A Virgin” was one I’ll definitely never forget.
Considering my present circumstances, perhaps I should rephrase that.
I moved over by the water so I could watch the waves roll in.
“Looking for me?”
Marcy’s voice in my ear made me jump. I took a step back. She felt too close. “No, I wasn’t.”
“Are you sure?” She was wearing the same shorts I’d seen her in earlier, but her bikini top and flip-flops were gone, replaced by a form-fitting cycling jersey and a pair of Nikes.
“You don’t give up, do you?”
She smiled. “Not when I see something I want.”
“Something you want or something you can’t have?”
Her smile grew. “We’ll see about that,” she said. “Having fun?” She indicated the wide variety of performers that dotted the square and their captive audiences.
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool down here, but I’m about ready to call it a night. It’s been a long day for me.”