Walking on Water: A Novel (22 page)

“Thank you.” I couldn’t tell if the men were customers or restaurant staff, but, as there appeared to be no one else in the restaurant, I decided on the latter. “Can I get something to eat?” I asked. Even though the sign out front read
EATS
, it wasn’t immediately clear to me that the place served food.

“Course,” the man said. He turned to one of the others, a curly-topped man with a boyish face. “Leonard, get him a menu and something to drink.”

The man pushed his chair back. “What are you drinking?” he asked.

“Just water,” I said.

“You can join us over here,” the first man said.

“Thank you.” I walked over to the table and sat down.

“You got a name?” he asked.

“Alan.”

“I’m Lottie,” he replied.

“You’re Lottie,” I said. “So you own this place.”

“She owns me,” he said. “This here is Otis and Troy.”

The two men looked at me with half-shuttered eyes, their heads bobbing over mostly full glasses of amber liquid.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hey,” said Troy. Otis looked too drunk to talk. The lanky man returned with my water and a menu.

“And that’s Leonard.”

“Hey,” he said, sitting back down.

“Where you coming from?” Lottie asked.

“Seattle.” I looked at him. “Usually, people ask where I’m going.”

“What’s the point of that?” Lottie said. “Where you going ain’t nothing.” He lifted his glass. “Look at Leonard here. When he came to us he was headed somewhere.” He paused. “Where was you headed?”

“Don’t remember,” Leonard said, his brow furrowing beneath the weight of the question.

“He left his home and just never went back.”

Leonard rubbed his chin. “I think it was a couple a years ago. Maybe it was just last Christmas. I’m sure the house is gone by now. Probably someone I don’t even know sleepin’ in my bed.”

“Probably some guy sleepin’ with your
wife
in your bed,” Troy said.

“Probably,” Leonard replied matter-of-factly. “She’s somebody else’s problem now.” He laughed, and all three men joined him.

I suddenly realized who the men reminded me of—Steinbeck’s Mack and the boys from
Cannery Row
. I looked over the menu. “What’s good?”

“We’ve got buffalo wings and the Lottie’s Burger,” Lottie said.

I wasn’t sure if he was recommending those things or if they were all they had. “Sounds good,” I said.

“You heard him,” Lottie said to Leonard. Leonard stood and walked to the kitchen.

“Troy, get Alan a beer. The special.”

“I’m okay,” I said.

“Didn’t say you weren’t,” Lottie said.

Troy staggered over to the bar, returning a moment later with a foaming mug of beer.

“House draft,” Lottie said. “Courtesy of the house.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Try it,” he said.

Not wanting to offend my host, I took a drink. It was different from anything I’d ever tasted. Strong.

“What is this?”

“
Special
ite
de la maison
. I call it Lottie’s Brew.” He looked at me. “Drink up.”

Stupidly, I took another drink. It burned.

“Why are you here?” Lottie asked.

My face felt hot. “The guy at the hotel recommended you.”

“I mean
not
in Seattle.”

“I’m walking.”

He looked at me with an odd expression, then said, “Drink some more.”

I’m not sure why, but I again lifted the glass. There was buzzing in my ears. I’ve always been able to handle my drinks, but after just a few gulps of his “brew” I was feeling fuzzy. Or drugged.

After a moment I said, “I better go.”

“Your food hasn’t come out yet,” Lottie said.

I took out my wallet. “It’s okay, I’ll pay. I just need to go.”

“Need?” Lottie said. “Everything a man needs is right here. Why are you walking, anyway?”

I rubbed my face. “What?”

“I asked, why are you walking?”

“I don’t know.”

Lottie nodded. “Like most of humanity, out looking for something that’s ultimately not worth finding. I’ve been there, the corporate grinding stone. You know what grinding stones make? Powder.”

“They make flour,” Troy said.

Lottie slapped him on the head. “What’s flour, moron? It’s wheat powder—like your mealy brain. That’s all men are today, powder. Except us.” He eyed me carefully. “I bet there’s a woman tangled up in this.”

I took a deep breath. “My wife—”

Lottie clapped his hands. “Was I right, boys?”

“You called it,” Troy said.

Otis grunted.

“Women are just another grinding stone. We got everything we need right here. Beer, television, lively conversation.”

“Where’d you say you’re headed?” Otis asked, surprising me that he could speak.

“He didn’t,” Lottie said.

“Key West,” I said.

“What you lookin’ for in Key West?” Troy asked.

Even without the buzz I’m not sure I could have answered the question.

Just then Leonard walked out with my food. He set the plates in front of me, then sat back down at the table. With the way I was feeling, the sight of the food made me want to throw up.

“I’ll tell you what’s in Key West,” Lottie said. “Some good booze, but nothing worth the walk.” He leaned forward. “I’ve never done this before, but I’m inviting you to join us. Right here, right now. We’ve got a spare room in the back. You can help out around the place to earn your board.”

I felt the room spinning. “That’s generous,” I said. “But no thank you.”

“No?” Lottie looked offended. “What are you holding on to?”

“I had a wife . . .”

“Had?”

“She’s gone.”

“Exactly. They all up and leave.”

“She didn’t leave me. She died.”

“What’s the difference?” Lottie said. “Either way she’s
gone and you’re alone.” He looked into my eyes. “Why are you really walking? Do you even know?”

I couldn’t think.

“What you looking for, Alan?”

“Hope,” I said.

He burst out laughing. “Hope? Thank goodness you haven’t found it. Hope was the worst thing to come out of Pandora’s box. Hope is what tortures us. It’s what keeps us driving the nails deeper into our palms. You want happiness, then let hope go. Let it all go—forget the past. It’s nothing but regret and pain.”

I had to force myself to speak. “To forget the past is to erase ourselves,” I said.

“Well said,” Leonard said.

“Exactly,” Lottie said. “We are the great erased.” He raised his glass. “And this is the great eraser.”

“You can’t erase the past,” I said.

“You’re wrong,” Lottie said. “Just look at Leonard. He has no past.”

Leonard grinned. “I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.”

The men laughed.

“It eventually catches up,” I said. “The past is hunting us.”

“You’re right,” Lottie said. “You can’t outrun the past. But you can kill it. Some things should be killed. It’s the memories that bring pain. Only an idiot would choose pain over pleasure.”

“Life
is
pain,” I said.

Lottie grinned. “What are you, a Buddhist monk?”

“He’s one of those gimps,” Otis said. “He likes the pain.”

“It’s our memories that make us who we are,” I said. “Killing them is a betrayal of life.”

“He’s talking gibberish,” Troy said.

“No. I’m not.” I stood up, my knees wobbly. “I’ve got to go.”

“You go out there,” Lottie said, pointing to the door, “and your past will find you. I promise you that.”

“The past finds everyone,” I said. “Even you. Even in here.”

He lifted his beer. “Not in here it won’t. In here we drown it with my brew.”

“You’re wrong,” I said. “The past floats.”

I turned and staggered out of the bar.

I woke the next morning with a throbbing headache. I didn’t even remember walking back to my hotel. I wondered what Lottie put in his “brew.”

After throwing up, I took a long shower, then went downstairs to the hotel’s breakfast nook. I drank two strong cups of black coffee and ate some oatmeal and toast before I headed out on US 1 through the commercial section of Port St. Lucie.

Around noon I was feeling human again. I stopped at a Walmart to stock up on supplies. I walked past a faded Volkswagen Jetta with a bumper sticker that read:

I’M NOT ANTISOCIAL.

I’M JUST NOT USER FRIENDLY.

I got the usual supplies, including water and disposable razors. I walked another mile south, then stopped to eat lunch at the Original Pancake House. I’ve always been a fan of pancakes, and the Original Pancake House has some of the best. I had Swedish pancakes with powdered sugar and lingonberries.

Next I walked through Jensen Beach, passing myriad red and yellow signs marking turtle nesting areas. Around twilight I reached the town of Hobe Sound. I couldn’t see any hotels, so I stopped at Twin Rivers RV Park to see if
I could camp there. A sign directed me to a small trailer home. I knocked on the door. A voice shouted out, “Be right there.” A moment later the door opened and a man stepped out. He wore a faded blue T-shirt printed with a picture of a marlin.

“What can I do for you?”

“Do you allow campers?”

“Of course. We’ve got lots of campers. Also RVs and trailer homes.”

“I mean just with a tent.”

“Just you? Sure, I’ve got a place near the back. Need hookups?”

I wondered what he was thinking I’d need hookups for. “No, I just need a place to stake my tent. Do you have showers and a restroom?”

“Yes. We’ve got a full clubhouse with showers, a pool table, and a dartboard. And a washer and dryer.”

“Perfect,” I said. I got out my wallet. “How much?”

He had to think about it. “Hmm. Twenty.”

I handed him two tens. “How do you pronounce the name of this city?”

“Hobe,” he replied. “Like
hope
but with a
b.
People up north always say Ho-bee, like it’s got a
y
on the end. Where are you from?”

“Seattle.”

“Do tell. My wife’s from the Seattle area. Renton.”

“I had some employees from Renton,” I said. “I lived in Bridle Trails. Near Bellevue.”

“I’ve been there,” he said, nodding. “Nice area. Wealthy. If you want to see some real wealth, go up ahead a bit and turn left on Bridge Road. There’s a bunch of celebrities that live up there. Tiger Woods lives there. At least he did; I’m not sure if he’s still there—after all
that ruckus in the media—but there’s a bunch of them. Alan Jackson, Celine Dion, a few supermodels, Burt Reynolds . . . You should see it.”

I thought it a little peculiar that he seemed so proud of the wealthy area when he lived in an RV park.

“Thanks for the tip,” I said. “Maybe I’ll check it out.”

He picked up a map from a patio table near the trailer’s door, marked an
X
on it, and handed it to me. “You’re right there,” he said. “In back, right across from the club.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Have a good night.”

It was clear that many of the residents had been there for a while, as there were satellite dishes, barbecue grills, even a few gardens. There was a small swimming pool, but it was plastered with signs saying that it wasn’t open to RV residents.

I set up my tent, then went to wash my clothes, but there were only two washing machines and they were both in use. I took a shower and shot some pool before going back to my tent to sleep.

Maybe it was the park owner’s talk of models on Jupiter Island, but as I lay in my tent my thoughts drifted to Falene. I had been so surprised when she told me that she was getting married that I hadn’t even asked her when. For all I knew, she already was. At that moment I recalled the Pentecostal pastor I had stayed with in Pevely, Missouri. He had seen a vision of Falene in a wedding gown. I guess I had just assumed that it would be my wedding too.

The next morning I ate breakfast from my pack. The park manager’s excitement over Jupiter Island had made me a
little curious, so I decided to check it out. I took the turnoff to the island, and the road led me over a small bridge, then through a tunnel of trees.

I walked around the island for a while. It was an interesting detour but definitely not what I had expected. There were no huge gated homes or spacious mansions with long driveways. In fact, the homes looked surprisingly normal.

The area was not easy to navigate, and I ended up walking in a circle back to the same road I’d entered from. Returning to US 1, I passed Burt Reynolds Park, followed by massive road construction. I ended my day at a Hampton Inn in Juno Beach and ate dinner at the Juno Beach Fish House.