After leaving the café, we see more chickens in the strangest locations—some nesting in flower gardens, others pecking about small, grassy strips in front of restaurants or shops. A red rooster stands guard in someone’s front yard and crows as we pass as if to warn us to stay out of his territory.
“This is freakin’ hilarious,” K. J. says. “I guess they just live around the island like pigeons do in the city.”
“Apparently.” All I can do is shake my head and smile at the oddity of it all. A few months ago, I didn’t know Key West even existed. Now, I’m sure it’s a place I’ll never forget.
Using a map on a brochure we’d picked up along the way, we locate the Hemingway Home—a grand, two-story stucco place. Sure enough, dozens of cats wander the grounds as well as the house, and K. J. stops to pet each one that crosses our path. She examines their front paws, pointing out which ones have the extra toe. “Polydactyl, they’re called,” she says with a hint of authority.
Before, it would have gotten on my nerves, but now I know it’s just her way of sharing one of those random facts she always seems so interested in.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s look at the rest of the house.”
“Okay, okay. I’m coming.”
K. J. follows me into another room, this one featuring a large mahogany bed and matching nightstands with pineapple-shaped lamps. A collection of photos showing Hemingway with one of his wives—and there were several, it seems—hang on the wall.
I find a plaque that lists the names of his four wives, along with the dates they were married to Hemingway. “Ha! He’s only got Mom beat by one.”
K. J. looks at me, surprised. “Your mom’s been married three times?”
“Yeah. You didn’t know that?” I guess I thought it was common knowledge.
“Nope, my mom never talks about her.” K. J. puckers her mouth up like she might say something else but seems to change her mind.
It strikes me how strange it is that we still know so little about each other. In a parallel universe—or in a normal family—we might be best friends or at least close, but in this universe we’re neither.
In the hallway, another cat moseys our way, and, unsurprisingly, K. J. kneels down to stroke its back. “I used to have a cat,” she tells me, now scratching beneath its chin. “Larry. Don’t know what happened to him, though. He disappeared in the middle of a snowstorm one winter. I never saw him again.”
“You named your cat Larry?”
“Yeah.” She shrugs as if the name isn’t strange at all. “Seemed to fit him.”
I guess nothing should surprise me by now, but I offer what I hope looks like an expression of sympathy. “I’m sorry you lost him.”
“It’s okay. I’ll get another one when I have my own place. My mom didn’t care for the whole litter-box thing anyway.”
My mom would be the very same way. Maybe they’re more alike than I thought.
“I wonder why Grandpa never had any pets,” K. J. says as we enter the study. “He didn’t, did he?”
“No. Mom told me he didn’t think anyone should keep pets—that animals should live in their natural environment.”
“That kinda sounds like Grandpa, now that you mention it.” She pauses, looking around the room, and then spots another cat in the hallway. “So what’s a cat’s natural environment, anyway?”
I think about that for a moment. “Good question.”
We both laugh and spend the next ten minutes coming up with guesses as to where a cat should really live, and our answers only get more absurd as we go along.
After leaving Hemingway’s house, we explore Duval Street, with all its unique shops, and watch the demented clown character we saw earlier ride a unicycle while juggling baseballs in some sort of street sideshow. It’s interesting, to say the least.
Dinner is at another outdoor café, and then we finally head to the beach. Kicking off our shoes, K. J. and I wade into the ocean. It’s what I’ve been looking forward to ever since we got here. The water is deliciously cool and a welcome relief from the humidity, but I stop when it reaches my knees, content to just admire the view. With the sun hanging low and the sky a beautiful shade of plum, it’s like we’ve been painted right into a postcard. I’ve only been to the ocean one other time, after a soccer tournament in Southport, but the water is a completely different shade of blue here. Plus, it was March when we went to North Carolina, and the water was freezing.
K. J. stands nearby, gazing out into the depthless blue. I wonder what she’s thinking about right now. I watch as she edges deeper into the water, and it climbs to the bottoms of her cutoff shorts. I think she might stop there, but she wades in farther, until just the very tops of her shoulders and her mass of short, unruly brown hair are visible.
The water feels so incredible that I consider joining her, but I really don’t want to walk back to our hotel sopping wet. I’d also hate for my new shirt to get all stretched out, so I stay where I am. For the briefest moment, I’m envious of K. J. She doesn’t seem to share any of my concerns about what people think or worry about any consequences, and I can’t imagine what that kind of freedom must be like.
When she finally wades back my way, I could swear there are tears shining in her eyes. I pretend not to notice as I turn to walk back toward shore, my feet squishing in the soft sand. We walk up to the sidewalk and follow it back to the hotel in our usual silence, but this time, something feels different, like we’re not really ignoring each other but maybe just needing a moment to ourselves.
I still don’t know what to think
