22
Key West
December 1841
I detested my new position. The work was monotonous and tiring. I labored in the cookhouse from dawn—or even earlier, for I tried to get things done before the heat of the day held me in its debilitating grip—until dusk: cooking, washing, making sandwiches, and packing lunches. I managed to simplify the process by having Key West’s small Cuban grocery store deliver whatever they had the most of in supply.
I had little time for my family now, and none for myself. By day’s end, I was stiff and aching all over, and I would return to Gran’s house, trying to smile as I greeted my children. But I often just headed to my room to collapse. Se?or Salas owned two other rooming houses besides the one on Caroline Street, where I worked, and as my reputation as a cook grew, there was now a waiting list for roomers from the other houses who wanted to be moved to mine, at least for meals.
I made sure that my dealings with Se?or Salas were kept impersonal and professional, yet he was attentive to any suggestions or complaints from me. At my insistence, he hired a woman to clean the house daily, and also sent over help at serving times. I suspected that most cooks in my position would not be given such extra consideration.
Most of the cigar workers were well behaved; a few of them were free Negroes, who put me in mind of Andrew. One of them in particular had hazel eyes like his, and a ready smile that revealed beautiful teeth. Distracted, I would sometimes add a little more to his plate than the usual portion.
Some of the other men would occasionally grow rowdy and ?irtatious, especially if they had been drinking. Se?or Salas continually warned them, but a few still managed, usually after a visit to a grog shop, to brush their hands across my bosom when reaching for food, or “accidentally” touch my backside. Many were family men, frustrated to be away from their wives and children in Cuba or the Bahamas, so I did not report these incidents; I just brushed them aside. I was learning to bend with the wind.
Because I understood Spanish, I was privy to many bits of gossip. “Funny. He never used to come by here,” I heard one mutter. “But now he’s here all the time.”
It was true. Salas dropped in every day, sometimes alone, but often with a woman on his arm—a different face each time, always heavily made up. These women studied me pityingly, sni?ng at my plain black dresses. Se?or Salas did not seem to notice what I was wearing, though I still felt his stares at my back.
“Aren’t you bored with that terrible post yet?” asked Gran one night, after I’d been working down on Caroline Street for a few weeks.
“Bored to tears,” I replied truthfully.
“I know you don’t care what I think,” she said. “But I still feel you should be looking for a husband instead of working. Look how rough your hands are, child; they’re ruined. You’re still young and beautiful, Emily. There are rich men who would treat you like a queen. Don’t squander this time of your life. Lord knows, it will go by fast enough.”
“Who?” I asked, amused. “Where are these crowds of rich men here in Key West?”
She sighed. “Well, there’s your friend, Captain George Lee. He’s a widower. And he attends church when he’s not at sea. He thinks very highly of you.”
I laughed. “George Lee! Please, Gran.”
She sniffed. “Well, maybe not. But you need to get out to more socials. You’ll meet acceptable men that way, just like Dorothy did. You can’t do that while you’re cooking for a bunch of cigar makers.”
“Yes, Gran.”
“A woman needs a good man to protect her from the predators in this society,” she continued.
“Yes, Gran.”
“Dinah says she hears people gossip about you when she goes to the stores.”
“Yes, Gran.” Then I realized what she had said. I looked up. “What are they saying?”
“Idle gossip. Una mujer buen notada. Seems you’re becoming ‘a woman of interest.’”
I sighed, too weary to be angry.
Gran handed me a letter. “Here’s a note that came while you were at work. It’s from the supervisor of Lighthouse Services, Stephen Pendleton.” She paused before leaving the parlor. “Now there’s another widower with a ?ne position! He lost his wife in childbirth last year.”
Remembering Pendleton’s inspections on Wreckers’ Cay, and his groping, I could only smile, shaking my head. I opened the note, written on his o?cial stationery, asking me to stop by his o?ce at the Custom House the next day at eleven o’clock. After my previous summons to Captain Loxley’s home, I was apprehensive. But I managed to be there at the appointed time.
When Pendleton arrived, he fussed over me, offering me tea or lemonade. Profuse in his sympathy about Hannah, he decried the Indian attack, and the present state of affairs at my home on Wreckers’ Cay.
I thanked him, but before he could turn his attention to the news of Martin, I said, “Mr. Pendleton, I’m afraid I must get back soon to my present work. Was there anything further you wished to discuss?”
“Yes. Yes, there is. Due to the importance of its location, we have crews working overtime to rebuild at Wreckers’. Barring another hurricane, it could be ready by the summer. Would you accept an offer to return to your post when the island is again functional? We think it’s safe to offer you the position, say next July … or perhaps August.”
I was taken aback. Much as I hated my present work, I had come to think of my days at the lighthouse as a beautiful time in the past—a time that was now over. When I pictured the light, Andrew’s face sprang into my thoughts, especially the image of him on the dock that day, holding Ebony to his chest.… I closed my eyes; that heartbreak was just beginning to heal.
Yet, the prospect intrigued me, and I thought it wise to keep my options open. I was growing weary of Gran’s constant meddlesome carping.
As he droned on, I was brie?y visited by my familiar daydream: I saw myself up in the lighthouse tower at Wreckers’ looking out on the water, seeing Andrew and Ebony gliding back toward the island in the skiff. Far from fading, I continued to expand and embellish this beautiful scenario, seeing myself emerge from the lighthouse tower and Ebony running to meet me as Hannah used to. This time, they’d been ?shing together, and Andrew gave Martha their catch to carry to the kitchen, while I swung Ebony in the air.
“Mrs. Lowry?” Pendleton had been speaking.
I found myself saying: “I … shall have to give it some thought.”
“I do hope you will,” he replied. “We would … even be willing to give you a raise. Perhaps to nine hundred dollars a year?”
Clearly, his back was up against it. For the parsimonious Stephen Pendleton to offer me more money, I was sure he was under pressure from his superiors to rehire the legendary woman who’d kept the light so well. But of course, this time—without Andrew—I couldn’t possibly live up to my mythical reputation.
“I shall have an answer for you soon,” I said graciously as I rose from my chair.
The next morning, the Key West Enquirer’s headline was PENDLETON: LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER AT WRECKERS’ CAY STILL EMILY DINSMORE LOWRY. The lead story quoted Sheriff Patterson as saying he was still investigating Martin’s death, but it focused on me as his replacement.
I slammed the paper down when I saw it, startling Gran and Dinah. I had never asked for attention or notoriety. I’d been away from Key West for ?ve years, two of them serving as the o?cial light keeper. Now, I was doing demeaning but honest work, worthy of no attention; yet still, here I was in the paper again. Una mujer buen notada.
The headline was bound to come to Se?or Salas’s attention, I realized. Indeed, he arrived at the boardinghouse that morning looking very concerned. “Se?ora Lowry, I can’t believe what I am reading,” he said.
I assured him I had made no such commitment to Pendleton.
“Are you not happy?” he asked.
“I’m managing very well; don’t concern yourself,” I said simply, and returned to the cookhouse.
Dorothy knew how unhappy I really was. “I declare, I don’t know how you stand it, darlin’,” she said, shuddering. “All those awful cigar makers.”
I had always missed Dorothy at Wreckers’ Cay, so it was wonderful to be seeing her again. My children had started school and went to bed early, so I tried to spend some time with them, and if I had free time afterward, I’d head to Dorothy’s. Sometimes we would smoke Andrew’s weed, for Dorothy had planted it in her garden.
“It’s quite wonderful,” she said delightedly, showing me the plants. “It grows so easily!”
When we smoked, sitting lazily in her garden, my thoughts always turned to Andrew and Ebony. “She’d be six months old now,” I said to Dorothy one night. “How I wish I knew what happened after they left Wreckers’ … Did they reach New Orleans?… Did he manage to feed her properly?… If they arrived there, are they faring well? I worry so much about them, Dorothy. It’s not knowing that is so terrible.”
“Yes,” said Dorothy, looking back at the house to make sure no one was listening. “But you must try not to think of them now, sugar. You have another life here.”
“Oh Dorothy, I think of them every single day!” She was silent, and when I turned to her, she was sti?ing a yawn.
Christmas came. Stephen Pendleton had not pressed me for an answer about going back to Wreckers’ Cay, but I knew he soon would.
For the holiday, Se?or Salas allowed some of his workers from Cuba time off to return home to visit their families. For those who remained, he hosted a pig roast on Christmas Eve—la noche buena—rubbing the pig with olive oil, salt, garlic, and fresh pepper. He personally supervised the roasting while his workers took turns manning the spit and basting the meat with a mojo marinade. Their wives brought platters of black beans and yellow rice, scented with cumin and saffron. Plates of warm molletes and small bowls of picadillo were passed around as appetizers. They brought platters of grouper, dolphin ?sh, conch, snapper, cray?sh tails, and stone crabs—all fresh from the dock that day—and ?an, guava bread puddings, and Key lime pies. Children frolicked and played games; guitarists sang Spanish carols. A visiting padre blessed the workers and o?ciated at a midnight Mass.
I was missing Andrew and Ebony acutely, and thinking of our lovely Christmas together at Wreckers’. At Se?or Salas’s insistence, I invited Dorothy and Tom, with their family, and Martha and Timothy, all of whom were delighted with the festivities. I also invited Gran, who, predictably, was stiff-necked about the whole business.
“I’ve never understood why you Latin people make such a fuss over Christmas Eve,” she said rudely to Se?or Salas later, when we were eating. “Christmas Day is the proper time to celebrate the Lord’s birth.”
Salas just smiled broadly, “Ah, well. Evening entertaining seems to suit our temperament,” he replied.
“Hmmmph,” Gran muttered.
Later, he whispered to me, “Se?ora, would you come into my o?ce, please?”
I hesitated, looking around for Dorothy to join me, for Salas had drunk a fair bit of rum over the course of the day. But she was nowhere to be seen at that moment. I followed him warily.
In his o?ce, he extracted a little box from his desk. “These are for you, Se?ora Lowry,” he said, showing me two exquisite emerald ear bobs in a velvet-lined box. “Feliz Navidad, se?ora.”
I tried to protest, but Salas insisted, begging permission to place them on my ears. I looked at myself in the foyer mirror, which now shone from recent polishing. The ear bobs were dazzling, with gold ?ligree and large emeralds surrounded by small cut diamonds. I saw him smiling behind me in the mirror; his white teeth looked brilliant in the dim room.
Again, I protested, but he silenced me with a gesture.
I ?nally acquiesced. “But I’ve nothing to give you, Se?or Salas.”
“Ah, se?ora, just grace me with one of your beautiful smiles. That is gift enough.”
“Thank you so much,” I said.
Here was a man, I realized, who in some ways reminded me of Martin. They could both be rude and single-minded, but at heart, they were gentlemen. Impulsively, I planted a light kiss on his cheek. Then I quickly turned to go, lest he misinterpret my gratitude.