The Freedom in American Songs by Kathleen Winter Page A

nevertheless in her thoughts, and that she was in for a fortnight of torturous loneliness. Nobody was here to share the absurdities or the hot sun or the rather frightening birds and plants, yet she would know exactly how they’d have reacted to everything here and what they would have thought of it all. She would have their commentary—imagined, yes … but startlingly realistic in her mind—without any warm-bloodedness or laughter she might have shared had she had the sense to bring any of them along in person.
    She’d gotten the wrong impression about the locals from the taxi driver who’d driven her at night from the airport. He was from Kentucky and had moved here to look after his parents. His mother could no longer cook or remember anything and his father had both hips replaced but it wasn’t going well … yet in spite of this the taxi driver, Callum Tyree, possessed an air of real easygoing friendliness, even happiness. He was happy this fare was taking him over the causeway from Fort Myers to Sanibel.
    â€œWhen I’ve dropped you off,” he said, “I’m not gonna go back to work right away. I’m gonna take a ride around the island. You’re gonna love it there … just watch out for the alligators.”
    â€œâ€¦ really?”
    â€œI believe,” he said slowly, “a lady got eaten last year by an alligator on Sanibel. Didn’t get away fast enough.”
    â€œAre alligators fast?”
    â€œThey can sprint. Probably she had something wrong with her, that lady. Probably she couldn’t get up and run all that fast, for some reason.” He fell into silence and she noticed he was not an aggressive driver. He let other drivers cut in front of him and he hung back until the way was easy again. “I found a boat on Craigslist for two thousand five hundred … thinking of buying it and living on it.”
    â€œI always loved houseboats.”
    â€œGot a buddy moored off Sanibel with the shrimp boats—doesn’t even have sails. Boat’s just an old wreck—when he wants something in town he goes ashore in a rowboat. You can live almost for free if you got a boat like him.”
    â€œA person can still do that?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œMmm … I wouldn’t mind … bobbing on the water, being rocked to sleep … you can stay out there for free?”
    â€œIf you want you can pay a hundred and fifty dollars for a mooring and that’ll get you electricity and a shower …”
    They stopped at a convenience store so she could buy breakfast things for the cottage in the morning. He came in with her and bought a bag of chips and stood munching them while she found apples and eggs. The store did not have an onion in it. They met at the last aisle in front of a display of straw hats.
    â€œThis one here,” he picked up a dramatic number furled at the sides, “is a real Kentucky hat.”
    â€œI’d like to see you put it on.”
    He sported it for her.
    â€œLooks pretty good.”
    They’d gone on like that for the rest of the ride, and when he pulled up outside the pitch black cottage area—there were no streetlights so as not to disorient migrating birds—he got out of the car to make sure she found her key and got in all right. It was one of those vacation rentals where the owners are offsite. Her bike was waiting for her under a tree that had orange flowers all over it. The cottage was simple as she’d hoped, advertised as an old-style Florida beach cottage. The interior walls were pale blue—there was a writing desk, a bed, a two-burner stove and a little kitchen table and fridge. Because it was a bit like the kind of simple living arrangement she imagined his friend had on the boat with no sails, she asked Callum Tyree as he hovered near the taxi if he’d like to look in at it.
    â€œI’d suggest,” he said, “putting your bike inside for