the hassle of dealing with the often bumper-to-bumper traffic and parking in the Windy City. For me, the ride provided time to sit and think.
When Albert first moved out, I was in denial. I felt like a statistic. At fifty, I was part of the 40 to 50 percent of marriages that end in divorce. Initially, I thought he just needed a little distance to realize he was making a mistake and would eventually come home. I spent the first few months cleaning the house and working out. I even read magazines and books on how to rekindle the spark. I actually replaced my warm flannel pajamas with flimsy negligees. Initially, I was embarrassed by the sheer fabric, which left nothing to the imagination. However, I had to admit they were perfect for coping with hot flashes and night sweats. After six months, the divorce papers arrived. That was when I burned the magazines, tossed out the books, and cried. I cried a lot. When my credit cards were declined and I could no longer get money from our bank account, I called Stephanie. I suspected there was another woman, but I never dreamed she would be so young.
As the train sped through the night, I looked out the window as the trees and buildings sped past. In many ways, that ride mirrored my life. It felt like yesterday I was a new bride, in love and confident our love would conquer anything. Then came the children. Stephanie and David were the joys of my life. One minute they were chubby little babies, and the next they were graduating from college. The years rushed by as quickly as the scenery outside my window. In all likelihood, my life was more than half over, and what did I have to show for it apart from two children who were now adults with little need for me?
I leaned my head against the cool window and pulled my coat tight. I didn’t realize I was crying until the woman next to me handed me a tissue.
“Honey, whatever he did, it ain’t worth all them tears.”
I took the tissue and stared at my neighbor. She was a large African American woman with a round, kind face and a head full of thick gray hair. “Excuse me? How did you…”
She laughed a low, throaty chuckle that caused her eyes to crinkle at the corners and her belly to shake. “You wanna know how I knew you was crying ’bout a man? Or, how I knew he wasn’t worth them tears?” She laughed again. “Only a man can make a woman cry like you was crying. And, baby, ain’t no man worth crying over.” She leaned close. “Tears are a precious commodity. You shouldn’t waste them on someone that done you wrong.”
I sat up straight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She shook her head. “Alright, why don’t you tell Miss Florrie what’s bothering you.”
I stared at the strange woman, who didn’t seem to think anything strange about asking personal questions of a complete stranger on a train.
Miss Florrie looked at me expectantly. Her soft brown eyes were patient and kind, and before I realized it, I was telling her about Albert, our life in Lighthouse Dunes, Stephanie and David, and even my pitiful excuse for a garden.
Miss Florrie listened patiently without interrupting. She listened and nodded at the appropriate places and tsked her disapproval at the right time.
When I finished my tale, I felt spent but calmer than I’d felt in months. I looked at Miss Florrie and waited for her pronouncement. Part of my brain wondered why I cared what this stranger thought. However, another part of me was more than curious.
Miss Florrie sat quietly for several moments. Then she smiled. “Well, you been done wrong, that’s for sure, but ain’t nobody on this earth gets off without no trouble. I reckon you done had yo share. Now, whatchu gonna do ’bout it?”
I blinked. “What do you mean?” The irony of telling my troubles to a complete stranger on a train hit me. I had no intention of reenacting the Alfred Hitchcock movie where two strangers met on a train and committed murder for each other.
She must have read my mind, because she laughed again. “Honey, you ain’t got no cause to worry ’bout Miss Florrie.” She chuckled. “I like watching dem old movies too, but I ain’t ’bout to kill nobody.” She laughed.
Her hearty laugh and sincerity made me realize I was being ridiculous.
“Your husband left you.” She stared intently at me. “Whatchu gonna do now?”
I shrugged. “Well, my daughter is an attorney and she’s working on negotiating for support and the house—”
“You mean that house you just told me you can’t stand?”
I stared at her. “Yeah, that house.”
“Why you want it? Seems to me that man done you a favor.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, you don’t like the house. He wants the house. Why fight for a house you don’t want?”
I shrugged. “I guess it’s the principle of the thing.”
“Pshaw. You gotta pick yo battles, and that one ain’t worth the energy. Now, I ain’t saying you just give him the house. No. You entitled to a fair share. He should pay you half of what the house is worth. Then you take that money and you do the things you’ve always wanted to do.”
“What things?”
She laughed. “Baby, only you can answer dat.” She chuckled. “But I can tell you, if it was me and I had a chance to start over, I’d leave this snow and cold and move someplace warm.”
I smiled. “Florida?”
“Noooo.” She shook her head. “Florida is too hot and humid for me, plus they got gators in Florida. Miss Florrie can’t do no gators.”
There was something lyrical in the way she spoke. Florida sounded like Floor-y-da, and I wanted to smile.
She shook her head. “Naw, I got a sister lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee. I ain’t seen her in ten years. I’d move there.”
“Chattanooga? I have a friend in Chattanooga, my roommate from college.”
“Where ’bouts?”
I shrugged. “I’m not really sure. I’ve never been there. We were best friends in college, but we drifted apart,” I said vaguely. “You know the kids came, and well, we just lost touch.”
Miss Florrie looked at me as though she could see through my soul. Heat rose up my neck, and I knew I was blushing. She saw through all of my lies, but she didn’t say anything.
Instead, she shrugged. “It’s warm most of the time in Chattanooga. It gets hot in the summer, but that’s okay with me.” She leaned closer. “The older I get, the harder it is for me to take the snow and cold.” She shivered. “I feel the cold down in my bones and it gets in my soul. The long, cold winters do somethin’ to folks. They gets depressed and sad with all dat snow and cold.” She shook her head as though shaking away the memory of the cold. “They got mountains and lots of green in Tennessee.” She nodded. “Yep, if it was me, that’s what I’d do. I’d buy me a house and a little building where I could start a restaurant down south and start over. Life is too short to be unhappy.”
“A restaurant? Are you a chef?”
She chuckled. “Naw, I ain’t no chef. You gotta go to school to be a
