Four Days with Hemingway's Ghost (3 page)

He allowed himself a slight grin, and I said, “Once again, Ernest, this doesn’t seem fair.”

“It’s more than fair.  Like everybody else in this bar, you’re a mortal.  He lets all of you live your own lives.  He allows you to make your own decisions.  And when the end comes, he rarely intercedes.  Look . . . the chances of you snapping out of that coma aren’t all that good.  Not on your own, anyway.  When I report my findings to Him, He just might decide to step in this time.  He may give you that second chance.”

“So in other words,
you’ll
be deciding whether I live or I don’t.”

“Not at all, I’ve already told you that.  I’ll just be giving him my honest feedback. 
He’ll
be the one making the decision.”

“Hmmm . . . sounds like I’m going to have to soft soap the hell out of you for the next few days, huh?”

“No, Jack.  That would never work.  Believe me, I’d see right through the suds.”

“I know that.”

Listen, why don’t we just have a good time for now?  I’ve got four days down here—you’ve got an opportunity—let’s try to have some fun.  There are places I want to take you.  Places I want to revisit.  I think you’ll enjoy going with me.”

The waitress then dropped off my cold beer.  I thanked her, took a swallow then said, “Okay, Ernest, what’s this supposed talent He thinks I’ve neglected?  I can’t wait to hear this one.”

“Of course you won’t be able to remember right now, but you’ve had many jobs in your life.  You’ve done all kinds of things and never enjoyed a single one of them.  Every time you mastered one thing it would soon bore you to tears.  Right away, you’d be looking around for something else.”

“You’re right, I don’t remember.  But go on.  I’m all ears.”

“Jack, He feels the reason you’ve jumped around so much is because you’re a very creative person.  That’s why you’ve always tired of your work so quickly.  Along with your creativeness, whether you realize it or not, you’re also a very insightful person.  And that’s why I’ve been sent to see you. 
I
was a writer.  He seems to think that you should have been one too.  He believes that you still might become one, that what you’re capable of putting on paper could make a difference in people’s lives.”

“Well, how are we going to find that out in just a few days?”

“Oh, we will!  Trust me.  I can already see that you communicate very well.  And you ask a lot of questions.  Those are good signs.  But please, don’t get your hopes up yet.  We’ve got a ways to go, and I can’t guarantee you anything.”

Ernest then looked around the barroom.  He spotted a clock then said, “You know what, it’s after five.  I’m getting hungry.  What do you say we grab a bite?”

I agreed, downed the last of my beer then reached into my back pocket.  My wallet wasn’t there.  The late great author laughed as he rose to his feet.  Waving me off he said, “Forget it.  We don’t need any money.  This will be taken care of.”

“But what about the . . . .”

“Forget about the check, Jack.  Just give the waitress a little wave on the way out.”

As we walked past the bar I did give her a wave.  She looked at me, smiled, and gave me another one of those knowing winks.

Once we stepped back out into the sunshine, I asked Ernest what the heck that was all about.  He just said, “That?  That was nothing.  You haven’t seen anything yet.”  Then he asked me, “What do you feel like eating . . . seafood?”

“Yeah, sure, that sounds good to me,” I came back.  “I don’t imagine you know of any good restaurants down here anymore.  Do you?”

“Don’t worry about that.  We’re eating at my place.”

“Your place?
  You mean we’re going up
there to eat
?” I said, giving my head a little jerk towards the clear blue.

“
Noooo
!” he said with that trademark grin of his.  “My place right here.”

“But it’s a museum now.  How are we . . . ?”

With his grin widening even more, he interrupted me.  Looking at me as if I were half an idiot he said, “Come on now Jack.  Work with me here.  Let’s just go eat.  I’ll handle it.”

By the time we got back to his home the place was deserted.  It had closed to the public at five o’clock.  Ernest fiddled for a few seconds with the locked front gate; then swung it open.  The sun hadn’t yet lost much of its heat, but within the confines of the brick wall, it was most comfortable.  Even though the wind had died, the grounds were well shaded by its many tall
trees. 
As we strolled up the cement walkway to the front doors, two six-toed cats, one black and the other a dark gray, scooted by in front of us.
  Ernest said, “I wonder where the hell they all came from.  The only animals we ever had when I lived here were peacocks.” 

Although I was both honored and thrilled to be going into Ernest’s home with “The Man” himself, there was a funereal feel to the experience.  For the most part, I’d had a good time with him that afternoon, but the dark side of our encounter hadn’t left the edges of my consciousness.  I, Jack Phelan, could very well be on my way out.  Don’t get me wrong, my mind wasn’t a whirlwind of fear.  I was not paralyzed by the terrified feeling most people get when death’s cold, dark fingers suddenly reach out for them.  I wasn’t my usual self.  I was cognizant, but then again I really wasn’t.  I truly didn’t know who I was, nor did I have any idea who or what I’d be leaving behind. 

Sure, I definitely wanted to live, but if the call came from above, I’d have nothing to grieve.  It certainly bothered me that I’d leave behind the wife Ernest told me was at my bedside.  From what he’d said, I was pretty sure she would mourn my loss and suffer much heartache.  But then again, I had absolutely no idea who
she was
, nor even who I was. 

Chapter
4

When we stepped inside the house, Ernest froze.  Standing tall as his old frame would allow, I could tell he was struggling to remain strong.  I watched his face closely while he surveyed the room.  As if in great pain, his eyes pulled tight, and his white beard started to quiver.  I leaned toward him and gently patted his back.

“Ernest, do you need some time alone?  I can wait outside

for
a while.”

“No, that’s alright.  But I want to go upstairs for a few minutes . . . alone, if you don’t mind.  It’s been quite some time since I’ve been here, and this isn’t going to be easy.  Maybe you can just wait down here.”

“Sure.” I said. “You bet.”

Inquisitive as I was, I didn’t poke around.  I sat on the sofa and listened to Ernest’s slow, heavy footsteps on the floor above.  They moved from room to room.  Every time they stopped, I figured he was looking at some kind of memento, maybe an old framed photograph; a mounted fish, or the blood pressure readings he used to scribble on the bathroom wall each day.  I couldn’t be sure.  But when I heard the squeak of old bed springs, I knew he had lain down.     

A few minutes passed, and I heard him get back up.  He only took a few steps before stopping.  Then I heard another sound—a very distinct sound.  It was the tapping of typewriter keys.  There were exactly seven taps—each of them slowly spaced—as if Ernest Hemingway had typed “The End” to one of his stories.  After that I heard sobs.  They were muted, and they were low, but I know I heard sobs coming from the second floor of the Hemingway house.

Only a minute or two after the sobbing stopped, Ernest came back down the stairs.  I was surprised at how quickly he descended the steps after such a heart-wrenching experience.  But what really got to me was his appearance.  Other than his white hair being a bit tousled, he looked invigorated.  It was as if he had just woken from a restful night’s sleep to a long-awaited day.  But I knew his sudden vitality had nothing to do with rest.  It was fueled by an immense sense of relief.  Ernest Hemingway had faced up to something he’d dreaded for a long, long time.

“Okay, Jack, ready to eat?” he asked. 

“Sure, whenever you are.” I said, as I got up from the sofa.

“Come on.  Let’s go out by the pool.”

I followed him thinking he must have decided to barbeque the seafood he’d talked about.  But as he stepped out the side door leading to the patio and pool he said, “Hot damn!  Can you smell that?”

“You bet.  It smells like a seafood smorgasbord.”

And it was.  Opposite each other, on a round table out there, were two place settings lying atop straw mats.  There were plates, bowls, gleaming knives, forks, and spoons, along with green linen napkins, and matching stemmed glasses full of white wine.  Between the settings and two tall bottles of wine there was a platter of piping hot seafood that could have fed four hungry men.  It was heaped high with slabs of golden-fried mahi-mahi, fresh jumbo shrimp, scallops, and onion rings.  Alongside it was a kettle of conch chowder, a bowl of salad and oven toasted bread. 

Wasting no time in relieving the platter from some of its weight, I said, “Man, does this look good.”  I then squeezed a couple of slices of fresh lemon over my loaded plate, picked up a
shrimp and dipped it into red sauce.  It tasted as if it had come straight from the ocean into the pan.  And it probably had. 

“
Ohhh
,” I said, “this is to kill for.  I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

“Don’t be rushing it, Jacky boy; you may not be quite ready for the clouds yet.”

We shared a quick chuckle, toasted to my uncertain future then went to work on the seafood.

When we finally finished more than we should have, we moved the show to the side of the swimming pool.  Both of us armed with a bottle and a glass, we lowered ourselves into two rattan lounge chairs facing the water.  Without saying a thing, we took in the surroundings.

By now most of the sunset revelers at Mallory Square had surely retreated to their homes, hotel rooms, or the bars of Duval Street.  A thin, pale slice of moon had made its first appearance, and the trees above us had lost their color.  Two cats scouted around a dark bush, and a couple of nearby dogs exchanged barks.  The crickets had made their presence known, and a car drove by on the other side of the wall.

“It’s not easy coming back here, is it Ernest?”

He took a sip of wine, looked at me for a moment then said, “Yes and no.  I always believed that life was a one-shot deal.  That’s why, when I was alive, I always tried to get the very most out of it.  I had a damn good time, and there wasn’t much I was sorry for.  But being back here now . . . well, let’s just
say
my perspective has changed a little.  And a few regrets that have been asleep in my mind for a long, long time have been jarred awake.”

“I don’t suppose you care to talk about them.”

“Not really, Jack, but thanks.  None of it matters anymore.  A man can learn from his past mistakes, and he should, but reliving them . . . that does absolutely no good.  If you rehash all the poor choices and decisions you’ve made, it’s like stabbing yourself again and again.  Your spirit will always carry its deepest scars.  There’s no way to eliminate them.  And from time to time, they’ll come out of hiding on their own.  When they do, let them reprimand you.  Take what’s coming; ride it out, get it over with.  But by all means, don’t ever entertain them any longer than you have to, and never invite them back.”

“That makes nothing but sense.  Well put.”

“That was what I was doing upstairs when we first got here.  I took what came at me.  I reacted then did the best I could to let it go.”

Ernest had been looking up at the stars when he’d made that last point.  Now he returned to earth and looked me square in the eyes. 

“Keep that advice up here,” he said, tapping his head.   “You can’t remember your life or your personal relationships right now.  Oh sure, you recall some things like reading about me, shrimp, fish, wine, certain songs and such, but that’s only because He’s allowing you to.  In three more days, all the rest of it will come back to you.  Whether you remain down here or you go to another world, your memories
will
return.
  Just don’t let them eat at you.  Take whatever comes then move forward the best you can. 
Comprende
, amigo?”

“I’ll do the best I can, Ernest.  I just hope that’s good enough.”

“Ah, come on,” he said, straightening up now, giving me a slap on the knee. “It’s been a long day for both of us.  What do you say we go inside?  With all I’ve got planned for tomorrow, you’re going to need a good night’s rest.”

“What have you got planned?” I asked as I pushed myself up from the chair.

“Forget it, Jack.  If I told you where we were going and who you were going to meet you’d never believe me.  But I can guarantee this . . . you, my friend, are in for the time of your life.”

Cha
pter
5

I don’t know where in the house Ernest slept that night nor if he slept at all.  But because he offered to let me crash in the master bedroom, I had a sneaking suspicion that messengers from the clouds didn’t require any sleep.