Hemingway's Girl (22 page)

Key West

A letter arrived for Mariella that got her pulse racing and helped thaw the chill
that had crept over her. It was from Gavin, and it was full of apologies for his awkward
departure, fond memories of their time together, and wishes to see her again. He wrote
that he had to spend most of March up on Matecumbe. His supervisors were laying into
them about finishing their segment of road before hurricane season, and Gavin, who
was in charge of his unit, had to oversee the workers. In addition to dealing with
the troubles of laying road in sweltering, bug-infested heat over miles of water,
he also had to deal with depressed vets, drunks, and fights among the idle, tired,
and shell-shocked men. He told her that the thought of seeing her again kept him going.

She smiled and slipped the letter that had grown soft with handling into her pocket,
mentally planning her response and eager to get off work so she could write it. There
were many hours left, however, and the mood in the house kept her subdued in spite
of Gavin’s letter.

Papa had lately been intolerable—stuck in bed with his recurring throat infection,
grumpy about his writing, and insistent that everyone wait on him hand and foot. He
was nasty and demanding
with Pauline, John and Katy, and the boys, and lost his playfulness with Mariella.
As much as she wanted to hate him, though, Mariella still couldn’t help but feel drawn
to her brooding patient.

One afternoon when John and Katy were away and Pauline was at Lorine Thompson’s house,
Papa called Mariella to his room. He was sitting in his bed in the same disheveled
state he’d been in for days. His dark hair was greasy, he needed a shave, and he had
papers strewn about the blankets. An empty teacup sat on a tray at the foot of the
bed, next to a partially drained glass of whiskey. The Spanish gate that Pauline had
shipped to the house as a headboard for the bed gave the whole scene the appearance
of a sloppy throne. The grumpy king nestled amid its pillows caused Mariella to stifle
a laugh as she walked into the room.

“Daughter, read this out loud to me. My throat is killing me, and I have to hear it
out loud to see if it makes sense.”

Mariella sat on the bed. He smelled of whiskey and like he needed a bath. He wore
his glasses, which made him look vulnerable and erudite at the same time. His eyebrows
were knotted and his mouth was turned into a frown.

Mariella smiled. “You’re pouting and feeling sorry for yourself.”

His scowl deepened. “How would you like to have a throat infection, and the shits,
and a bunch of elitist asshole critics tearing you apart every day?”

“Poor Papa,” she said as she took the papers from him.

“Don’t you feel sorry for me?”

Mariella covered her smile with the papers and nodded her head heavily. “Yes, you
are pitiful.”

He finally broke into a smile. “I’m a real pain in the ass, aren’t I?”

“It would be improper for the help to criticize the boss.”

She turned her attention to the manuscript and began reading about the African country,
the storks, and the old man who was their guide.

“What’s this called?” asked Mariella.

“I think I’ll call it
Green Hills of Africa
, but I haven’t settled yet.”

“That has a nice ring to it.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Now skip ahead. There’s some haggling over money; we passed out
pay, but the old African who’d been hunting with us and guiding us couldn’t let go,”
said Papa.

Mariella scanned the page and started reading again. She got lost in the words that
took her to the African night, where a native begged the hunting party to take him
with them, even chasing their car, calling and pleading after them. It filled Mariella
with great sadness to imagine the old African man chasing them down the road.

“Good,” said Papa. “You’re upset. It was a good image.”

“Is there more about him?”

“Not after that point.”

Mariella wondered whether Papa cared about the old man at all, or just the impression
he left. She wondered whether the people surrounding him were worth more to him than
just characters in his stories.

“Why are
you
pouting now?” he asked.

Mariella shook her head. “Do you ever think about the old man?”

“I think about him always. He’s a major figure in the book.”

“But is he more than that to you?”

“What could be more than that? To be immortalized on the page? He left a major impression
on me.”

“But is he useful to you beyond the part he plays in your story?”

“Yes. He haunts me. But that’s life. You can’t take them all with you.”

Mariella didn’t know whether she believed him, and she wanted to be done with him
for the time being. She stood from the bed and Gavin’s latest letter slipped from
her pocket. Papa’s hand shot out, and he opened it up and started reading.

“Give that back to me,” she said. She didn’t want to appear frantic, so she stood
there with her hands in fists, willing herself not to reach for the letter. Papa read
over it, first with curiosity, then with contempt.

“I’ll read aloud to you,” he said with a cruel edge to his voice. He began without
her answer: “‘Dearest M. The only thing that gets me through the night here in these
miserable, mosquito-filled shacks is the thought of you.’

“Oh, God,” said Papa. “This is terrible.” Mariella’s face burned as he continued.

“‘I dream of a time when we can spend days on end together, without interruption.’”

Mariella put out her hand. “Give me the letter,” she said.

“Wait; it’s getting good. ‘It felt so right with you in John’s house. It would have
been even more perfect if it could just be us two.’”

Mariella grabbed the letter. A piece of it tore off in Papa’s hand. She grabbed that,
too. He laughed, mocking her.

“Do you get off on those cheap, clichéd proclamations of love?” he sneered. “Is that
what excites you?”

Mariella threw his manuscript papers over her shoulder, and they dropped to the floor
in a mess.

“Those weren’t numbered yet!” he yelled.

“Go to hell,” she said, and walked out of the room.

He spent the next day holed up in his writing cottage, and Mariella was glad not to
have to see him. She brooded about his nerve while she shook out the laundry and carried
the basket up to the master bedroom. She placed it on the bed and began folding clothes
when Pauline called her from the bathroom in a tremulous voice, utterly different
from her usual haughty tone. Mariella walked to the door of the bathroom and stopped
short. Light from the
open window illuminated an empty bottle of peroxide and Pauline’s newly gilded hair.
Mariella couldn’t hide her horror.

“It will look better once it’s dried, won’t it?” asked Pauline.

Mariella was speechless.

Pauline’s hair was gold. Her once-beautiful dark hair was a dried, brassy crown. It
was worse than the hair on the working girls in Bahama Village. Worse because it had
to have been inspired by Jane’s hair. Worse because it was for him.

Mariella stepped forward and took the towel from Pauline’s hands, which were dry from
the peroxide. Pauline sat in the stool and looked in the mirror. Mariella stood behind
Pauline, working the towel gently through her ruined hair. She wrung the wetness from
it over and over, squeezing sections of it with the towel, wishing she could absorb
the gold and restore the warm, brown, silky hair that had preceded it. Once Pauline’s
hair was almost dry, Mariella picked up a wide-toothed comb from the vanity and began
combing it in small sections and pinning it in curls around Pauline’s face. She was
careful not to pull too hard.

Pauline closed her eyes, and tears leaked out of them, but she didn’t make a sound.
It mortified Mariella, and she didn’t know what to say. She put all her energy into
gentle, tender brushing and pinning. When she finished, Mariella picked up the towel
and handed it to Pauline to wipe her tears.

“Am I like Jane?” Pauline asked.

Mariella couldn’t lie. “Better,” she said.

Pauline’s mouth formed a smile, but her eyes were still sad. Pauline pulled herself
out of the seat and looked out the window at the lighthouse.

“I have to try,” she said.

Mariella didn’t have an answer. She felt a wave of pity, and thought she might hate
Hemingway.

Mariella had wrestled the floor polishing from Isabelle that afternoon to save the
fifty-year-old woman’s knees, but now regretted it. She made big circles over the
floor and shined it until she could see her reflection. Her knees cracked when she
stood, and she massaged her lower back.

After finishing the floor, Mariella went up to the writer’s cottage. She’d saved the
cottage for last, since she knew Papa worked only early in the morning. She didn’t
want to run into him, because she was still fuming mad at the way he’d treated her
and the way he treated Pauline.

Mariella walked into the cottage and closed the door. She placed her broom against
the wall and headed over to the bookshelf to start wiping it. As she passed the writing
table she stopped short. There was a half-empty glass of bourbon next to his typewriter.
He never left a glass of booze unfinished.

He was here.

She felt the hair on the back of her neck rise and turned to leave, running right
into him as he stepped out of the bathroom.

He held her by the shoulders. She turned her face toward his. His forehead was wrinkled
with worry, his eyes were sad, and he shook his head. The bourbon smelled good on
his mouth.

“I’m a shit,” he said.

“You really are,” she said.

“I deserve everything you give me. Call me every name in the book.”

She was aware of how close they stood, and of the heat between them. That damned persistent
desire she felt for him was there, but attached to it were fear and revulsion. She’d
never been so confused.

“I’m jealous; that’s all,” he said.

The fear and revulsion dissolved, leaving only the burn and the guilt from them.

“Why?” she asked.

He tilted his head to the side and gave her a look that said,
You
know
, and she was rent in two. After she felt a bond with Pauline. After her resolution
to focus on Gavin. Her mother’s words came back to her:
Desire wins
.

He was waiting for her, but she knew that if she started, they wouldn’t stop. She
felt dirty and ashamed, but couldn’t tear herself away. She hated her indecision and
was angry at him for taking it so close to the line. She needed to leave.

“I don’t belong to you,” she said.

Suddenly she heard someone on the walkway and pulled herself out of Papa’s grip. As
Mariella stepped away, Pauline walked in. Mariella busied herself at the bookcase
so Pauline wouldn’t see her face.

“Pfeiff, you’re a vision,” he said. Mariella was amazed at his smooth reaction and
turned to the side to watch them out of the corner of her eye. He lifted Pauline and
swung her around before placing her on her feet. She looked at Mariella, and the smile
on Pauline’s face pained her and made her feel even worse. Pauline believed him.

“Isn’t it grand,” said Pauline. “Mariella helped me set it.”

“I love it,” he said.

Mariella thought she’d better say something. She found her voice and filled it with
an enthusiasm she didn’t feel. “You look like a model, Mrs. Hemingway.”

Pauline beamed.

“I feel absolutely youthful,” she said. “And just in time for summer and vacations
and Bimini.”

Mariella’s heart pounded at the mention of the island. She’d known they were planning
on spending much of the summer in the Bahamas and was terrified of being left behind,
not only because she worried about her job, but because it would mean separation from
him. Of course, going meant separation from Gavin, and that felt bad, too. After what
had just happened, though, separation from Papa would clearly be a good thing.