Hemingway's Girl (12 page)

She glanced back at the water and felt dizzy with longing.

“You’re coming,” he said. “As your employer, I insist.”

As they pulled away from the dock, Mariella looked back and saw Nicolas in front of
his restaurant. He watched her with a scowl and had his arms crossed. Mariella smiled
and waved. He raised his arm but didn’t smile. Papa saw.

“He’s just looking out for you,” he said. “Nicolas is a good man. A lot of these guys
around the dock are good men.”

“Just down on their luck,” she said.

“I’ve been there,” he said. Mariella looked at him out of the corner of her eye as
if to say,
Bullshit
.

“What?” he said. “I was poor as a dog in Paris. Hadley and I didn’t eat some days.
And I’ve never been happier than I was at that time.”

“You can’t argue that it’s better to be poor than it is to be rich,” said Mariella.

He grew quiet for a moment.

“If you are true to yourself and your wife and your son and your work, and you eat
and drink with people who are the same, yes, it’s better to be poor,” he said.

Mariella shook her head. “You’re just remembering the good times. You forget the ache
in your belly, never knowing if you’ll have enough to keep a roof over your head,
the sleeplessness.”

“I didn’t say I was comfortable. I said I was happy and true.”

“You’re not now?”

He was quiet again. They pulled farther out and faced the open water. A cruiser moved
over their path ahead and threw a big swell at them. It caught Mariella off guard,
and she fell into Papa. He grinned at her from inches away.

“It’s early for that, but I’m game,” he said.

Mariella tried to control her skin from burning and fumbled for a retort.

“Please, you’re too old,” she said.

Papa laughed his big, booming laugh.

They took turns at the wheel, moving the
Pilar
slowly out to sea. Mariella had never driven a thirty-eight-foot yacht before and
was pleased that it felt as natural to her as her father’s small fishing boat. Papa
pointed out the specialized features: the live fish well, dual motors, and giant fuel
tanks so he could stay out as long as he wanted.

As they pulled away from the no-wake zone, Mariella increased their speed.

“You’re a natural,” he said.

“This is heaven to me. There’s nothing I’d rather be doing.”

“So why don’t you?”

“I’d need a boat for that.”

“Your dad’s?”

“Wrecked. Ruined. Missing.”

He was quiet.

“Someday,” she said.

“Will you be a fisherwoman?”

She hesitated a moment. She feared she wouldn’t be taken seriously, or worse, that
she would, and naming it out loud for someone else meant she needed to get serious
about it.

“A charter boat captain with a shiny fleet.”

There. She had said it.

“Now you’re talking,” he said.

He’d taken her seriously.

“So, where to?” he asked.

And moved on. That was good. She didn’t want to dwell on it.

“South of the Tortugas has the best fish running this time of year,” she said.

“Take us there, Captain.”

As she drove the boat, she stole glances at Papa, admiring his profile against the
waves and alternating between feelings of gratitude, attraction, and guilt. She wondered
whether what her mother had said about owing him something was true. She also couldn’t
help but wonder whether she was just an amusement for him—a diversion from boredom
or routine. She didn’t like being used, but when he chose to dole out his attention
she knew of none who could refuse. Certainly not herself. She also reasoned that as
long as they didn’t cross the line, it couldn’t hurt to play his little game.

“You never answered my question,” said Mariella.

“What’s that?”

“Are you happy?”

“I don’t know how to answer it to someone who’s poor without sounding like a piece
of shit.”

“Just say what’s on your mind.”

He looked at her and she stared back at him, unflinching. She wanted him to know that
he could be straight with her.

“I’m not all that rich, myself,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Pauline’s uncle bought us our house. She’s rich. It’s her money.”

“You’re a successful author.”

“I am, and I do well enough, but I couldn’t afford all this without her money. And
sometimes I feel dirty for it.”

Mariella was quiet. She’d always assumed that his writing funded their lifestyle.
She didn’t realize how much Pauline had brought to the marriage. Mariella started
to understand what he meant about being rich not always being better. She thought
of the
ways Pauline and Papa were different. Pauline with her chandeliers. Papa with his
bohemian haircut and toothless fisherman friends. Pauline with her shopping excursions.
Papa with his boxing matches in Bahama Village. Pauline with her fancy, well-bred
sister. Papa with his maid on a fishing boat.

“I’m going to show you something you’re gonna love.” He broke her line of thinking
when he disappeared into the cabin and returned moments later carrying a Mannlicher
rifle.

“Jesus, Papa.”

“I know. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I’m so sick of those goddamned sharks. One nearly
took off my hand last time I was out.”

“You’re gonna kill yourself with that thing.”

He grew quiet. “No.” He ran his hands over the barrel. “I’m not like my father.”

Mariella looked at the floor of the boat. She’d had no idea.

“Do you know about him?” he asked.

Mariella looked at him. He had creases on his forehead. His eyes were sad. He looked
like he wanted to talk about it.

“No,” she said.

“Sometimes I think it’s the way to go. He was sick. He knew he wasn’t getting any
better. My mother had worn him down.”

“Were you close to him?”

“At times, yes—yes, I’d say I was.”

Mariella felt an opening to talk about Hal with someone who might understand—someone
who also loved his father, sometimes hated his mother, and understood the loss.

“My dad and I were close, too,” she said.

“I was sorry to hear about him.”

“I just can’t believe I wasn’t with him that day,” said Mariella.

“Thank God you weren’t.”

“But maybe I could have saved him.”

Hemingway didn’t say anything but gave her a look of troubled confusion.

“I mean, I’m no doctor,” she continued, “but maybe I would have seen how pale he was.
Maybe I could have encouraged him to go to the hospital, and he wouldn’t have had
the heart attack, and our boat wouldn’t have been wrecked.”

He continued to stare at her, making her feel uncomfortable and like she wished she’d
kept her thoughts to herself.

Finally he cleared his throat. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen. Almost twenty.”

“And you still live with your mom?”

“I’ve got to be there for the girls.”

He stared hard at her.

“Doesn’t your mother know you’re an adult, for Christ’s sake?”

Mariella didn’t understand why he was suddenly so angry and wanted the conversation
to return to small things, but he wasn’t ready to move on.

“Sometimes I think my father was such a coward,” he said. “You just don’t do that
when you have kids. I wouldn’t do that, if for nothing else but my kids.”

“Maybe he thought you would understand, or maybe he wasn’t thinking at all. A person
can’t be thinking right to do a thing like that and leave his family to pick up the
pieces.”

Papa laughed bitterly, and Mariella covered her face. “Sorry.”

“It’s only him who should be sorry.”

A lock of hair curled into Mariella’s mouth, and she brushed it away. She shifted
her attention to the water to stop this conversation she didn’t like, and to watch
for signs of fish.

She found that she had a harder time connecting to the sea from such a large boat.
It felt different from being in a small boat, closer to the surface. She had to concentrate
more deeply on the feel of the boat in the waves, but before long, she was able to
imagine the yacht disappearing and the water rising up to guide her.

“Beer?” he asked.

“Thanks.”

Papa handed Mariella the beer, then opened one for himself. They clinked bottles and
drank together. It tasted bitter and delicious.

“Your boxer’s at Joe’s a lot,” he said.

Mariella blushed and cursed herself for her weakness while he laughed.

“That’s a sweet blush. Don’t be ashamed. Soon you’ll be a woman and you’ll forget
how to do that.”

Mariella didn’t like him downgrading her from an adult to less than a woman in a matter
of minutes. She downed the rest of her beer in one gulp.

“Another,” he said. He passed her a bottle and their fingers touched. Mariella felt
a current run up her arm. He didn’t pull away, and neither did she. She was suddenly
aware that he had taken off his shirt and now stood very close to her. He smelled
like salt and alcohol. She closed her hand on the bottle and he ran his fingers over
hers. His face was deadly serious.

A splash broke his concentration.

“Shark,” said Mariella.

Papa looked overboard as the gray fin waved from side to side along the surface of
the water. He jumped to grab the gun and fired over the side. The water exploded and
splashed up high. The shark dropped to the right and resurfaced.

“Bastard,” he said.

“He doesn’t even care,” said Mariella in disbelief.

“Look at the line,” said Papa. Mariella saw the fishing line jerking back and forth,
and wondered how she hadn’t noticed it before. Then she realized why she hadn’t noticed,
and blushed again.

“Their hunger trumps all of their other instincts,” he said. “Those sons of bitches
chew up every fish I bring in. Just once, I’m bringing in a fish without a single
shark bite.”

Mariella saw the shark circle around the back of the boat, intoxicated by the blood
from the fish. She looked at the gun. He saw her.

“You wanna try?”

Marialla shrugged, but inside she was screaming,
Yes!

“You need a lotta strength to keep it down and controlled. It goes
bam-bam-bam
, and it’ll kick up in the air. Ever fired one?”

“No.”

“A virgin.”

She looked at him straight in the eyes and used every ounce of concentration she had
not to blush.

“Yes.”

He seemed at a loss for words. Mariella’s heart pounded so hard she thought he must
see it behind her shirt. A loud splash drew their attention back to the water. Papa
handed Mariella the gun.

It was heavier than she thought it would be and strangely cold on the hot day. He
gave her a few quiet instructions, but it felt natural in her hands—like an extension
of her emotion toward the shark.

She lifted it up and aimed it at the shark, adjusting herself so the gun pointed just
ahead of where it swam. Her shirt clung to her back. She had never killed anything
with a gun before, and it gave her pause for a moment. It was a lot of life to take.
The shark had needs, too. God knew she knew what hunger felt like. But she was overthinking
this. A cloud covered the sun and she could see the whole dark outline of the shark.

She fired.

The gun wanted to point up, but she kept it down.

A spray of blood and water shot into the air.

Papa howled, “Holy shit! You got it!”

The sun came back out.

He looked at her and laughed, shaking his head as he took the
gun. Mariella smiled and rubbed her hands—still white from clenching it so hard. She
looked back at the red stain in the water. It seeped down and dissolved on the waves.