Hemingway's Girl (29 page)

The men were very much what her mother and Gavin had feared.

Mariella stepped through the smoke into the rum bar to a chorus of catcalls from the
tanned, rich, drunken crowd. Papa emerged from them and put his arm around her. There
was a general uproar as he led her to the end of the bar.

The room jumped with the music of the singing bartenders, glasses hitting wet wood,
and random bursts of laughter. Mariella
soon realized she was the only woman in the room and thought she probably should have
gone to bed when the others did. Then again, why not stay up and have fun? How many
opportunities in her lifetime would she have in such company?

Papa ordered her something fruity and delicious, and sat so close to her that she
could smell the booze and the outdoors on him.

“This is a tourist drink,” she said.

“Well, you are a tourist, aren’t you,” he said.

“True.”

He downed a shot from a line of three and hiccuped loudly.

“The fishing’s been shit; Jane’s quack therapist, Kubie, has written a libelous article
I intend to sue him over; and the
Pilar
’s been acting up,” said Papa.

“Then why are you so happy?” asked Mariella.

“Because all my loves are here.”

He leaned into Mariella and clinked the shot glass on hers before he drained it.

“Of course,” she said. “And this is paradise. You couldn’t be unhappy here.”

“Never.”

“Who’s this Kubie?”

“Some shrink who claims I have disdain for women through my overmasculine protagonists—among
other things.”

“You do make us out pretty bad.”

He looked at her with suspicion.

“I’ve read your books,” she said.

“Which ones?”

“All of them.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You should be,” she said. “I haven’t cracked a book since my school days.”

“And you think the guys are dicks?”

“It’s more about how you make the dames look.”

“How’s that?”

“Weak.”

“Damn it—no!” He slammed his glass on the bar. “It’s the men who look like assholes;
don’t you see?”

“Explain.”

“The women are there to highlight what macho jackasses the men are.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“I do,” he said. “But they, too, are flawed. My characters are flawed and deeply human,
and I’m sorry if that makes them not look so good, but have you ever considered humanity?”

She looked around the room at the sunburned, drunken men falling all over one another,
smoking and slapping one another on the back. Mariella pulled a cigarette out of her
pack and lit it. She inhaled and then blew the smoke away from Papa.

“That’ll kill you one day,” he said after downing his third shot.

She sent him and his empty glasses a look.

“Touché,” he said.

“Back to your characters,” said Mariella, emboldened by the alcohol. “Can you even
call them characters? It seems as if you just change the names to protect the innocent—or
guilty.”

He smiled at her out of the corner of his eye while he motioned to the bartender.

“You’re onto me,” he said.

Mariella took another sip of her drink and felt her head spin. She looked around the
room and couldn’t help but feel that all these people would show up somewhere in his
stories to serve some purpose—not for their own good, but for his.

“You have to stop collecting them,” she said.

“’Scuse me?” he said.

“They’re human beings.”

“Not this again,” he said.

“They deserve their dignity.”

He regarded her with a furrowed brow. “I will always collect them.”

“Not me,” she said.

“I know. Not you,” he said. “I told you that when we ate pie in Key West.”

The bartender brought him a whiskey. He slowly swirled the liquid in his glass, not
meeting her eyes. She wondered whether he’d already done it—whether he’d already used
her in his work. She wondered whether he would take it back.

She also knew she’d regret it if she continued drinking, so she stood to go.

“Where are you going?” he asked, turning on the stool to face her.

“I’m going to bed. To my
own
space, for the first time
ever
.”

His face settled into a sad smile, as if it hadn’t before occurred to him that Mariella
was poor.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” she said. “I know you didn’t need me, so it was
a gift.”

He put his hands on her waist and she moved a step closer to him.

“To me,” he said, looking into her eyes.

His desire was palpable. Mariella felt an urge to kiss him, but she closed her eyes
and fought it.

“To you,” she said. She reached around him, raised her glass, and drained it. She
stepped back from him. “Good night, Papa.”

“Good night, daughter.”

She walked by the men at the bar as they called to her and begged her to come back.
She smiled from under her long eyelashes and raised her hand in farewell as she walked
out the door. Their pleading followed her into the night, and she laughed and felt
good from the attention.

She walked unsteadily back to her room, closed the door, and leaned against it. Her
heart pounded. She walked over to the window and opened it to let in the fresh air.
The sound of the surf came in on the wind, but she could hear the noise of the men
at the rum bar in bursts over it. She heard Papa laugh, and smiled to herself. She
walked over to the bed and lay on top of the covers, listening to the night. It wasn’t
long before she fell asleep.

Mariella awoke in the middle of the night with a headache. She rolled out of bed and
felt her way to the bathroom, where she filled a cup with water from the faucet and
drained it. She drained another cup and filled it once more to put on the bedside
table.

She sat on the end of the bed and rubbed her temples with her hands. The night breeze
came in through the open window. The beach was lit by the full moon. Mariella moved
to the window and stared out, mesmerized by the haunting beauty of the night landscape.

She had a sudden urge to walk in the sand in her bare feet. The freedom of being alone
on Bimini at night was almost too much for her to bear, and she didn’t want the magic
of the moment to dissolve. She opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. The
wind caught her off guard. She didn’t expect it to be as strong as it was, but she
was glad that it blew as it did. It would keep away the mosquitoes.

The sand felt cool under her feet, but the water was warm. She thought about a night
swim, but realized that would be foolish without anyone else around, so she just stood
there taking in the night. She looked in the direction of Key West and thought of
her family and of Gavin. She imagined them all sleeping, and she was filled with love
for them.

After standing there for a while, Mariella walked back to the
hotel. She knew she’d better get to bed if she didn’t want her headache to get worse.
She crept up the stairs and down the porch to her room. As she walked by Papa’s room,
a sudden noise stopped her. She turned toward his window and saw that it was open
and that the curtains were blowing out in the wind. The pain in her head reasserted
itself, almost as if to urge her back to her own room, but she couldn’t resist looking
into his room. She just wanted to see him sleeping.

Moving against the outside wall, she slid until she was right next to the window.
She reached, held the curtain flat against the wall, and peered around its edge.

Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness in the room, but the moonlight helped
illuminate Hemingway and Pauline moving together under the sheets. When Mariella realized
what she was seeing, her heart began to pound, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
She felt a mixture of revulsion, arousal, and jealousy.

The bed was parallel to the window, so she could see a side view of the lovers. Hemingway
had his head buried in Pauline’s neck, and her face wore a look of ecstasy. He had
her arms pinned above her head, and it was clear that Pauline liked it.

Suddenly he turned his head toward the window. Mariella sucked in her breath and pivoted
flat against the wall. Her heart pounded.
My God
. Had he seen her? She didn’t want to move, but she was afraid that if she didn’t,
he’d come out and find her there, and—
Oh, God
. Mariella crouched down and crept under the window as quietly as she could. She raced
to her room, went in, locked the door, and leaned against it to catch her breath.
She could swear that she heard footsteps on the porch, so she ran to her bed and jumped
under the covers.

Mariella didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

The next morning, Mariella was terrified at the thought of seeing Papa, and obsessed
over whether or not he’d seen her. She knew that she’d be able to tell whether he’d
seen her by the way he greeted her. She stayed in her room as long as she could, but
once she heard everyone’s voices as they congregated on the front porch, she knew
she had to join them.

The men stood on the porch talking, smoking, and drinking coffee. They were bleary
eyed but happy. They planned to go out fishing and felt lucky already. Papa’s hair
was rumpled and his stained shorts were held up with a rope. He wore his green fishing
cap and a white button-down shirt.

The boys ran up the steps, jumped off the porch, and started over again. Pauline watched
them from a rocking chair. She wore a housedress, had a cup of tea on the small table
next to her, and pressed against the banister with her bare foot to rock herself.
She was talking with Jinny and Katy and Dos, and they all burst into laughter at the
same time.

Mariella could see Pauline’s ease and the happiness of the guests. She thought that
wealth must be so freeing—to be able to spend weeks on holiday, without a care in
the world. It was easy to forget about the rest of the world in exchange for your
own comfort. Mariella understood why Papa called it a drug.

“Will you fish with us today, Mari?” called Papa. He smiled at her warmly, without
any mockery. Relief washed over her.

“Not today,” she said. Pauline had instructed her that today was market day, and they’d
go into Alice Town and find food. Papa told her that their diet on vacation would
be his catch. “Man hunt. Wife cook.”

“Wife not eat fish every meal. Man get out of here,” said Pauline. They laughed.

“I hope you can cook, Mariella,” said Katy. “The food has been terrible here. We are
all hopeless in the kitchen.”

“I’m not bad,” said Mariella. “Isabelle’s taught me a lot.”

“Bad food that someone else cooks is better than good food that I have to cook,” said
Katy. “I can’t wait.”

“Jane just sent over a nice package of caviar and fine things,” said Papa. “Eat that.”

Pauline stopped rocking, visibly tense at the mention of Jane and her fine things.

Katy rolled her eyes. “Please, I’d rather eat nothing than that.”

Jinny assumed the posture of a model and held her cigarette out from her. She put
on a voice imitating Jane. “Oh,
dahling
, I just thought everyone would want fine food like me. And I do want you all to think
highly of me, because I’m
so
very special, and you’re all
so
very lucky to know me.”

Pauline relaxed a little. Katy and Dos laughed. Ernest rolled his eyes and stepped
off the porch.

“Look forward to our return, fine people,” said Papa. “Meet us at the dock at happy
hour.” He blew Pauline a kiss and started walking. Then he stopped, looked back at
Mariella, and waved. “You’re coming with me on my birthday,” he called.