Hemingway's Girl (13 page)

“Pfeiff could shoot pretty well,” said Papa as he rebaited the line. “In Africa she
was a pretty good shot. And a good sport.”

It was the first kind thing Mariella had ever heard him say about Pauline. He said
it with regret and longing.

“But she just did it to please me, which took something away from it,” he said. “When
you picked up the gun, you wanted it. I like that.”

“It’s okay to want to do something because someone you love does it.”

“Of course it is,” he said, “but the irony is that it gives the one you love more
pleasure when you want to do it also for yourself.”

“I see.”

“I know you do,” he said.

Mariella looked into the live fish well, pleased with the assortment of fish they’d
already caught in such a short time. They still wanted a big one, though. The line
moved back and forth, but not hard enough to indicate that a fish was hooked.

“It’s a drug, you know,” he said.

“What?”

“Wealth. Money. Power.”

“I’ll let you know what I think if I ever have any.”

“I hope you always have enough to keep your belly full and a roof over your head,”
he said. “Everything beyond that’s trouble.”

Before Mariella could respond, the line jerked hard, once, then twice.

“Here we go!” he shouted.

He rose up from the chair, knocking over his beer. Mariella
picked it up. But not before it slid in a quick line to wet his shirt, which he had
thrown in a heap on the deck. She picked up the shirt, shook it out, and placed it
over the back of his chair to dry.

“It’s a good one,” he shouted.

Mariella turned and saw the great beast leap fully out of the water.

When they docked, a small crowd loitered along the pier. The old locals, wrinkled
beyond their years by sun and hard living, lined the dock and waved to them as they
pulled in. Mariella thought they were beautiful.

“They have a thousand fish stories to tell, and I never get tired of hearing them,”
said Mariella.

“I’m going to write a fish story one day.”

“Do.”

“But it won’t be as pretty as what we did today.”

Mariella turned and looked at the fish they brought in. She’d cleaned the snapper
on the way in and was pleased to have fresh fish for dinner. As they pulled into the
dock, Papa called the men over to see a marlin free of shark bites. When Mariella
saw the poor men, she thought of her father and then her mother, and suddenly felt
guilty for not earning more that day.

It was early evening. Hemingway instructed some locals to string up the fish for a
picture. She looked off toward home and back at the big fish and felt pulled away.

“I’ve got to go,” said Mariella.

“Wait—I want you to be in the picture,” he said.

“No, you did all the work,” she said. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Stay,” he said.

“I can’t,” she said.

He gave her a scowl, like a sulking child. She laughed.

“Next time,” she said, taking her fish and starting down the dock. She made it to
the road and then turned back. He was still watching her.

Thank you,
she thought. He nodded and kept watching her.

The ambivalent sky settled on rain, and Mariella was running by the time she got home.
The girls were on the porch. Lulu filled soup cans with rainwater that dripped through
holes in the sagging roof. Estelle sat on the bottom step, staring across the road
at nothing, letting the water run over her without flinching.

“You’re soaked,” said Mariella, helping Estelle stand. The girl looked down at her
clothing and back at Mariella in surprise. Mariella led her into the house, past her
mother sleeping in her chair, and into the bathroom, where she wrapped a towel around
her sister and kissed her cheek. “Go change,
cariña
.”

Estelle walked into their room and closed the door. Mariella hoped Estelle would be
able to manage on her own and felt a familiar flutter of worry for her younger sister.
Every day Estelle seemed more and more detached, but Mariella tried to convince herself
that such behavior was a normal grieving response. It did not escape her notice or
irritation that her mother slept while Estelle sat in the rain, but guilt slapped
that thought away. After all, she had been on a boat all day with Papa.

A sudden fatigue gripped Mariella from the weight of her physical and emotional burdens.
She looked into the mirror and pulled her long dark hair out of its tie, letting it
spill around her face. She smelled her own stink from the day on the boat, and her
stomach growled. Her head pulsed from a lack of food and too much beer and sun. She
started the water in the tub. It was ice-cold, because there was no money to heat
it. Mariella peeled off her dirty clothes, stepped into the tub, and washed herself.
Before
long, her body became accustomed to the chill, and she sat still, mindful of how alive
the sharply cold water made her feel.

In the quiet, Hemingway crept into her thoughts—the touch of his fingers on hers and
his kiss on her forehead. She knew he’d wanted to kiss her mouth, and was surprised
at how unafraid she’d been. He was going to be her undoing.

When she heard the front door slam and Lulu come babbling into the house, Mariella
stood and stepped out of the tub. She dropped her dirty clothes in the water to soak,
dried off, reached for her dress hanging on the back of the door, combed her wet hair,
and walked down the hallway in bare feet to start dinner.

“You got dark today,” said her mother from her chair. “Were you at the dock?”

Mariella debated whether to tell her mother that she went out on the boat with Hemingway
and decided to tell the truth. Lying about it would have meant there was something
to hide.

“At first, yes, but then I went out on Mr. Hemingway’s boat.”

“Was anyone else with the two of you?”

Estelle came out of the room wearing a dry dress, and she and Lulu watched her with
large, brown eyes.

“No,” said Mariella.

Eva looked at the ceiling and started mumbling in Spanish.

“Did you catch a fish?” asked Lulu. Someone’s stomach growled, and Mariella smiled.

“Yes, many, many fish. Even a big marlin. I brought home snapper for dinner.”

“What did you talk about all day long?” asked Eva. “
If
you talked.”

Mariella turned to glare at her mother, but she had her face turned away, staring
out the window. Thunder rumbled.

“Sounds like the sky’s hungry, too,” said Lulu.

They laughed, and Mariella kissed Lulu on the cheek, again thankful that she was there
to lighten the mood. Even Eva couldn’t help but smile.

“We talked about fishing, and sharks,” said Mariella. “And Dad.”

Eva looked over sharply.
“
What about
tu padre?”

“Nothing much, just that his father had died, too, and that he was sad when he heard
about Dad.”

Mariella felt the air leave the room. She knew her father’s death was a constant source
of tension, but this quiet felt different. It felt like something holding its breath.
The thunder rumbled again, more loudly.

No one said much during dinner. The tension remained, and lingered after she’d done
the dishes and put the girls to bed. When Mariella stepped into the living room, Eva
turned and gave her a dark look that made her stomach flip. But then Mariella remembered
that she was an adult, and straightened her posture. She crossed her arms and leaned
on the doorframe. Her mother stubbed out her cigarette and smoothed a lock of hair
off her forehead.

“I don’t think you should be spending so much time with him.”

“Why?”

“Do I have to spell it out?”

“You do, because as far as I can see, it’s innocent.”

“¿De verdad?
When his name’s brought up you flush from head to toe. You’re out late at night and
all day with him. He’s married, and he’s trouble.”

“I’m not a child.”

“It doesn’t matter that you’re not a child. I’m older than you, and you can benefit
from what I know.”

“When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

Eva turned her head to look out the front window and put her forehead in her hands.

“If Dad was still alive, you wouldn’t notice me,” said Mariella. “Just pay attention
to the girls and don’t worry about me.”

“How can I not worry about you? Do you want to end up with a baby of your own? Do
you want to end up like me?”

“I’m not stupid.”

Her mother snapped back as if she’d been struck.

“I’m sorry,” said Mariella. “I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”

The rain started up hard again, and the thunder growled after each flash of lightning.

“It’s not about
estupidez
,” said Eva. “It’s about desire. Desire wins, Mariella.”

Mariella didn’t want to talk about desire with her mother.

“Not for me,” said Mariella.

She went to the room she shared with her sisters and shut the door. She took off her
clothes, put on a nightshirt, and crawled into the pallet she slept on near her sisters’
mattress. Mariella could hear her mother put on Ponce’s
Suite in A Minor
. Hal had bought Eva a portable windup phonograph several years ago, in spite of the
fact that they could barely afford their house. He used to bring her records whenever
he could. The melancholy guitar sounds depressed Mariella and made her miss her father.

At the end of the song, she heard the needle scratch and saw the light go out in the
hallway. She heard her mother feel along the wall and stop outside her door. Eva opened
it and stood there for a few minutes. Then she walked to her room and shut the door.

Mariella was tense. It was hot so she took off her nightshirt and lay naked in her
bed. The sheet stuck to her, but she didn’t want to pull it down and expose herself
in a room with her sisters. The cloth settled around the contours of her body with
a pleasant weight, and Mariella started to relax into the bed.

It was on hot, frustrating nights like these that Mariella wished she lived alone,
or maybe with a lover or a husband. Her mind played at what it would be like to marry
Papa. She thought of their fishing trip together and imagined what it would be like
to take him right there on the boat. Her mind couldn’t wander too far, however. Guilt
caused the fantasy to recoil, suppressing the coveting.

She turned her thoughts to Gavin. Now,
he
was within the realm of possibility. So possible, in fact, that it suddenly scared
Mariella more than her flirtation with Hemingway. She knew the barrier of Papa’s marriage
was there, but there were no outside barriers with Gavin. Well, no barriers except
her mother.

When they had danced, she’d felt the attraction. It made her heart race. He was as
tall as Hemingway, but not as thick. She liked the feel of his lean, muscular body.
She liked the smell of tobacco and aftershave on him.

She ran her hands down the sheet and felt her body soften.

But her mother’s words snapped into her mind.
You don’t want to end up like me.
And how right she was. Three daughters, poor, widowed—no, Mariella would not end
up like Eva.

Lulu’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.

Mariella listened to see whether she’d go back to sleep, but the minutes passed and
the child kept whining. Mariella threw off the sheet, pulled her nightshirt over her
head, and tiptoed to the bed to quiet her sister so she wouldn’t wake Estelle.

“What is it, Lu?”

Her soft, dark curls were wet on her forehead. “I’m hot.”

Mariella felt her head and was thankful Lulu didn’t feel feverish, just sweaty.

“How’s your belly?” whispered Mariella.

“It’s fine,” said Lulu.

“Good. I’ll be right back.”

Mariella went to the kitchen to get a cold rag and a cup of water, because a drink
would be Lulu’s next request. She went back to the room and sat on the edge of the
bed. She took the cool rag and ran it over Lulu’s head. Then she blew on her softly.
Lulu closed her eyes and smiled and after a little while said, “I’m thirsty.” Mariella
produced the cup and gave it to her. She helped her drink, allowing her to spill a
little down the front of her. Mariella ran the wet towel over Lulu’s chest and blew
on her again. In
the moonlight coming through the window, she could see the girl’s skin rise in tiny
goose bumps.