Hemingway's Girl (4 page)

Mariella couldn’t get used to the hollow woman her mother had become. Eva sat in her
chair by the window with a full ashtray at her side and a worn rosary in her hand.
She drank watered-down coffee made from the same grounds she’d been using for three
days. They had no sugar and the little ones needed the milk, so the thin, dirty liquid
must have tasted like someone spit old coffee into hot water.

Eva had once been a beauty—glossy black hair, big brown eyes, small, sharp features.
Now she was gaunt. Her hair had gray streaks. Her eyes were perpetually wet and rimmed
in shadows.

“I’ve got dinner,” said Mariella.

Eva blinked, pulling herself out of her memories. “From Mark?”

“Yes,” said Mariella. “And ten dollars.”

She expected Eva would brighten at the amount, and was dismayed to see her mother’s
eyes darken with suspicion.

Suspicion—the new look that crossed her mother’s face now whenever Mariella left the
house at night or brought home a decent amount of money. She wasn’t used to such scrutiny,
and found herself feeling more anger than pity for her mother. Mariella tried to ignore
the spark her mother’s look had ignited within her, and walked over to the cabinet
to pull out a pan, hoping the simple act of cooking would help her simmer down.

Mariella scooped a spoonful of fat from the cup by the sink and heated it on the stove.
Once it sizzled, she unwrapped the snapper from the newspaper and placed it in the
pan. She sprinkled a pinch of sea salt over the fish and pulled a lime out of her
pocket that she had picked up on the way home when the man at the fruit stand wasn’t
looking. She rolled it over the counter, sliced it open, and squeezed it over the
fish. It smoked and filled the air with its tangy smell. Mariella flipped the fish
and poured four glasses of water, squeezing the rest of the lime into each glass.
She put the water on the table and set out four plates.

There. She felt calmer.

She also felt her mother’s eyes on her and wished Eva would offer to help set the
table. Mariella couldn’t help but think that if Eva would just engage more in day-to-day
tasks or even look for a job, she might start to feel better.

“Tomorrow I’ll try to find work,” Eva said, as though she’d heard the wish.

Eva’s words had the opposite effect on Mariella that she knew her mother wanted, because
she knew Eva had no intention of trying to find work. Her anger returned in a flash.

“Go find the girls and I’ll watch the fish,” said Eva.

In spite of her offer to help, Mariella didn’t trust her mother to remember to take
the fish out on time. The last time Eva offered, Mariella went to find the girls,
only to come home to charred, inedible snapper, and her mother, lost in memories,
staring out the window.

“It’s okay,” said Mariella. “I’ll get them once the fish is done.”

Her mother stubbed out her cigarette in a smash and sat up in her chair.

“
¿Crees que no lo puedo hacer?
Who do you think did the cooking before your father died?”

Mariella was taken aback by her mother’s outburst. “I didn’t say you couldn’t cook.
It’s just that I’m almost done.”

Eva exhaled, looked out the window, and mumbled something in Spanish. Mariella turned
her glare to the fish.

The door burst open and her sisters came in, with Lulu leading Estelle by the hand.
Before they could start eating, Mariella shooed the girls away to wash up for dinner.
Eva walked over and sat down, staring at her food as if she wanted someone to feed
it to her.

When the girls returned, Lulu filled the silence with her chatter about the nuns at
school, and Estelle, practically mute since Hal had died, hung on her sister’s every
word as if it were a buoy. Mariella noticed Eva still staring at her plate.

“Better eat before it gets cold,” said Mariella.

Mariella tried to remember what it was like to have Hal at the table telling fish
stories at night. It had been only months, and already her memory of him at the house
grew dim. Memories of her parents’ arguments were louder in her mind. She remembered
how anxious her dad was when the money got really tight, and how Eva had told Hal
to leave fishing.

He said he didn’t know anything else. She said to learn. He said their luck would
change. She called him a fool. He encouraged her to reach out to her family in Cuba.
She argued that they hadn’t spoken in years, and contacting them when they needed
money wouldn’t get her anywhere. He told her how much fishing meant to him and to
Mariella, and how well-off they’d be once they started the charter boat business.
Eva said there wouldn’t be any rich tourists to take on fishing excursions if the
depression continued. And on and on.

Mariella remembered that her father started staying away, coming home late, drunk,
and then it was as if his light went out.

Then he died.

“Can we go to the Point soon?” asked Lulu, snapping Mariella out of her painful thoughts.

“Of course,” she said. “We haven’t been to the beach in a while.”

Mariella felt the unspoken words that made the silence fall over the room. They hadn’t
gone to the beach since Hal died.

Eager to end dinner, Mariella stood to clear the plates and walked them over to the
sink. She heard Eva’s chair scrape over the floor and the door to her room close.
Mariella sent Lulu and Estelle to their room to do their homework while she washed
dishes. She was relieved to be alone.

That night, Mariella dreamed of Hemingway.

In the dream, it was a glorious, sparkling day. They were on
Hal’s old boat, drinking and fishing. When it got too hot, Hemingway took off his
shirt and shoes and jumped in the water. He tried to coax Mariella out of her clothes
to join him.

The rest of the dream was fuzzy. She didn’t remember taking off her clothes, but suddenly
she felt the cool water around her body, his arms pull her into him, and then she
awoke, breathless and sweating, troubled and aroused, and unable to fall back asleep.

Mariella thought it strange that someone who had meant so little to her just days
ago now invaded her dreams, and she felt guilty for dreaming about a married man.
But of course she dreamed of him. He’d been on her mind since the night at the boxing
match, and the following day when they were introduced at the dock. The jolt she’d
felt when he touched her hand unsettled and confused her.

But her interest in the writer was also practical.

She stared at the window until the pink glow from the morning sunrise filled the panes.
Suddenly Mariella sat up, quickly dressed, brushed her hair, and stole out of the
house before anyone awoke, headed for Thompson’s Hardware Store with an idea.

The first time Mariella saw Hemingway at his house, he was sitting on a dining room
chair on the lawn while his wife, Pauline, cut his curling brown hair. He was big
and the chair was small, and he regarded Mariella with the kind of mocking smile that
usually runs between old friends. It occurred to Mariella that Pauline was trying
to tame that great animal of a man, and the absurdity of it made Mariella smile back
at him.

A flash went off and a lithe, lovely woman who resembled Pauline advanced her camera
and said, “You look like a lion about to pounce, Papa.”

“Don’t come too close, Jinny. I bite,” he said.

“Honestly,” said Pauline. “Keep still for one more minute.”

Jinny walked around Mariella, looking her up and down the way a man would. “Are you
here for a housekeeping job?” Mariella met her eyes and stared back until Jinny looked
away.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m Mariella Bennet.”

“Chuck Thompson sent her over,” said Pauline, not lifting her eyes from the back of
Hemingway’s head. “She’s done work for him at the dock.”

“He told me you could use the help,” said Mariella.

“Mariella Bennet?” said Papa. “Let me guess: Your mother’s Cuban and your daddy’s
American.”

“Yes. And a fisherman.”

“Hal Bennet was your dad?” he said, wrinkling his forehead in a mixture of sadness
and fondness.

“Yes,” said Mariella.

“You’re hired!” Papa said.

“I haven’t even interviewed her yet,” said Pauline.

“Good. Do that and leave my hair alone.” The big cat pounced out of his chair, hit
Jinny on the backside, winked at Mariella, and ran to the yellow Ford parked on the
street. Then he disappeared.

Pauline shook her head without a smile and motioned for Mariella to follow her and
Jinny inside. As Mariella passed into the sitting room, she was nearly run over by
a boy about six years old, followed by his little brother, followed by a large, sweaty
governess.

“Have a seat.” Pauline motioned to a formal settee in a pale blue sitting room. Mariella
sat and noted a chandelier hanging from the ceiling where she thought a fan should
be. Jinny sat down close to Mariella. She smelled of cigarettes and rose water. Suddenly
feeling very poor and awkward around these elegant, pretentious women, Mariella squirmed
in her dress and tried to figure out whether she should cross her legs at the ankle
or the knee.

“Those are your references?” asked Pauline, taking the neat stack of papers from Mariella.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You may call me Mrs. Hemingway.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hemingway.”

“You’re just nineteen?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hemingway.”

“Chuck said you need a job closer to home. He spoke highly of you.”

“I’ve known Mr. Thompson for a long time,” said Mariella. “He’s kept me busy with
small jobs at the hardware store and the dock, but I need something permanent.”

“Your father was a fisherman?”

“Yes, but he died back in October. I need to support my mom and my two sisters.” Mariella
looked straight at Pauline. She had practiced saying that aloud, and was pleased with
herself for her steady voice.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Pauline. She shifted in her chair, clearly ill at ease.
After shuffling through Mariella’s references, she put them on a nearby table, where
a nibbled peach lay on a blue plate, browning in the heat. A fly buzzed around it.
Next to the plate was a copy of
War and Peace
. Mariella eyed it and wondered whose it was.

“Can you read?” asked Pauline.

“Of course,” said Mariella. She sat up straight in her chair, insulted, and badly
wishing she could retort,
Can you?
But she kept her tongue in check.

Pauline regarded Mariella for a moment. Mariella could feel the woman testing her,
wondering whether she could fight, cry, and live in front of Mariella without actually
having to think about her. Mariella relaxed her posture so she wouldn’t appear aggressive
and folded her hands in her lap.

Something seemed to satisfy Pauline.

“Jinny is my sister,” she said. “Her word is as good as mine. Ada Stern is the boys’
governess. Stay out of her way if you know what’s good for you. And Ernest, always
mind him when he’s around, but my word is law. The only real house rule is to
never, ever
disturb my husband when he’s writing. He gets up very early, at five or six o’clock,
and goes to the room over the garage to write. He works until it gets too hot, about
ten or so, and then he goes fishing. You’ve read his work?”

“Yes,” she lied.

Pauline sat up, as if anticipating the usual outpouring of sentiments regarding Ernest’s
talent, but Mariella said nothing. The way the woman then slouched in her chair made
Mariella think
that Pauline must live vicariously through Hemingway, and that she took compliments
to him as praise for herself.

“And does it please you?” asked Jinny.

Mariella looked Jinny in the eye. “Yes, very much.”

Only the ticking of the clock and the sound of muffled children’s voices outside could
be heard. Pauline reached over to Jinny’s dress and rifled through a pocket in its
side until she found a cigarette. Mariella reached in her own dress and pulled out
a book of matches. She lit Pauline’s cigarette. Pauline let the smoke drift over her
face like a veil and said through it, “You’ll start Monday. Be here at seven.”