Hemingway's Girl (7 page)

A bell sounded, and Mariella felt sick.
Why, damn it, why do this again?
Why risk the loss?
She wiped the sweat off her forehead and forced all of her concentration behind Gavin,
hoping it could somehow seep into him and give him power.

The boxers began a slow, circular dance around the ring, facing each other. Bear moved
in and punched, but Gavin slipped his head to the left. Then Bear jabbed with his
right hand three times, making contact on the third jab with Gavin’s left shoulder.

The crowd cheered.

Gavin continued to circle, and Bear tried an uppercut that made contact with Gavin’s
chin.

“He’s not doing anything,” said Mariella.

“He’s sizing him up, tiring him out,” said Papa. “He’s got Bear punching him and moving
all around the ring. When Bear’s tired, Murray’ll destroy him.”

He said the last words under his breath and curled his fingers into fists.

One minute passed.

Two minutes.

Bear made contact on a jab, another uppercut, and a straight-handed punch.

“What’s he doing?” said Mariella, frantic at the thought of losing a whole week’s
pay.

The crowd was cheering Bear and booing Gavin, complaining that Gavin wasn’t up to
the fight. Mariella thought she was going to get sick, but she couldn’t tear her eyes
off the ring. She stood, and soon the crowd around her was standing.

Then Gavin exploded.

One-two-three-four, jab. Uppercut. One-two-three, straight. One-two-three, jab.

In one final move, Gavin pulled back his arm and brought it forward with the force
of a freight train. There was a sickening crunch. Bear’s arms went slack at his sides
and he dropped to the ring floor.

It was a knockout.

The crowd was silent for a while; then the din began. Everyone got to their feet and
began yelling and cheering. Mariella looked at Hemingway with wide eyes. He raised
his eyebrows at her. She felt a sudden elation and turned back to the ring to see
Gavin looking at her. He nodded. She returned the gesture.

When they got to the ring, Bear was sitting in a chair with his head in his hands.
Gavin walked over to him and patted him on the back.

“Good fight, man.”

Bear grunted.

Gavin climbed through the ropes and jumped off the ring. Hemingway intercepted him.

“Nice knockout,” said Papa, without much enthusiasm.

“Thanks.”

“I’d like to fight you sometime,” said Papa. “I never lose.”

Mariella thought it an odd thing to say to a stranger who had just knocked out a four-time
champion, but she didn’t dwell on it. She was distracted by the feeling of having
won all that money. Rent problems would be solved. At least for this month.

“Sure,” said Gavin.

They stared at each other for a moment, sizing each other up. Mariella half expected
them to start circling each other. Gavin broke the tension by extending his hand.
Papa shook it, hard, then placed his hand on Mariella’s back and guided her away.

Gavin counted his money quickly and shoved it in his bag under the hungry eyes of
the men collecting.

“Night,” he said. None of the men said a thing to him as he walked away, but he could
feel their stares hard on his back. His stomach was tight and he was alert in case
any crooks wanted to follow, though he doubted they would. They were a tough group,
but fair.

He wasn’t a fool, though, so he turned and walked down Duval Street, which was heavily
populated, even at this hour. Most people just sat and smoked and watched the night
pass, but some called out greetings to him. When he turned onto Olivia Street, he
passed Beverly’s house and saw her sitting alone on the front porch, stroking a cat.

“You win, handsome?”

She sat in the shadows with her legs up on the railing. Her dress slid too far up
her thighs, and her feet were bare. He knew he shouldn’t stop, but he couldn’t help
it.

“I won.”

“No one’s home,” she said. “Why don’t you come inside?”

He had been inside before and knew Beverly was trouble.

“I’m done with that,” he said, and smiled.

She didn’t return the smile. “You break my heart.”

“You don’t have one,” he said, not unkindly.

She sighed and waved her hand, as if in dismissal.

“Good night,” he said.

She turned her head and looked away.

Gavin smiled and continued down the street. He felt liberated. He had proven to her
and to himself that she had no hold over him, and it felt good.

As he continued on, a boy with a baseball cap walked by on the other side of the road.
Gavin thought of the beautiful girl at the fight who had pretended to be a boy. He
wondered who she was and how she knew Hemingway, and then thought of his exchange
with the writer after the fight and found it unsettling. Gavin figured Hemingway was
showing off for the girl. He had guided her around with a protective air all night,
but Hemingway was married, and this girl looked at least ten years his junior.

It was no matter, he thought. He probably wouldn’t see either of them again.

When he arrived at the house, the lights were all out. He pulled the key out of the
knot in the wood under the porch and let himself in. Mutt came up to greet him, and
Gavin shushed him and scratched him between the ears. He heard deep, regular breathing
through the first door and proceeded to the guest room, where he quietly placed his
bag on the floor. He went into the bathroom to wash up before bed, and returned to
his room to put the money in his lockbox. He took quick inventory of it, pleased to
see he nearly had enough to buy into his uncle’s business so he could stop risking
his neck in the boxing rings and bridges of the Keys.

Bruises and injuries announced themselves in spots of heat on his torso and chin,
and Gavin knew sleep would help. He stripped down to nothing, and fell asleep with
the girl’s face on his mind.

Before Hemingway had placed his hand on her back, Mariella had felt compelled to stay
with Gavin. She felt inexplicably drawn to him and wanted to talk about the fight.
It was clear, though, that Papa wanted to leave, and she couldn’t resist him as he
guided her away.

As the noise from the boxing yard faded, Mariella could barely concentrate on walking.
The pressure of Papa’s hand on her lower back tingled on her skin and sent waves of
warmth out over her body. They didn’t speak on the walk to her house until they were
close to it.

“You’re entering the Cuban section,” said Mariella.

“I’d better hold on to my wallet,” he said, laughing at his own joke.

She gave him a chastising look and ignored the remark.

“My house is actually the dividing line between the white end of the street and the
Cuban end of the street,” she said.

“Your house is a mix.”

“Too bad, huh,” she said.

“What happened to your Cuban pride? Cubans are some of the proudest people I know.”

“Times have changed,” she said. “At least what’s left of my family makes people more
comfortable now.”

“How so?” he asked.

“With my dad gone, we’re just Cuban. That makes people feel better. They didn’t know
how to treat us when they thought of us as mixed.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“So now the whites can forget you’ve got their blood and just demote you to Cuban,”
said Papa, “and the Cubans can do the same and welcome you.”

Mariella nodded. She appreciated his frank talk.

“And you couldn’t give a damn either way,” he said.

She smiled. “Yup.”

They continued on in silence for a few moments; then he said, “You liked that vet.”

“I liked how he fought. I’m not ready to marry him.”

“Don’t get married for a long time. And don’t have kids, if you can help it.”

“Don’t plan on it,” she said.

“I will say I’ve always wanted a daughter. We were so disappointed when Greg came
out with a set.”

“Is that why you call all the ladies
daughter
?”

“Yes. But you’re my favorite.”

When they got to her house, he kissed her on the forehead.

“I had fun on our first date,” he said.

“Me, too.”

He turned to go. “I’m walking away so I’m not tempted to kiss you on the mouth,” he
called.

“Good thing, or you’d have a black eye,” she said.

He laughed and continued walking away, disappearing in the shadows.

Mariella stepped up to the door of her house with a smile on her face, thrilled to
have cash for the family and for her secret stash, and warm from something else: the
warmth of belonging. Aside from the fishermen at the dock, she hadn’t felt the goodness
of being part of a group in a long time. She’d watched Papa, his friends, and herself
reflected in the mirror behind the bar and thought that to any outsider, she looked
like she belonged with them. Hell, she felt like she belonged with them.

But something nagged at her beneath the warmth of new friendships.

The heat of Papa’s leg against hers.

The way he’d called her his girl.

The way he’d gotten jealous when she talked to the boxer.

And the shame she felt for wishing he’d given in to the temptation of kissing her
on the mouth before he left.

She pushed open the door, stepped into the darkness of the house, and slipped on a
shoe lying on the floor. She was annoyed that her mother hadn’t tidied the house and
hadn’t thought to leave on a light. Mariella cursed and caught herself on the wall,
and suddenly saw Eva sitting in her chair with only the light from the moon on her
face. The shadows on her cheekbones and in her deep-set eyes made her look skeletal.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” said Eva in slow, deliberate English.

Mariella knew that Eva must have seen her and Hemingway through the window, and thought
Mariella was drunk because she stumbled into the house. She knew her mother was imagining
all sorts of horrible things. She also knew, however, that the smell of alcohol on
her breath, the odor of stale cigarettes on her shirt, the wad of cash in her pocket,
and the scent of the hussy’s perfume, which clung stubbornly to her pants where the
dress had touched her, wouldn’t help her case.

She tried to keep her temper.

“Kinda hard to walk with stuff all over the floor,” said Mariella.

She began to walk down the hallway to her room when she heard her mother mutter, “Your
papa
would be so disappointed.”

Mariella felt an urge swell in her to strike Eva. She had never wanted to hurt anyone
as badly as she did her mother at that moment. She clenched her fists and strode across
the room, kicking toys and junk out of her path, forgetting the way she smelled, wanting
only to hurt Eva.

She grabbed the money from her pocket and threw it at her mother.

“Take it,” spat Mariella. She surprised even herself with her anger, but she couldn’t
stop. “Do you not want a roof over your head? Shall we stop calling the doctor? Stop
eating? Stop smoking?”

Eva stood and pushed her face into Mariella’s.

“¿Cómo pudiste?”

“How could I
what
?”

“¡Se trata de dinero sucio!”
Eva began to sob.

“Dirty money?” She grabbed her mother by the shoulders. “What do you think? Do you
think I sold myself to him? Do you think I’m a prostitute?”

Eva shook her head and put her hands over her ears.

“Well, guess what?” shouted Mariella.

Eva backed away and fell into her money-littered chair, still covering her ears. Mariella
pulled Eva’s hands away so she could hear.

Lulu’s sudden cry from the back room caused them both to turn their heads. The child
cried for a moment, breaking the spell of their anger, then stopped. Mariella let
go of her mother’s hands and backed away.

“Do you really think I’d sell my body?”

Eva sniffled but wouldn’t look at Mariella.

“Really?” said Mariella.

Eva curled her legs up under her and covered her face with her hands.

Mariella felt her rage boil, leaving a sharp, metallic taste like blood in the back
of her throat.