Hemingway's Girl (39 page)

U. S. Weather Bureau Bulletin
Saturday, August 31, 1935

Mariella was frustrated to be working on her day off, preparing the house for Pauline’s
Labor Day picnic, but at least she’d make extra money.

She stood in the dining room polishing the walnut table and chairs. The set was a
fine piece from a Spanish monastery that Pauline had shipped with the great iron gate
she’d turned into a headboard. Mariella ran her hand over the smooth, dark surface
of the table, and imagined the Spanish monks who’d sat at it. The rag made a soft
swishing sound on the wood as Mariella made great, sweeping circles. The first layer
of polish obscured her reflection on the surface. The second swipe with the dry cloth
pulled off the polish and returned her reflection.

Papa’s whispered voice came in from the other room, followed by Pauline’s. Mariella
moved toward the door so she could hear them a little better.

“Come on,” he said.

There was a low laugh, followed by the sound of a slap.

“Stop it. There are people everywhere.”

“The boys and Ada are gone.”

“The rest of them?”

“Jim’s outside. Isabelle’s at the market. Toby’s working on the car.”

“Mariella?” she hissed.

Mariella stiffened when she heard her name, and tiptoed back to the far side of the
dining room with her stomach doing somersaults. She could still hear them kissing,
but Pauline must have pulled away again.

“Stop.”

It was quiet for a moment; then Mariella heard ice clink in a glass. Someone set the
glass down on the table with force. She knew it was Papa.

“All excuses,” he said. His voice was bitter.

“What—you expect to take me here on the carpet in broad daylight with the help moving
about the house?”

“Excuses,” he repeated. “That wasn’t an issue last night, or the night before that,
or the night before that.”

“I had a headache.”

“Bullshit,” he said.

It was quiet again. Mariella heard sniffing and knew Pauline was crying.

“The doctor said another baby would kill me,” she said.

“Then I’ll use a rubber, for Christ’s sake!”

“You know I’m Catholic!”

He snorted. “When it suits you.”

Mariella cringed. God, he could be cruel.

“Bastard,” said Pauline. Mariella heard Pauline run up the stairs.

She wiped off the last of the polish, walked into the kitchen, and threw the towels
in the basket by the door. Mariella began washing dishes, troubled by what she’d heard.

She felt a hand on her back and jumped.

Papa.

She burned and knew she must have been red from head to toe.

“Hot in here,” he said.

She felt his breath on her neck and could smell the booze. What was he doing? Her
heart pounded, and she dropped the dishrag she’d been holding into the pot. She felt
dizzy and had to break the tension.

“Can I get you another drink?” she stammered.

She felt him lean into her back. He reached around her and turned off the water she’d
left running. A great soapy mass had grown from the top of the pot in the sink. He
pushed farther into her back. Mariella stood frozen in a mess of fear and unwelcome
desire. Finally he pulled away. She put her hands on the edge of the sink and didn’t
turn to face him.

A movement in the doorway caught her eye. It was Pauline.

My God, had she seen?

“I think I’ll go to Josie’s for a drink,” he said.

Mariella didn’t breathe until she heard the front door slam. Then she picked up the
pot and dumped the soapy water down the drain. Pauline continued to stand there without
speaking. Finally Mariella worked up the courage to look at her.

Pauline’s chest heaved, and her eyes were swollen from crying. Her arms were crossed
under her chest. She looked more defeated than angry.

Mariella managed to find her voice. “Would you like a drink, Mrs. Hemingway? Maybe
some tea?”

Pauline shook her head.

“How about a snack?” said Mariella. “I could bring it out to you on the porch.”

Pauline sighed and looked out the window. Mariella followed her gaze to the backyard,
where leaves blew in the wind and clouds covered the landscape in shadows.

“Can I get you anything?” asked Mariella, eager for Pauline to either leave or yell
at her instead of standing there in tense silence.

Pauline finally spoke.

“I want my marriage back.”

Gavin didn’t like the look of it. He smoked and watched the waves roll in toward the
shore, large, slow, and deliberate. Usually the water lapped small and quick on the
sand.

The recent article in the
Key Veteran News
about the possibility of the camps getting closed was also on his mind. It cited
an article in
Time
magazine that the vets were a bunch of alcoholic derelicts. A group of them staggered
by, hungover from drinking away their paychecks the night before, and Gavin rolled
his eyes. Yes, many of them were drunks, but could you blame them? Bonus Marchers
looking for work where there was none, shipped off to a lonely, mosquito-infested
island to live in dirty tents and shacks and do dangerous work, seventy feet above
shark-infested water, in tropical heat.

Gavin shook his head. He didn’t want to think about Bonus Marchers, or Roosevelt,
or shabby working conditions. He just wanted to get to Key West to see Mariella. He
had missed the ferry last night because Sheeran wanted help securing floating construction
materials. Sheeran didn’t want to take any chances on losing thousands of dollars’
worth of equipment with a storm on the way.

Gavin started back toward his shack in camp three to pack when something strange caught
his eye. He walked toward the narrow road that ran between the gulf and the ocean
to see what
was moving over the pavement. As he got closer he saw crabs—hundreds of crabs—scurrying
out from the ocean side of the straits of Florida, over the highway, and into the
gulf side. First he smiled at the sight, but then it occurred to him that they were
trying to get away from something. He looked out over the water and watched the huge
waves lumbering into shore under a sky of high, wispy cirrus clouds. A car drove by,
crushing crabs beneath its tires with a wet, crunching sound.

When Gavin got back to camp the air was buzzing. He stopped a vet whom he recognized
as an artist for the
Key Veteran News
, and asked what was going on.

“Looks like we’ll get to see a hurricane in the next day or so,” he said, not masking
his excitement. Then he disappeared into camp.

Gavin saw Sheeran hurrying over to the offices and ran to catch him.

“Bad news?” said Gavin.

Sheeran was sixty-five and out of breath. His forehead was creased with lines of worry,
and sweat bled through his shirt.

“We’re not getting missed on this one,” said Sheeran.

“What can I do?” asked Gavin.

“Stay here and help me. We need to make sure our guys stay sober and ready for whatever
comes our way.”

“Maybe it’ll miss us.”

“Maybe it won’t,” said Sheeran. “And if it doesn’t, well, I saw what happened in ’oh-six,
and I assure you, you’d rather be at Argonne Forest. Now go start persuading some
of the families to leave. I’ve got a meeting.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gavin was devastated that he wouldn’t be able to get to Key West. He knew Mariella
would be, too, so he ran to the post office to send her a telegram. It would be worse
if he just didn’t show up without sending word. After he sent the telegram, he headed
over to the family shacks to warn them about the storm.

Key West
Sunday, September 1, 1935

Mariella helped Jim hold the boards to the window while Toby nailed them down. When
they finished the side windows, they moved around to the front of the house and rotated
duties.

Mariella started banging until she heard Pauline shouting.

She turned and saw Pauline coming up the walk with Gregory, Patrick, and Ada. The
boys ran in the house with Ada at their heels to remove their church clothes, but
Pauline stood in the front yard. Her face was dark.

“Is all this really necessary?” she asked. “The paper said it was just a tropical
disturbance.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Toby. “Papa plotted it out last night and said the barometer’s
dropping. It could be a bad one.”

“Of course it has to come when I’m supposed to have a picnic,” she said.

Papa walked out the front door. “You can forget your picnic.”

“I’ve already bought all the food,” she said. “Isabelle and Mariella have been working
overtime helping with preparations.”

“Well, now they’re working overtime to help prepare for the storm.”

“We can have a storm party,” said Pauline.

“Yes, with Mariella’s family,” said Papa. “I told her to bring them over if it gets
bad.”

Pauline pursed her lips and crossed her arms over her chest.

Mariella looked from Pauline to Papa. She had told him that her family would be safe
at John’s. Did he deliberately say this to Pauline to provoke her?

“Now, if you’re done with your little tantrum, I’ve got to see to
Pilar,
” said Papa. “Mariella, come with me.”

Mariella passed the hammer to Jim with her stomach roiling. Why was Papa using her
as a pawn in his game with Pauline when she was already on such slippery footing?

Pauline stormed into the house mumbling about the boat being more important than she
was, and something about a half-Cuban boardinghouse. Mariella’s nervous energy turned
to anger, and she stepped off the porch to join Papa.

The sky was gray, and the rain stopped and started in little bursts. The lighthouse
had two red lanterns hanging one on top of the other. People up and down the street
were out on ladders hammering boards over their windows and clearing their yards.
Other than the noise of preparation, it was eerily silent.