Hemingway's Girl (30 page)

The mood of the men pulling into the dock was much darker than when they’d left, particularly
Papa’s. His face was black with a scowl, and he complained about the lack of big fish.
He spouted off about how all the rich sons of bitches had overfished the island, apparently
excluding himself from the notorious group of which he spoke. Most of the guys were
amused by Papa’s tantrum, but Joe Knapp—a publisher from New York—was becoming increasingly
irritated by it. Cocktail hour on the dock was tense. So were dinner and drinks at
the bar afterward.

Mariella wanted to go to bed early, but couldn’t tear herself away from the action.
While Papa bragged about his usual fishing prowess, Knapp became more and more hostile.
It was clear that
the teasing had gone from good-natured to mean-spirited, and people were beginning
to emit bursts of nervous laughter while the men argued openly.

Finally, Mariella heard Knapp call Papa a “phony, fat slob,” saw Papa’s fists fly,
and before she knew it, Knapp was laid out on his back on the floor. It was deadly
quiet until the island men working the bar burst out in a ridiculous song about the
knockout. Knapp’s friends pulled him up and out to his boat while the song followed
them into the night.

Pauline shook her head at Papa. “I don’t understand you men, but I can’t take any
more,” she said. “Wife go sleep.” She walked out of the bar.

“Husband come for wife later,” called Papa, much to the amusement of his peers.

Mariella blushed. She finished her drink and turned to leave the room. Then Papa was
at her side.

“You didn’t say good night,” he said.

“I was afraid I’d get knocked out.”

He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “Good night, daughter.”

“Night,” she said. She turned to walk out, but he stopped her again.

“You might want to lock your door,” he said.

“Why?”

“Sleepwalking’s dangerous.” He winked at her and turned back to the bar.

Based on Papa’s comment about sleepwalking, Mariella knew he’d seen her at the window
that night, and she’d spent the following days trying to avoid him. When his birthday
arrived, however, he insisted she join him on a fishing excursion.

She helped Carlos load the
Pilar
that morning, while Ernest went to fetch his oldest son, Bumby, from the beach, where
he and the younger boys were turning over rocks in search of sea creatures.

Once he had the boy, Papa walked down the dock toward the boat, wearing his straw
hat and glasses. Patrick and Gregory chased him, begging to come. Bumby trailed with
what appeared to be a toy gun on his shoulder like a soldier.

“You’re too young,” said Papa to the little boys. “When you’re big like Bumby, you’ll
come with us.”

Patrick’s eyes darkened and he kicked at the dock. Gregory began to have a tantrum.

“I want to shoot the big gun,” said Gregory between sobs.

Papa ignored him and climbed onto the boat, followed by Bumby.

Mariella wondered why Papa didn’t just tell Bumby to give Gregory the toy gun. He
didn’t need a toy on the boat all day. On closer look, however, she realized it was
a real machine gun.

Gregory had his eyes closed and began to stomp his feet so hard, Mariella feared he’d
fall off the dock. She glanced down the pier, but Ada was nowhere in sight. She was
probably nursing a hangover.

While Papa and Carlos tested the lines and inventoried the fishing gear, Mariella
climbed back onto the dock and knelt down in front of Gregory, gently holding his
arms. He opened his eyes and quieted.

“If you’re a big boy and you stop crying, I’ll take you spearfishing when we get back,”
she said.

He thought about this for a moment and then nodded, suddenly overtaken by a bout of
hiccups.

“Promise,” he said.

“I promise.”

He smiled a little smile at Mariella, and looked at the boat one last time. Once Papa
was turned safely away from him, Gregory stuck out his tongue and ran to catch up
with Patrick, who was already back on the beach. Mariella smiled after him and returned
to the boat.

“Where did you get that?” asked Mariella, pointing at the gun.

“Bought it off some rich bastard,” said Papa.

“When?”

“Couple months back.”

“How come I’ve never seen it?”

“It’s the first time you’ve gone fishing with me here.”

“I can’t believe I haven’t heard you mention it.”

“Well, I pissed off Strater before he left,” he said. “He’d hooked a big marlin and
I was shooting the sharks to keep them away. The blood made them go nuts and they
chewed up his fish.”

“So you didn’t want to rub it in around him.”

“Bingo.”

“That showed an amazing amount of sensitivity on your part,” said Mariella, impressed.

“I can be sensitive,” he said.

There was a splash off the starboard side of the boat, and Bumby swung the gun around
toward it, passing Carlos in the arc. Mariella gasped, but Papa just knocked the boy
on the head. “Watch it.”

“Sorry, Papa,” he said.

Mariella looked at Carlos and raised her eyebrows, shocked that that was all the reprimand
the boy got for being careless with a gun. He could have killed Carlos. Carlos just
shook his head back at her and started the boat out toward the Gulf Stream.

Papa sat holding a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, a gun leaning against his chest,
and his son resting against his legs on the floor. Mariella found a camera on board
and snapped a picture of the man, his boy, his booze, and his gun.

“Should I send this to
Life
magazine?” said Mariella.

Papa snorted.

“I can see the caption,” she said. “‘Legendary Author Balks at Safety for Sport.’”

“Just don’t let Mama see it,” said Papa.

“Mama wouldn’t mind,” said Bumby.

“I mean Mama Pauline, not Mama Hadley,” he said.

“Ah,” said the boy. “Mama P would mind very much.”

Papa ruffled the boy’s hair and stared out at sea.

“Too many people trying to make damned sissies out of boys nowadays,” said Papa moodily.
“Don’t teach ’em to hunt, don’t teach ’em to swear—hell, we’ll all be wearing skirts
when they’re done with us.”

“Not me!” said Bumby. “I want to be just like you.”

Mariella looked at Papa, and he smiled at the boy with great affection. “You’re better
than me, Bumby, because you’ve got a lot of your mother in you.”

The boy didn’t know what to say to that, but he looked up at his father with adoring
eyes. Mariella again found herself confused over Papa’s continued esteem for his first
wife, Hadley. It sometimes seemed that he had more kindness and affection for her
than he did for Pauline.

A tug on the line jerked Mariella from her thoughts.

Papa jumped and grabbed the pole just as a great marlin jumped from the water. Carlos
ran to the edge of the boat with Mariella and Bumby.

“¡Puta madre!”
said Carlos.

Mariella laughed at the expletive from the slight, sweet man while he shrugged sheepishly.
She was taken aback when Papa yelled to Bumby to grab the gun and shoot the sharks
while he tried to control the pole. She didn’t feel comfortable with the boy in charge
of the gun, but didn’t think it was her place to interfere.

As Papa reeled and pulled, reeled and pulled, his white shirt stuck to his body, outlining
his back muscles. Mariella admired his strength and wished she could handle such a
feat.

Bumby wasn’t a bad aim, and his shots appeared to deter the sharks, but also spooked
the fish. It leaped fully out of the water again, and Mariella gasped at the sheer
magnificence of it.

It took a tremendous effort on Papa’s part, but he was finally able to pull it close
to the boat. When he got it near enough, Papa handed the pole to Carlos. Against such
a slight man, the weight and strength of the fish were clear, and Mariella was glad
she hadn’t made an attempt. If she had lost the fish, she couldn’t have stood it.

It took Carlos everything he had in him to hold the marlin close to the boat. Papa
picked up a harpoon and raised it high in the air, pausing for a moment while the
sun gleamed on the dart. With a sudden flash of movement, Papa brought the harpoon
down into the heart of the fish. It twitched and shuddered, and then it died.

They all stood in awe of it—its great silver belly facing the sky. Its gills were
open and the light in its eyes had gone. They gave it respect through a moment of
silence. Finally, Papa spoke up.

“Let’s get this thing back before the sharks find out about it,” he said.

The idlers at the dock buzzed like flies around the fish while Carlos and some of
the stronger men strung it up. It weighed 540 pounds—a record size. It hung next to
the other marlin Papa had caught over the last few days, and they all took turns posing
for photos with it.

When Papa found out that the locals didn’t want the meat, his mood soured. He complained
that he didn’t like killing for killing’s sake, and that they didn’t have proper respect
for the animal. He insulted the men at the dock with racial slurs that made Mariella
cringe and darkened the men’s eyes. She could tell that Papa was no longer in their
good graces, though he didn’t seem to care.

That night at the rum bar, Mariella watched Papa while she smoked. He still complained
about the locals, but spent more time entertaining his audience with tales of the
fish that grew more dramatic with each retelling. As she stubbed out her third cigarette,
she acknowledged her increasing disdain for him. His endless boasting around the rich
men; his foul, racist language; his complaints about critics; his overblown stories
of game hunting in Africa; his flirtation with Jinny. The way he got off on Mariella’s
attraction for him around his wife. It diminished him. He used to seem so authentic,
but lately she found him replaced by a sunburned, overfed legend of his own making.
She felt strongly that he was in character, forever trying to hold up his image for
the men around him.

Katy called to Mariella, motioning for her to join her and Dos on the outside porch,
and Mariella was happy to do so. They sat drinking in the shadows, watching the boys
play in the sand. Mariella passed around her cigarettes and lit one while she regarded
the children, who were clearly enjoying the thrill of staying up past their bedtimes.

“Why aren’t you two inside listening to fish stories?” asked Mariella, a wry smile
on her lips. She enjoyed the companionship of the Dos Passoses and that they could
speak openly with one another.

“Please,” said Katy. “I’m about worn-out on Papa for the summer.”

“Yes,” said John. “Katy can only take him in small doses these days.”

Mariella nodded. She knew what he meant.

“He doesn’t seem to wear
you
out,” said Katy to Mariella.

Mariella flicked her eyes to Katy and then back to the boys. Though her tone was playful,
what was under it troubled Mariella. She didn’t want anyone to notice her interest
in Papa.