Hillary Kanter - Dead Men Are Easy To Love (3 page)

When Hadley left for the ladies’ room after our third round of daiquiris, Ernest pulled my face close with both hands and kissed me. Full on the lips!

And I kissed him back. I’m not proud to say it.

His kiss was unlike any I had ever experienced, and lasted for what seemed a full minute. I do offer this one disclaimer, which I can never again offer as a credible excuse for my behavior: I was drunk. Of course, as a grown adult, the excuse of not being able to “hold one’s liquor” only holds so much water.

When Hadley returned, I prayed she would stay. By the way Ernest was looking at me, and by the flush of heat on my face, it was hard to believe she did not notice what was brewing. Maybe she was too drunk, as well.

My prayer went unanswered, and twenty minutes later she excused herself again. If I didn’t know any better, I might’ve thought she was purposely letting Ernest lead me on while she took all those trips to the bathroom—instead of the more likely reason that she had a small bladder.

Ernest’s lips met mine a second time. Under the table, his hand rested on my bare thigh, even as an attractive, muscular, blond man walked by. I looked only because Ernest did.

“Now,” he said, “if I were a woman, that’s the kind of man I’d like.”

Then he kissed me a third time.

Looking into his eyes as he removed his mouth from mine, I said, “What are we doing?” I shook my head. “What are we doing?” I said again.

He ignored my confused look and questions, and whispered in my ear, “Do you want me to come to your room tonight?”

In a trance, I heard myself say: “Yes.”

Walking home around 11:00 p.m., I was amazed that none of us fell in the street. Ernest eased himself onto the living room couch, then passed out. Thank God, I thought, relieved of my dilemma—and my guilt.

Hadley glanced over. “Oh, there he goes again. I guess it’s another night on the couch for
him
, and another night sleeping alone for
me
.”

I felt bad for her. From my literary training, I knew Ernest was an alcoholic, and his blacked-out form on the couch did nothing to convince me otherwise. Already their relationship looked to be in trouble—even if Hadley was in denial about it.

I hugged her, said goodnight, then locked myself in my bedroom so as not to tempt fate.

Fate. It crouched outside my door, staring, hiding in the shadows like that dead leopard on the floor downstairs, only this one was
alive
and waiting to pounce. Yes, fate—
my
fate—was a brilliant, charismatic man’s man … and a ladies’ man … by the name of Ernest Hemingway.

His kiss stayed with me all night as I wrestled with my covers and my conscience. I was lonelier than I had realized. My love life, which lately had ranged from nil to nonexistent, was as dry as a desert, and left a void as deep and wide as the Grand Canyon.

Tonight I felt a flooding rain inside, the kind that builds in the clouds for too long, then suddenly falls and drenches you to the bone. I let that water run down my face, baptizing me. And every time I blinked it from my eyes, I saw Ernest standing before me.

***

By the sober light of morning, I was happy to hear that Ernest had risen early and gone fishing with a friend. I was embarrassed by my doings of the evening before, afraid to face him by the light of day. I was resolute that something like that should never happen again.

Resolute!

After breakfast, Hadley and I grabbed bicycles with wicker baskets, filled them with sandwiches, and headed for the beach. It was a hot sunny day, with a soft trade-wind blowing in from the south, and I was happy to spend time with my new friend.

“I hope Ernest is catching loads of fish,” she said. “He comes back so happy when he’s had a good day of fishing. I swear, I think he loves his fishing even more than he loves me, or the baby …
or
his writing.” Forehead wrinkling, she stared out at the water.

“Why do you say that, Hadley? I thought you two were in love.”

“Well, I’m not so sure.” She took a long, ragged breath. “If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone?”

“Of course.” My stomach churned, and it was not acid reflux.

“I don’t think Ernest loves me anymore. There is someone else. And I think she’s in New York. He goes up there a lot, and even though he says he’s visiting his publisher, he doesn’t need to go nearly as often as he says he does. I’ve also heard the rumors, from reliable sources. He’s been seen out with someone else.”

“Are you sure?”

“Friends told me,” she whispered. Her face became an ocean of sadness, and her brown eyes turned blue. “What am I going to do if he leaves me?”

I was confused. What sort of man was I dealing with here? Ernest was a very sexual being—it only took a minute to figure that out—and I didn’t want to hear about these suspicions. Sure, I felt sorry for Hadley, but I had some strong feelings of my own for the man.

“It’s such a dreary thought,” she said, dragging me toward the water. “Let’s forget about it all, and go for a swim.”

***

Ernest walked in, grinning from ear to ear. “I caught five dolphin, a sailfish, and three red snappers. The sailfish was a beauty, a five-and-a-half-footer, even larger than the one I caught last week.”

“I’m so happy for you, darling,” Hadley said.

Fixing me in his gaze, he said, “Speaking of beauties, what have you two been doing all day?”

“We had a lovely time at the beach. It was perfect,” I said.

“I’m glad. Hey, why don’t I make us drinks, while Tallulah fries these fish up for dinner.”

Dinner was excellent but as we finished our meal, a knock came at the door. It was Western Union with a wire for Hadley. Ernest and I exchanged glances. From the crestfallen look on Hadley’s face, we knew it was not good news. She set the message on the table for us, unable to read it aloud.

Come home at once. Stop. Your father is back in the hospital and it is not looking good. Stop. Love, Mother. Stop.

Hadley lifted her head, seeming to summon new courage. She said, “I’ve got to go to St. Louis. I’ll try to get a train out early tomorrow morning. I’ll take Bumby with me.”

That, I realized, would leave me alone with Mr. Hemingway.

“Well then,” I said to Hadley, flustered, “I guess I should make my own train reservation, so that I can leave when you do.”

Her thoughts were elsewhere, and she offered no reply.

Ernest simply raised an eyebrow, as if to question my sincerity.

After the dishes had been cleared, Hadley called to check the train schedule. I would have jumped on the Internet to do that sort of thing, but of course, in
this
world, there was no such thing. We were dismayed to learn there was only one seat left on Hadley’s train, and none on the only other Key West departure till the following day.

“I, uh … I can book a room for tomorrow night at that boardinghouse down the street,” I said.

Hadley nodded. “Well, I’m exhausted and going to bed. Are you coming, honey?” she said to her husband, with a hint of irritation.

Ernest looked at me and raised his other eyebrow.

I was troubled. I had to admit to myself, if to no one else, that there was a treacherous road between my head and heart that few men ever traveled. Those who did so did not remain on it for long. Now Ernest was on that road, with all its potholes, soft shoulders, and obstructions, and my brain was spinning its wheels, wearing deep muddy tracks in that same soil.

I thought of a quote of his I’d read somewhere:
All things truly wicked start from innocence.

***

We awoke to another clear, perfect day. Ernest and I took Hadley and the baby to the station before 8:00 a.m.

“Ariel,” Hadley said, “I am so sorry I have to leave like this. We were having so much fun, and I feel terrible running out on you.”

“You mustn’t worry about that right now,” I said.

“Call me as soon as you know how your father is,” Ernest added, as he helped his wife and son board the train for the two-day journey to St. Louis.

I wished I could leave too. I was torn between doing what
was
right and what
felt
right—even though it was wrong
.
I knew I was falling for Ernest, and falling fast, without a parachute. The ground was screaming up toward me, meaning that my wildest dreams and worst nightmares were about to be one and the same.

As we left the station, Ernest touched my arm. “Let’s go have some breakfast. And then, what do you think about the beach?”

“Aren’t you writing today?”

“No. What, do you want me to?” he said, flashing a flirtatious smile. “I was thinking of taking the day off. I could take you fishing. I know you’d love it, and a friend of mine has a good boat.”

“I’d love to go,” I said. “But I’m afraid I’m not much of a fisherwoman.”

“‘Fisherwoman’? Never heard that before. I like it. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, Ariel. You leave it to me, and I’ll teach you.”

“Maybe we could go to the beach afterwards.”

Another smile. “Now that sounds like a plan.”

I kicked myself for inviting trouble yet again, but I was on autopilot.

We returned to Whitehead Street, where Tallulah made us eggs, bacon and freshly squeezed orange juice. After grabbing his fishing rod and loaning me Hadley’s, Ernest took me to meet Eddie Saunders, his fishing buddy with the boat.

Eddie’s nickname was Bra. He was a salty old guy, who’d spent one too many days in the sun. His face was leathered and beaten, his beard coarse, his hands callused from working the lines. I do not think Bra had a clue that Ernest was becoming one of the great American authors. He saw him simply as a man who loved to fish, and was enamored of him, as many a sportsman was and always would be.

After introductions, we boarded the 34-foot boat. Two fishing chairs crouched in the stern, and the straps on them puzzled me.

“Those are so if you hook into a really big one, missy, you’re buckled in and you don’t get yanked overboard,” Bra said, as we headed through the narrow channel into the open waters of the Atlantic.

The winds were calm, the ocean’s surface smooth. Seagulls escorted us beneath wispy clouds that swirled like the cream in my morning coffee. Within an hour of cutting up baitfish and throwing out several lines, Ernest hooked the first of two barracuda, and I shuddered at the sight of the vicious, ugly creature with its gnashing, razor-sharp teeth.

“You want to be careful around those teeth,” he said, nudging me back.

There was no removing the hook. That was far too dangerous. Ernest solved the problem by cutting the line and leaving it in. He then clubbed the fish with a metal gaff.

I winced. “Why’d you do that?” Being an animal advocate, I hated to see him kill a creature, even a nasty one like that.

“There are plenty to go around out there, and we can use this one for more bait.”

He was excited when I hooked into a six-foot marlin a few minutes later. Though I handled five or six jumps, I had zero fishing experience, and wondered how long this fight would last.

“Patience is the key, with this as with all things,” Ernest said.

When I was so exhausted that patience meant nothing to me, I handed the rod over so he could land the damn fish. Bra maneuvered the boat backward to take up the slack in the line, but the minute the great fish got up to the boat it dove back under again. This happened enough times that I was sure the marlin would break the line and escape. Ernest, however, knew what he was doing and reeled it in to our enthusiastic applause.

“Ariel,” he said, “you caught the biggest one I’ve seen in a long time.”

“I’m afraid it’s
you
who really caught it.”

“No, you hooked him, so you caught him.”

“No,
you did.”

“No, you did.”

“Okay … so I did. Satisfied?”

He nodded.

“Anyway,” I said, “how do you even know it’s a ‘he’?” I looked under “his” tail for proof, but found none.

The sun was high in the sky, beating down on us. I plopped myself beneath the boat’s canvas canopy, and Ernest went below to the galley, fetching cold Cokes and a bottle of rum from the cooler.

“Here you go,” he said. “Drink up. Enjoy. You earned it.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Bra, would you like one?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Gulping his down, Ernest glanced at his watch. I saw that it was almost three o’clock. “If we want to swim, we’d better go to the beach before it gets much later,” he said.

Back at the dock, Bra secured the boat, and we thanked him for a wonderful day before setting off on foot. I thought about how attractive Ernest was. I felt his attraction to me had also been growing steadily since my arrival in Key West.

Down here the population was mostly male. People paid little attention to what others did or did not do, and they seemed more or less oblivious to impropriety. This all worked in Ernest’s favor. He had a bit of a reputation, hanging out at Sloppy Joe’s Bar—with or without Hadley—and he could certainly throw back a few drinks and carry on. As they say: “What goes on in Key West stays in Key West.”

Later, I would hope this was true—for his sake and mine.

We reached an expanse of yellow sand, and I held up my swimsuit. “Ernest, where can I put this on? Is there a restroom somewhere?”

“You see that bunch of trees over there?” He pointed to a spot about fifty feet away.

“You must be kidding.”

He grinned. “If you go behind them, I promise I won’t look.”

I changed hurriedly, glancing over my shoulder all the while to be sure he kept his word. When I walked back into view, he let out a low whistle.

“Ariel, if I had known how good you looked in a bathing suit, I would’ve come to the beach with you and Hadley yesterday instead of going fishing.”

I tried to ignore that one.

The water was crystal clear, with a hint of whitecaps beyond the reef. The sun turned the milky sand so hot that it felt like it was burning holes in my feet.

“Owwww!” I cried, hopping from foot to foot.