No Relation (14 page)

I leaned down and turned on the radio, for old times’ sake. It took a minute for the tubes to warm up, but soon the faint strains of music drifted down from the speaker still stationed atop the window frame.

My father had left me a brand-new Hemmingwear two-pack on the desk in my size. I wasn’t sure if he were just showing me the new packaging design or giving me two free pairs of underwear. I assumed he was killing two birds with one stone,
so I pulled on a new pair. Very comfortable, and I’m not just boosting the brand. One of the reasons Hemmingwear has hung around for so long in a competitive market, where longevity is quite rare, is that the underwear just feels so good when you pull it on. What a surprise! A timeless and simple formula that still works. Product quality and comfort sell underwear.

Sarah had left for a dinner by the time I’d emerged from my little encounter with my father the day before, so we’d arranged to meet at a Starbucks not far away on Saturday morning. She lived in a very nice condo about a ten-minute drive from the family homestead. True to form, my father had risen and left for the office before I had even stirred. Just another Saturday morning for EH3, which was just about the same as any other morning of the week. I confess I was a little relieved to find myself all alone in the family kitchen when I finally made it downstairs.

When I met Sarah an hour later, she was peeking through the front window of the Starbucks. She saw my approach reflected in the glass and turned.

“We’ll just stand here and wait for a minute. Trust me,” she said.

“Why don’t we just go insi – ”

She held up a Stop-sign hand.

“Bear with me and just stay where you are. It won’t be long.”

Two seconds later the front door opened and a rather large, older woman dressed in what Sarah told me later was a Lululemon outfit of some kind intended for someone with much less … dimension. Following her out the door were her two tiny
long-haired dachshunds. They weren’t much bigger than large hamsters. I actually like hamsters. But these were dogs, small dogs, and that made all the difference in the world. I took two quick steps away from the door, giving them a wide berth.

“Okay, the coast is clear,” Sarah said as she held the door for me.

“That was very considerate of you,” I replied. “Thank you.”

“No worries,” she replied. “Haven’t you and Dr. What’s-her-name figured out your small-dog phobia yet?”

“Well, so far, we’ve determined that I have an irrational fear of small dogs, and should avoid them at all costs. We haven’t exactly cracked the ‘why’ yet.”

“Such penetrating analysis. She obviously can see right inside your mind. I now totally get why you see her twice a week.”

“Nice.”

“I really think you should ask Dad. He might have some insight. I can ask him if you like,” offered Sarah.

“No, don’t do that. He already thinks I’m a bit twisted. I really would rather he not know that I’m also still terrified of tiny, harmless dogs,” I said. “I just don’t think that would help strengthen our relationship right now.”

“Okay, fine,” she said, holding her hands up in surrender. “So enough about you. How was your little chat with Dad? Can I pack up my office and move down the hall? I thought he might call me last night, but the radio silence continued.”

“Well, I’m not sure you should be picking out paint chips just yet,” I said. “No matter how clearly I stated my case, he hasn’t
yet abandoned the idea of me taking over. I used direct sentences that I thought left virtually no room for misunderstanding or misinterpretation. For instance, at one point I believe I said something like:

“ ‘Dad, I have no desire and no plan to return to Chicago to take over your position, notwithstanding family tradition. I’m not equipped for the role. I have no interest in the role. It wouldn’t be good for the company if I were to take on the role. I have other plans. Sarah is the much better choice, and she’s just as much a Hemmingway as I am.’ Or words to that effect.

“I don’t think I could have been any clearer. I was quite purposely using English as a blunt instrument. Yet, somehow, he came back with:

“ ‘So you’re still thinking it over.’

“I’m not making this up,” I assured her.

“I know. I’ve seen it, too. It’s a blind spot, all right.”

“Oh, I think you’re shortchanging it to call it a blind spot,” I commented. “It’s much bigger than a ‘spot.’ ”

“Okay, okay. But what did he say when you suggested I might be the answer?”

“Well, here’s the thing. I made a very strong case to move you into a leadership role with the ultimate goal of you taking over. I talked about how brilliant and tough and dedicated you are. I told him you’re so much better prepared to do this than I ever will be. And that this is your dream.”

“But …” she prodded.

“But he’s not convinced you’re ready.”

“Yeah, well, he’d say I was ready if I had a penis,” she blurted.

“Uh boy, here we go,” I said in mid-wince. “Sarah, why don’t you stand up and shout that a little louder. The woman who just headed into the bathroom may not have caught that.”

Sarah was not happy after I briefed her fully on my session with Dad. Not happy at all. We sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Okay, so tell me in a nutshell, what is your grand vision to ensure Hemmingwear’s prosperity and stave off the very aggressive folks from MaxWorldCorp?”

Sarah sighed.

“You really want to hear this?”

“I really want to hear this,” I replied, not wanting in the least to hear this. “Actually, it’s the last thing I want to hear, but if we’re going to crack this nut together, I’d better be in the loop on your vision.”

“Okay, in a nutshell, for this plan to work, we need to violate one of the sacred operating principles Dad has clung to for far too long,” Sarah said. “For the first time in Hemmingwear’s history, we spice up the waistbands with better branding and a little colour, and then we add a new product line. Hemmingwear for women.”

I turned her statement over in my mind, and each time I came to the same conclusion. Yes, she really had just proposed that Hemmingwear start manufacturing women’s underwear. Breathtaking.

“Are you deranged? You know exactly how Dad would react. He’d sooner approve a coffee table book on the history of the wedgie in America than give the go-ahead to make women’s underwear. You know that!”

“Well, if we can’t pull his head from his ass, we’ll miss the boat and Hemmingwear will limp along until MaxWorldCorp swoops down and makes Dad an offer he’ll no longer be in a position to refuse.”

“But what about the efficiency argument? Can we get the economies of scale we need if we double our product line?”

“Look, Hem, think it through. We’ve got two big, but separate and parallel, manufacturing lines. Both lines operate independently of the other and are at full capacity for two shifts each day. So we add a third shift on Line 2 and run the women’s product there overnight, reverting to men’s for the two daytime shifts. There should be no loss in efficiency or productivity. We’ll be creating another shift’s worth of new jobs. We’re paying the overhead on the manufacturing lines anyway, so why not spread them out over an additional shift? It actually lowers our per-unit costs. If the women’s product takes off as I think it will, we still have the potential to run a third overnight shift on the other line without affecting the dayshift production of the men’s product. And we’ll be introducing a comfortable, trusted product to what is essentially an untapped market for us. Women want comfortable underwear, too. That’s the path to prosperity and sustained market leadership.”

There was silence between us for a time as I considered her bold initiative.

“Well, that’s some ambitious plan you’ve got. But before we can get there, we need to cook up an even more ambitious plan for removing our father’s head from his ass.”

When I finally stepped back into my apartment Saturday night, I was eager to put Chicago behind me and get back to work on the novel. I pulled on my favourite sweats and my L.L. Bean flannel shirt. It’s what I always wore when working on the novel. I had to be comfortable. Then I fired up my laptop and opened my manuscript to where I’d last left off. You know, Chapter 12. Then, despite my desire and best intentions, I simply stared at the screen. Finally, I managed to bang out a few sentences, but they were terrible, really quite bad. So I deleted them. I wish the delete key worked on Hemingway’s ghost. Alas, no. On a whim, I grabbed every Hemingway book I owned from my bookshelves, stuffed them in an empty box I found in the closet, and took them down to my storage locker in the basement. Perhaps his ghost lives in his books. I felt better when I sat back down at my laptop. But still, no words. I left a message for Madelaine Scott.

“What makes you think Hemingway’s ghost is to blame?” Dr. Scott asked as I sat across from her.

“He just seems the most likely suspect,” I replied. “I mean, I have no personal connection to the ghosts of F. Scott Fitzgerald or Ezra Pound, now do I?”

“Let me try again. What I’m asking is, don’t you think that all on your own, you might be capable of failing to write, of being blocked, without any spectral assistance?”

“I suppose it’s possible, but I much prefer the scenario where I’m haunted by Hemingway. That’s just what it feels like. He hovers around me, trying to turn my long, flowing, ornate sentences into his simple, barren, boring, First Grade reader prose.”

“So resist him. Ignore him. Focus on your story, block out everything else, and write.”

“What a revelation! What an innovation! What an epiphany! If only I’d thought of that,” I mocked. “Sorry, Doc, I’m kidding.
It’s just that, I’ve been trying to use my powers of concentration for six weeks now, to no avail. That’s why I’m here. The mind-over-matter gambit isn’t doing it for me.”

“Mind over matter? Are you saying there’s a physical presence with you in the room?”

“If I say yes, are you forced to send me to Bellevue?”

“Of course not. I’m just trying to understand what you’re experiencing,” she assured me.

“It’s not a physical presence. It’s just a feeling that Hemingway is not a fan of my writing and is trying to disrupt it by messing with my head. Does that make sense?”

“I’m really not the one who has to make sense of it, but I think I understand what you’re saying,” she said and then paused before continuing. “However, beyond the fact that I tend not to believe in ghosts as a general rule, I’m not convinced that there isn’t a more earthly explanation. We just have to find the right questions that will draw it out from between your ears.”

We kicked it around for another twenty minutes or so before the session was over. I didn’t feel any closer to an answer. I just wanted to be able to write.

Most of them were there already when I arrived. Some even had ball gloves with them and most wore running shoes. I put the cardboard box I’d carried in with me on the floor next to my chair.

“Hi, Hem. Have a cookie.” Jackie Kennedy passed the tin my way.

“Jackie, you’ve outdone yourself. Oatmeal raisin, my favourite.”

She beamed. Everyone else in the room was busy chewing on what really were outstanding cookies.

“I have butterscotch too, Mr. Hemmingway with two Ms, if you like.”

“Thank you, Hat. I don’t mind if I do,” I said as I took the candy he proffered. “Now remember, we have a game in an hour, so let’s not eat ourselves into a coma just before we’re supposed to take the field.”

Five minutes later, everyone had arrived. We had perfect attendance. Marie gave me a little wave and a big smile when she hustled in.

“Okay, we probably only have about forty minutes before we should head to the park. So let’s get started. I thought what we might do this evening, if you’ll indulge me, is to talk about the various categories there might be of people who live with famous names. I’ve been thinking about this for a while now and maybe it’s helped me come to grips with all of this. So bear with me as I go down my list. Then we can talk about them and add some others if we can think of any more. Okay, see what you think of these.”