Like the threatening phone call she had received earlier in the morning—received alone—Hannah had only her own word to stand on. Only she could vouch that she had received the call, and only she had seen their seeming stalker in the Impala.
Hannah’s word seemed insubstantial measured against Richard’s stubborn memory of Hannah’s mental history. She sighed and climbed up the driveway behind her husband, trying to put the phone call and their stalker out of her mind as she made her way up the hill to Hemingway’s death house. Up the hill to Papa’s last wife.
BOOK THREE:
DEATH IN THE AFTERNOON
“A widow is a fascinating being with the flavor of maturity, the spice of experience, the piquancy of novelty, the tang of practiced coquetry, and the halo of one man's approval.”
— Helen Rowland
13
POINT OF VIEW
—Mary—
Hiding in a hallway off the main room, the widow watched the scholar and his wife in the reflection of a strategically positioned mirror.
Mary had left them to cool their heels a time; watching the professor standing there, peering with rheumy eyes at the spot where Papa had fallen dead. Richard stared at the floor and walls of the mudroom—his face ruddy, jaws tight. He stood there in his faux-Papa togs and the scrubby white beginnings of a beard, his expression impossible to read.
Hannah Paulson focused her attention on Richard—she seemed unable or disinclined to look at the infamous foyer. Mary rather liked the young woman for that.
He didn’t look like much, this fucking scholar. But then Mary didn’t want the man to be much—couldn’t afford him to be too formidable. He’d won some awards, for what such bullshit was worth. He’d written a pretty good book about Ernest’s Paris apprenticeship. But that was all.
And that was perfect, for Mary’s purposes.
The negotiations with the big publishing houses in New York for her autobiography—the one that would score syndication deals…a motion picture deal—those were lagging; dragging on with no resolution in sight.
Mary thought a smaller book aimed at the academic market might entice the big boys to finally play ball—to accept her vision for her own remarkable life story. The big boys wanted her to use a ghost. As if an author like herself—a journalist and now, with Feast under her belt, an accomplished editor, too—would ever bend to such a crazy-ass notion…
Well, she’d prove her mettle against this scholar—this “award-winning” Hemingway biographer. Let his little book whet the big boy’s appetite for the blockbuster—her life in all its hard and glittering facets. The true gen as only she could tell it, in her own words.
Smiling, Mary nodded at her maid, signaling her to at last usher the Paulsons into the sitting room to await her arrival.
—Hannah—
The living room of the Topping House was awash in circa -’61 western decor.
Low-slung, green upholstered furniture. Floral-print wingchairs, walls paneled in oak.
The home felt slightly embalmed, but fell far short of embodying the sort of self-conscious, time capsule shrines that Hemingway’s former houses in Key West or Cuba had become.
Hannah noticed there wasn’t a single photograph or portrait of Papa in sight. As Richard and Mary talked, Hannah watched the widow, trying hard to fathom what in Mary had drawn Ernest to the tiny, rather frail woman seated across from her.
It should have been hallucinatory to be sitting here with Mary Hemingway after having read so much about her — having so much trivia about the widow thrown at her by Richard these past months. But, at least so far, there was such a gulf between the legend and the reality of Mary that Hannah just found herself studying the woman, trying to detect whatever Mary had that had bound Ernest Hemingway to her for so many years.
What kept Papa with Mary through so many bitter battles? Hannah still couldn’t see it.
They nibbled on small cakes Mary had sent in from town. Hannah sipped from a glass of decaffeinated iced tea, looking at the surrounding mountains as she sat at the desk where Papa’s last typewriter still rested at ready—confronting a vista perhaps calculated by his keeper to distract a writer in decline.
Mary Hemingway settled back in her chair with a fresh gimlet mixed for her by her maid. She lit a cigarette. The chair she sat in was an oversize wingchair draped with a floral, fruit and vine-covered slipcover. The chair was arranged to command the room, reminding Hannah of photographs of a much larger Gertrude Stein, ponderously perched in her own half-assed throne in her salon at 27 rue de Fleurus.
No. The comparison didn’t truly hold, Hannah realized, for almost lost in the depths of her overstuffed, too-large chair, Mary more resembled a midget.
And Mary had not found for herself a Toklasesque toady.
Mary was clearly alone in the bleakest sense. The more the widow talked, the more evident it was that in Mary’s mind, it was Mary and Papa’s ghost versus the world. The widow spent the first twenty minutes of their visit bashing first wife Hadley, then Pauline, and then Martha Gellhorn, castigating each of them for various weaknesses, character defects or personality quirks that made them all inferior — in Mary’s eyes — to herself, whom she regarded as the perfect wife for Ernest Hemingway (“Four’s the charm,” Mary had said, raising her drink. “Here’s to me!”)
Hannah thought that Mary’s busty little body that impressed eldest Hemingway son Jack as it rose glisteningly nude from his father’s Cuban pool had grown lumpy and misshapen with premature age and the warping ravages of too many falls and badly mended bones. The life had similarly been washed out of her once brown hair that had endured countless, many-hued bleaches and rinses at hair-infatuated, balding Papa’s whimsical requests. A Cuban sun and God only knew how many acres of grain alcohol had left Mary’s face deeply lined and weathered like a distressed leather couch.
As Hannah earlier leafed through several photo books of Mary’s and Ernest’s time together, she was struck by the appalling speed with which Mary and her famous spouse had aged together. Or perhaps aged one another.
Fifteen, too-high-mileage years.
“Papa had his darkest times, there at the end,” Mary said. “The other wives never had to cope with the vile shit I endured. Maybe the worst was after my big fall in ’58, when I broke my elbow. I was kind of mewling around and groaning, and Ernest lectured me all the way to the hospital, grumbling ‘soldiers don’t cry.’ I had to remind him I was no soldier.” Mary shook her head; stared into her glass.
“Still and all, I can’t complain,” she said. “Who can say who had it worse in his better times? Me? Martha, or Pauline? Maybe Hadley: I sometimes try to put myself in her place, that awful morning in the 1920s when she had to tell Papa about losing his manuscripts at that train station. It was the end of them, right there, although it was much later before either one really knew it. To have to tell your writer-husband you have literally lost his work? God, how horrible that must have been for her. If I had walked off and left a manuscript of Papa’s unguarded—let alone allowed it to be stolen—I’d fully expect the big bastard to blow my brains out. And I would deserve no less.” A sly, hard-to-read smile. “Hell, maybe I would load the fucking gun for him.”
Hannah bit her lip: If she could have been one of Hem’s women, what would she have done differently? Could she have maintained Hem’s love as Hadley, Pauline, Martha and Mary had all failed in various ways to do? Hannah certainly wanted to believe so. Perhaps as a fellow writer—not the competitive kind that Martha had been, but a supportive fellow author—perhaps Hannah could have engaged the artist and the lover in Hem. Perhaps through her own passion and talent and love of sports she might have helped Papa to integrate the various aspects of his personality that sometimes seemed so destructively set against one another. It was certainly pretty to think so.
“It must have been very exciting,” Hannah said distractedly, “living with a writer of your husband’s talent and stature.” She almost winced as s
he said it; it came across vapid.
Mary just shook her head. “Sure. There are two kinds of people I’ve concluded. There are the ones who admire Papa as a personality—for the romantic, exotic way he lived his life and the verve he brought to all that. And then there are the one’s like Richard here—the ones who sit in rooms and write about all that prose Papa wrote. There are the ones who savor the words, and the ones who can’t stop obsessing over them.” Mary lit a cigarette and said, “I’ll tell you what living with a writer like that does—it demystifies writing for you in some ways.” Mary smiled at Richard. Hannah watched, trying to characterize the look in Mary’s face—calculating maybe.
Hannah smiled uncertainly. Living with Richard had changed her attitudes toward writing in some ways after all, and not for the better. Did Mary also mean that living with Hem had made the craft of writing somehow smaller? Constant exposure to an academic having that effect on a fiction writer was one thing, but if proximity to Hemingway could undermine one’s appreciation of literary fiction? Well, that was a terrible thought. Hannah said, “What do you mean by that?”
“Papa lived as an artist,” Mary said. “Everything, every single detail and activity was directed toward the end of writing. If you live as an artist, the art itself is just an outgrowth of the life lived. It comes as easily as anything else a person does as a simple trade. If Papa were here now, he’d spend a few minutes listening and watching you two, then he’d have all he’d need to write a sketch capturing you two in all your facets. I’ve seen it, and I know. Hell, I influenced him in his writing in that way, often enough. Fed Ernest material by shaping our life together in ways he could use in his books. Here, I’ll show you how easy it becomes.”
Winking, Mary picked up a notebook and pen from a table at her elbow and began writing.
Hannah watched the widow intently. Mary wrote in a manner reminiscent of Hannah’s own compositional style—fast and viscerally, with no false starts or second thoughts. Mary attacked the page. Hannah wondered what the hell the woman could be writing with such speed and determination.
Hannah looked over at Richard. He looked very confused, even unsettled. What was happening now clearly didn’t tally with any sense of Mary that Richard held. This was clearly something new and esoteric to Richard, well outside his jaundiced view of the widow. Mary stayed at it, writing quickly—laughing here and there at something in her own composition that amused her.
The doorbell rang. Mary, beaming with her closed-mouth smile, winked and said, “That’ll be Hector.” She suddenly crumpled up her impromptu manuscript and tossed it at the wastepaper basket. The ball of paper missed and lay there on the floor, tantalizing Hannah. But discretely bending to retrieve the wad of paper was something of a challenge for the pregnant young woman. Hannah looked at the paper there by Mary’s chair, biting her lip.
What the bloody hell was scrawled across those pages?
Richard said, “Hector? Lassiter? The mystery writer?”
“For God’s sake, don’t call Lasso that to his face,” Mary said. “‘Crime writer’ would be much more to Hector’s liking. But more and more, he’s really a novelist with crime in his books. He’s got the Papa illness, too, but don’t tell him I said that.” She winked at the professor and said, “Well, the party’s starting now! Best you start mixing more drinks, Professor.”
Hannah said, “What do you mean, ‘illness’?”
She guessed Mary meant that this “Lassiter” was slipping into paranoia or dementia, but Mary said: “Hector has no distance from himself when he writes. The space between himself and his characters is almost nonexistent now. Like Papa at the end, Hector writes about writers. That so-called ‘postmodern’ shit like Papa was doing in The Garden of Eden. But Hector’s okay. A big, handsome son of a bitch, too.”
Hannah tried to recall the man she’d seen the other night at the lodge, but it had happened so fleetingly, and Richard had only explained to her who Hector was when he was already out of sight.
As he rose to follow Mary’s orders about mixing fresh drinks, Mary leaned in closer to Hannah. She said softly, “Did Dickie mention what I said about you helping him with my book?”
Hannah was taken aback. What in hell? “Uh, no, he didn’t.”
“Well, sit tight,” Mary said. “I’ll bring him around. I want you on this job with him. These male Hemingway scholars, all they can think about is Papa. But you? You’ll protect, me, I know it. You’ll look after my interests and see that bastard scholar husband of yours does right by me.”
Hannah hardly knew what to say. Even if she felt inclined to give it a try, Richard would never stand for it. Hannah smiled and shrugged and said, “I only write fiction.”
Mary just smiled. “I want this. I’m in a position to get whatever I want, now.”
—Richard—
Heavy, deliberate steps on the stairs: Richard saw this long shadow on the floor and then this Hollywood-handsome, stylishly dressed older man was turning the corner; tall and tanned.
Hector Lassiter was clean-shaven and his graying dark hair was slicked back. He wore black slacks and loafers and a loose-fitting houndstooth sports jacket over a cream-colored shirt that was open at the collar; charisma to spare. Richard watched Hannah watching Lassiter. He thought, Cocksucker…
The professor shook his head: he really needed this, now, of all times. Christ… And now Richard was sorry he was standing. Lassiter had a couple of inches, at least, on him—made Richard feel tiny.
Mary struggled up and met the goddamn mystery writer, throwing her arms around Lassiter and then feinting a punch to his chin and delivering one to his gut. Hector seemed ready for that and didn’t react to the fairly stiff blow to his belly.
“There’s my good-looking son of a bitch,” Mary said. “Jesus, Lasso, you’re even prettier than you were in Cuba. Looking younger. How can that be?”
Hector bent low to kiss her forehead. He looked rather angry at Mary, in Richard’s estimation—now, what the hell was that about? Hector shrugged and said, “Enjoying the last belle époque, maybe. Before God pulls the critical cotter pin.”
Jesus, Lord, if so, please pull it now, Richard thought bitterly. He fingered the vial in his coat pocket. I don’t need this man here, not now of all times, he thought. Fuck.
Oblivious to Hector’s obvious hostility toward her, the widow introduced Richard and Hannah and then punched Hector in the stomach again.
Hector put out a hand and Richard shook it. Hector’s hand engulfed Richard’s. The professor winced and tried to squeeze back, but Hector had the first and firmer grip. Hector said, “Your Paris book was really pretty good, pal.” Hector let go and Richard flexed his throbbing hand.
Rather than take it as a compliment, Richard chose to dwell on the mystery writer’s phrasing—Lassiter said it like he was surprised the Paris book was good.
Well, to hell with Lassiter.
Hector hesitated when he saw Hannah. He smiled warmly and squeezed her hand; Richard opened and closed his fists.
“You I remember,” Hector said, smiling at Hannah. “You were out walking the other night and I offered you a ride, but this character waved me on.” Hector jacked a thumb in Richard’s direction. The professor thought he should do something to mark territory—make it clear Hannah was his woman—but he couldn’t come up with a worthy gambit in time.
Hannah said, “Pleasure to meet you officially, Mr. Lassiter. It’s an honor.”
Hector held her hand, steadying Hannah as she eased back onto the loveseat, her other hand pressed to the cushion behind her as she sat slowly down. “Please call me Hector, darlin’.”
Richard rolled his eyes and moved back behind the bar. He raised an inquiring eyebrow and Mary smiled. “Another gimlet for me,” she said. Richard smiled back, ignoring Hannah’s frown. He said, “What are you drinking, Lassiter?”
Hector checked Hannah’s glass and said, “Whatever Hannah’s having will do.”
Richard shook h
is head. “Don’t remember the hard cases in your books drinking much decaf tea, Lassiter.”
“Your confusing character for personality,” Hector said. “And you can call me Hector, too, Dick, okay?”
Richard’s felt his face flush. Dick. He hated that. He was a Richard. And did the mystery writer with the grating Texas accent throw a little extra gravel into his pronunciation of Dick? Richard was pretty sure the mystery writer had done that. Richard glared at Hector and thought again, Cocksucker…
Richard tried to move around — to get his back to Hector Lassiter so he could slip the contents of the vial into Mary Hemingway’s drink without Lassiter or Hannah seeing.
In his head, he was running through the questions he meant to put to Mary—circling, tightening the noose with each query he’d put to Mary. He’d imagined over and over increasing the pitch and probity of his interrogation as the mysterious brew given him by the man worked its magic on the old widow.
But now here was Lassiter. It might be prudent to back off. But there was also the man with the potions. The man, who had his boot to Richard’s backside. Richard felt he should hold off now, with Lassiter in the mix. But the man was so adamant, and, yes, the man with the potions scared Richard.
Still…
“Maybe this is a mistake,” he said, looking at the vial clutched in his hand. The words were out of his mouth before he could check himself.
Lassiter said, “What was that, Dick?”
“A mistake — I…I forgot what you wanted,” Richard said.
“Whatever Hannah’s having,” Lassiter said again, watching him more intently.
“Right. Sure.” Richard looked again at the vial. How quickly would it take effect? Would Lassiter or the others even notice the widow was drugged? Shit, Mary was clearly quite drunk….
But he didn’t want to put the big questions to Mary with these two witnesses. Hannah knew his thesis of course. But knowing Richard’s suspicions and Hannah hearing Mary confirm them were very different things.
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