Four Days with Hemingway's Ghost

by Winton, Tom

  One minute I’d tell myself I was crazy and the next I’d be thinking about driving around one of the banks to see if it had a back entrance. I wondered what would be the best time of day to do the unthinkable act I was contemplating. I kept scoping out the banks more and more closely while driving by. I tried to see if I could learn the timetable of the armored cars. If I were going to do this thing—risk everything, possibly take a bullet to the head or wind up behind steel bars-- I wanted to be damned sure the gamble would be profitable. Sometimes seconds after thinking that way, I’d shake my head as if listening for loose screws. Other times I’d slap the side of my head and try to bring myself back to reality. Yes, the thoughts I was entertaining scared the hell out of me. Was I crazy? What was I going to do if I did pull a robbery off? Rush home? Tell Blanche I just robbed a bank? Tell her to get into the car—we’re heading to Mexico? Insane as it all was, it seemed more and more like a viable option. Then by the end of February, things grew even bleaker.

  Luberdorf and Ackerly took away Blanche’s Wednesdays. She was now working only four mornings. I lost more lawn accounts. A third of my business was gone. On top of that, twelve of my queries had been rejected. There were only three more out there. And at lunchtime on a Tuesday, I parked my truck and trailer full of lawn equipment behind Ron’s Gun Shop.

  “Can I help you?” asked the stocky, camouflage-clad man behind the counter.

  “I just wanted to poke around a little. Get an idea what 45’s are selling for.”

  “They’re over here,” the unshaven guy said as he side-stepped along the glass display counter.

  “Did you have anything special in mind?”

  “No. Not really,” I said studying the pistols beneath the glass. “I was looking for something inexpensive. Just wanted to see what price they started at.”

  “Well, I’ve got Colts, Berettas, Glocks and all the rest, but this one here is the cheapest.”

  He took it out of the case and handed it to me. As I looked it over, he did the same thing to me. It were as if he were very suspicious, like he was making a mental sketch of my face. That’s how I took it at least. And as I handled the gun, my hands began to perspire.

  “What do you plan to use it for?”

  Oh shit, I thought, he’s got my number. He sees me come in here all sweaty and dirty and figures I’m some kind of lowlife.

  “Oh,” I said, forcing my eyes to meet his, “I just thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a little something in the house. You know . . . protection.”

  Still looking at me, he just nodded as if to say, Yupper, sure, heard that one before. You come in here looking for the cheapest thing you can get. Yeah huh!

  A few more uncomfortable moments later I said, “You know what? I think I’ll take this one. This and the smallest box of ammo you have. You take credit cards of course.”

  “Whooah!” he said sniggering deeply. “You can’t just walk out of here with a handgun. There’s a three-day waiting period in Florida.”

  Oh shit, I’m going to have to come back? I thought but said, “That’s right . . . of course! We might as well fill out the paperwork right now then. I’ll leave you a deposit.”

  Relieved as I was when I finally got out of that place, I still had to go back after seventy-two hours. Looking at my watch as I walked to my truck, I saw that it said 1:30. I figured I’d wait until after work on Friday so I wouldn’t look all that eager. That would be sometime around 4:30.

  After leaving the gun shop, I passed the turnoff to Saint Robert’s Catholic Church. I was so torn. Except for a few weddings and both my parents’ funerals, I hadn’t planted a foot inside a church since I was seventeen. Just a kid back then, I was running around with all kinds of girls. I was also doing other things that were clearly beyond the forbidden border between mischief and unadulterated trouble. Anyway, after I’d confessed my sins in a dark booth, the priest balled me out and told me I’d been living the life of a pagan. Since that happened, I always thought the man of the cloth had been far too hard on me, so I’d never gone back into a church on my own volition.

  But driving down Poinciana Boulevard now, I was thinking about it now. Should I go into Saint Robert’s, throw myself down on my knees, and ask God for forgiveness, guidance, and help? Yes, I probably should have. But I didn’t. With my mind pulling itself in a dozen directions I went back to work and climbed onto my rider. I couldn’t think straight. Yet that’s all I did—think. And more than once I found myself riding over a swath of grass I’d already cut. I just wanted to scream.

  Chapter 22

  When I got home late that afternoon, things didn’t get any better. Blanche hesitantly greeted me with yet another rejection letter. It wasn’t really a letter, just one of those impersonal notices printed on a card. Like most of the other generic rejections I’d received, the agent’s signature was stamped on not signed. Now there were only two others still out there.

  I moped around the house all evening, but my mind certainly wasn’t sluggish. It was all hopped up. Thoughts were still bouncing around in every direction at once—none of them good. I couldn’t rationally think through any of my dark fears or clandestine plans. Only fragments of each thought appeared, yet all of them were entangled. All I could decipher were the loose ends. I’d planned on working out some kind of strategy for my heist but couldn’t. All those fractured thoughts just kept stampeding in and out of my consciousness. They were all a blur. Fear, guilt, our financial mess, Ernest, Blanche, prison bars, potential gunshots, heaven, hell, the failing manuscript—all of it and more were like a hundred sandbags weighing heavily on my shoulders. And they were breaking me. I was in a state of near maddening confusion.

  Blanche didn’t look good either. My dark mood was getting to her. All I did was sit alongside her in my recliner and stare at the television, seeing none of it. By the time Jeopardy was just about over and I hadn’t answered a single clue, Blanche had had it.

  “Come on, Jack. For God’s sake, pull yourself together. You look miserable. Fuck that rejection. It’s not the end of the world.”

  I could not believe my ears. Since the day I met her, I’d only heard her use that word twice.

  “It’s not just the damned rejection,” I came back. “It’s everything else as well.”

  Then I slipped saying, “There’s a lot more on my mind than you realize.”

  “A lot more than I realize? Exactly what is that supposed to mean? What are you talking about here?”

  She’d muted the TV, raised herself from her recliner’s backrest and was staring over the lamp table between us. Looking back at her tired face, I squirmed in my chair. “Nothing,” I lied, “nothing. It’s just the same old worries getting to me.”

  Then a way to take her attention from what I’d just said popped into my head. And it wasn’t a lie—a diversion surely but not a lie.

  “Okay, you want to know what’s getting to me? On top of everything else, I’m worried about what’ll happen if the book fails . . . if it never gets published.” Pointing up toward the ceiling fan now, I went on, “What is He up there going to do? Just let me go on living my life? Or will He end it because I failed? That’s something to think about, Blanche. That’s a damned serious thing to worry about.”

  “Oh stop. He’s not cruel. He’s not just going to take you away,” she said in a voice that suddenly didn’t seem quite as confident.

  “See, I told you. It is something to worry about.”

  “No it’s not,” she said leaning back in her chair again and looking at the TV but not paying attention to it.

  A few moments of uncomfortable silence later she rolled her weary head in my direction again. Though she’d been carrying her own share of debilitating mental baggage, she said, “Jack, it’ll all work out. You’ll see. You’ve only sent out fifteen queries. There are hundreds of literary agents. You’ve only scratched the surface.”

  “Look, I appreciate your sympathy and optimism, hon. But even if it do
es someday get published, how are we supposed to live in the meantime? Along with everything else we still owe more than eight thousand from when I was in the hospital. We’re in serious debt. Something has to be done, soon. We need to get a hold of some money . . . now.”

  “I’ve told you. We’ll just keep making small payments to the hospital and the minimum on the credit cards. We’ll get out of this mess eventually.”

  “Sorry, I don’t want to wait for eventually.”

  “Well,” she said throwing her hands up as if surrendering, “we don’t have a choice. All we can do is keep paying a little at a time.”

  “Hmmmph, a little at a time until we’re eighty years old—if I’m still around.”

  “Would you please stop thinking that way? You’re going to be around for a long, long time.”

  “I’m glad you’re so sure.”

  Then loosening some of the tenseness in my voice, I said, “You know, Blanche, when I was with Ernest he told me that being a man is a tough business. And he was one hundred percent right. But tough as it is, he didn’t know a whole lot about not having money. Other than when he first lived in Paris, he never had financial clouds hunkered over his head and spirit. He was never a working man in this screwed up, twenty-first century. In many respects, he had it made. And it was still difficult being a man. Now . . . today, forget about it. Things are ten times harder.”

  “I hear you.”Blanche said. “But what about being a woman today?”

  “That’s another can of worms. Let’s not even bother opening that one right now. I don’t know how women with families and jobs keep the pace they do. I’ve got all I can do to take care of myself . . . to take care of us.”

  Nothing was solved that night. And when I awoke the next morning, my dreary anxiety was still there. It didn’t get any better as the day wore on either. And by the time Thursday dragged itself around, everything was coming to a head. I was like a swollen red carbuncle filled with poison and about to burst. I was at the end of my frayed rope.

  I worked through lunch so I’d have time to drive by the banks again. I’d pretty much decided to hit the Palm Federal Credit Union on Poinciana Boulevard. I didn’t like that it was situated on one of West Palm Beach’s busiest thoroughfares, but if I were going to do this thing and by some chance possibly get away with it, I wanted some real money. I could have gone way out west where it was a lot less populated. But I knew the carrot at the end of the stick would be much smaller. I’d also decided that if I got away with it, I would not mention a thing to Blanche. I’d simply stash the money somewhere and take small amounts at a time. I’d simply tell her I’d been doing a little extra work on the side.

  Yeah, I’d figured that much out alright. But I was still trying to talk myself out of the whole desperate, reckless idea. Certainly I was no big-time desperado, but that did nothing to stop my mental tug-of-war. All that morning my mind flooded with thoughts.

  Are you out of your tree? Bank robbery? Shit, man, get a grip on yourself. You are not holding up a freaking bank. Forget yourself, for God’s sake. You could end up killing somebody else—somebody who’s in there just trying to make half a living. Oh no, I’m not going to do it, huh? Just watch! I am going to do this thing. I’ve got to. There’s no other way. I’m sick and damned tired of fighting my way up shit’s creek with a battered paddle. It’s a done deal!

  Over and over and back and forth, I tortured myself. With the evil side still winning, I worked through lunch so I could knock off early and take one last look at Palm Federal. I knew I really should go inside the place and poke around to scope it out. I sure didn’t want any surprises when I went busting in there. But I didn’t go inside. The last thing I needed was to be filmed by the bank’s video cameras before I absolutely had to.

  My plan was pretty much worked out. After picking up the pistol the next day, I’d lie low for a couple of weeks. Knowing that police investigators would check all recent, local gun sales, I decided I’d slip a white sock over the 45 when it came time to do the deed. I’d put on loose-fitting clothes to keep my body type somewhat anonymous and wear something bulky beneath my shirt to make myself look like a suicide bomber. There would be a ball cap on my head and a mask over my face. I wouldn’t utter a single word. All I’d do is hand over a note that said I was wired to explosives and what I wanted.

  But even before I’d walk into the bank, there was something else that needed to be done. I’d call in a bogus bomb scare to the police. I’d tell them it was planted inside a hotel on the other side of town. Surely that would divert most of their cruisers. I’d immediately split from the pay phone, wait about five minutes, then enact my plan. Walking off the street and up to the bank’s entrance, my head would be low so the outside cameras couldn’t get a good shot of me. My pickup and trailer would be parked on a nearby side street I’d already scoped out.

  After finishing my last lawn at 3:15 that day, I headed to the bank. I felt my face grimace as I passed by Ron’s Gun Shop, and two blocks later with my mind all jammed up the way it was, I almost rear-ended a mail truck stopped at a red light. It was as if I were hearing somebody else’s voice when I blurted to myself, “Man, pull yourself together!”

  Driving very slowly by the front and side of the bank, I looked really hard to see inside the windows again. No guard—but that was no guarantee. There could easily be a retired police or military marksman sitting or standing in there just waiting for some joker like me to come along.

  Still idling up the side street, just beyond the bank’s back parking lot and stone wall, I glanced at the houses around me. It was an old neighborhood. The street was quiet and lined on both sides by unusually tall trees for this part of Florida. All the small block homes had driveways. There were virtually no cars parked on the street. I’d have no problem finding a parking spot long enough to accommodate the truck and trailer.

  I swung around a few blocks and came back out onto Poinciana Boulevard. This time I made a left to head home. Tense as an accused murderer just before the judge reads his verdict, I tried to concentrate on my driving. With my palms and everything else sweating, I steered the best I could along the busy thoroughfare.

  About two miles up the business-to-business corridor, on the corner of yet another block full of huge competing signs, a small one caught my eye. It was one of those fluorescent green cardboard deals stapled to a wooden electric pole. The printing on it read:

  Big Bazaar

  Friday and Saturday

  Saint Robert’s Catholic Church

  Beneath the message there was an arrow pointing to the right. Sure, I well knew all along where Saint Robert’s was. But for some reason my eyes were pulled toward that one tiny sign amongst all the other huge eyesores. That seemed odd—no, uncanny. Was it guidance from Him above? Was it intended to get me to that church? Did Ernest have something to do with it? For the few short seconds before I reached that corner of the block, I fought with myself.

  Should I turn? Should I go to the church, drop to my knees and pray? Pray to God to heal my sick mind? Yeah, I’m going to do it. No, it was just a cardboard sign. I’m not going. Yes, I am. No, I’m . . . .

  Chapter 23

  I don’t know what made me decide do it, but at the very last fraction of a second, I swung the steering wheel—hard and to the right. All the equipment in the secondhand, unenclosed trailer I’d recently bought, except for the riding mower, shifted. The two walk-behind mowers, both edgers, my water cooler—all of it shifted hard and slammed into the trailer’s steel side rail. Then the whole thing fishtailed behind me. It was a few, long seconds before I got the truck and trailer under control again. And the instant I did, I blurted, “Dammit, Ernest! Is that you! You don’t have to play so freaking rough!” The words had barely jumped from my mouth when I realized that if it were Ernest, he wasn’t playing at all. He was plenty serious.

  A few minutes later I trudged up the church’s front steps feeling like I was being pulled up them. It was an o
ld church, and as the heavy wooden door closed behind me, the creaking hinges seemed to desecrate the quiet. There was no vestibule inside the entrance. I stepped right into the dark nave, dipped my fingertips in holy water, and slowly genuflected. The gesture felt alien. It had been a long time since I’d done it.

  Standing there for a moment, I looked around in the dusky light. It was old alright, the kind of place webs draping from the ceilings and corners would be expected. Dust particles floated in the dim light of the faded stained-glass windows. Beneath them, the fourteen Stations of the Cross were evenly spaced on the two side walls. The rows of dark wooden pews were tight, and the Missals lying in them were black and worn. The place even smelled old, yet somehow that only enhanced the feeling that I was in the holy presence of God.

  Only one other person was in the church. From the back it looked like a woman praying at the altar. After taking it all in, I stepped into the last pew and I fell to my knees.

  Slowly, I made the sign of the cross a second time. Then I lowered my head and muttered beneath my breath, “Good God . . . why? Why did you allow me to come back? Why would you want me to write a book that nobody wants? Not a single agent has showed a sign of interest. And Lord, why do Blanche and I have to struggle the way we do? We don’t want much. I’m living in a place I’ve come to hate. There are so many other places I’d rather be. I’ve accepted that for now, and I’m making the best of it. But my best doesn’t seem good enough. Things get harder and harder. For the first time ever, we’ve fallen behind on our bills. God, all we want is enough to get by. We’ve always driven old, used cars. I live in tee shirts and jeans. The sneakers on my feet are cheap. At home we tear paper towels in half. We add water to make our mustard and ketchup last longer.”

  Pausing now, I raised my eyes to the distant altar. The suffering Jesus hanging on the cross was blurred. I sniffled twice then wiped my eyes.