Hillary Kanter - Dead Men Are Easy To Love

by Hillary Kanter

  Upon arrival at the station in Key West, I was greeted by a man and woman who seemed to recognize me. As a history buff, I had seen their pictures—Ernest Hemingway and his first wife, Hadley. I had no idea why they were waiting for me, but hey, here they were.

  And apparently they knew me.

  The newspaper in Hadley’s hand stated that it was May 7, 1926. This confirmed my earlier suspicions on the train.

  “Ariel.” Looking radiant in her flowing white skirt and straw hat, Hadley gave me a hug. “Come meet Ernest.”

  “Well, hello.” Ernest stretched out a large hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Gulp. “It’s nice to meet you too,” I said, barely able to speak. After looking me up and down for several moments, he said, “Say, what an interesting necklace you have there.”

  Necklace?

  I looked down and saw a familiar tiny heart dangling from my neck. I had forgotten I was wearing it.

  “Uh, thank you,” I said.

  “This is great, Ariel. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  I gulped hard again and hoped he did not sense my astonishment. Maybe he was confusing me with someone else. How could he know anything about me? After all, I had only written articles for a few magazines—in my own timeframe, over eighty years from now!—and my first book had yet to be published.

  “Likewise,” I played along. “And … congratulations on your new book.”

  He nodded. Wearing khaki trousers and a white linen shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbow, he was tall and ruggedly handsome, but it was his genuine smile that most captured my attention.

  “Come on,” Hadley said. “Let Ernest give you a hand with your things, and we’ll take you to the house where you can freshen up. You must be awfully hot and tired.”

  She was right. I felt like a wilted, dead thing. I climbed into their convertible, and after the lack of air-conditioning on that train, the drive with the wind blowing in my face revived me.

  Their house stood at 907 Whitehead Street. Ah, yes. I had visited this famed Hemingway residence as a child, when my family brought me to the Keys.

  Nothing had changed. Funny that what I was seeing now in the ’20s I had visited in the ’70s. I remembered my parents telling me the design was commonly known as a “Conch” house. Built in 1851, it had wrought iron railings and wraparound terraces from front to back. Coconut palm trees surrounded the property. A large orange cat with six toes—one of many cats on the premises—sprawled lazily on the front steps licking its paws.

  In my small room on the second floor, I began unpacking.

  Hadley knocked at the door. “At six, we’re going to a restaurant around the corner for the best fish you’ve ever had in your life. Are you hungry?”

  “I’m starving,” I replied.

  “Well, come downstairs when you’re finished, and we’ll fix you a drink. I imagine you could use one.”

  Right again. I’d say finding oneself on a train in the past, headed to Key West for God knows what reason, and being met by Ernest Hemingway and his wife who apparently knew me, were good reasons for a drink.

  After freshening up, I joined Ernest in the large living room. Leopard- and tiger-skin rugs spread across the old wooden floors. Several deer heads with beady black eyes stared down at me from the wall, and I shivered because they were just a little too real. Ernest had shot them in Africa, where, as my own literary readings informed me, he was known as the “great white hunter.” I bypassed comfortable-looking couches and sank with a sigh into one of the overstuffed rattan chairs, between tropical blue and green pillows.

  Hemingway intrigued me. The men I was accustomed to did no such thing, and I had no desire to jump forward to that world again. With zero idea where this was headed, my best option was to sit back and play along.

  Hadley walked in with a baby. I saw the nanny hovering behind her in the doorway. “Ariel,” Hadley said, “this is Bumby. His name’s actually John Hadley, but we usually go with his nickname. It’s past his nap time, but I wanted you to meet him.”

  Bumby looked like a two-year-old clone of his father. I reached out and shook his tiny hand before his parents sent him off with the nanny to the nursery.

  Ernest walked to the corner mahogany bar and turned to me. “Would you like to try one of my specialties? I make a mean strawberry daiquiri.”

  “Sure.”

  He poured me one, handed another to Hadley, then made one for himself. “Be careful, if you’re not used to drinking much. This stuff will have you speaking in tongues.” He laughed.

  I don’t know what was in it. I don’t remember tasting the alcohol at all. We had two a piece, which produced an unbelievable high—and did so quickly. Reality faded behind a thin veil.

  “We’d better go get some dinner before we can’t even walk,” Hadley said. She left the room in search of her purse.

  “I’ll second that,” I said, at the same time as Ernest.

  I don’t think Hadley heard our synchronized response.

  The restaurant was only a block and a half from the house, and we walked through a balmy night with seemingly every star in the galaxy visible. We were shown to our table where, some might say, Hadley was the one to blame, if anyone, for the coming events. She was the one who seated me between her and her husband. And it wouldn’t be the last time either. She did so, I can only imagine, because she thought it would be easier for Ernest and I to become acquainted.

  Before long we were drinking daiquiris again and laughing. Ernest relayed stories of their travels to Spain; of their good friends, the writer F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda; and of Ernest’s personal passion for fishing. By the third drink, I felt I had known him a long time.

  The three of us formed a strange little triangle. Ernest was flirty with me, which I, of course, tried my best to ignore. Hadley didn’t seem to notice … and that did surprise me. Was she simply too tired and distracted, being the mother of a toddler? Or was there trouble on the home front?

  At one point, Ernest turned to me and said, “Ariel, Hadley tells me you’re a writer too, and you’re working on a book.”

  “Guilty as charged,” I replied. How did Hadley know, since we’d just met? It was one mysterious thing after another. “But it isn’t published just yet.”

  “I’ll look forward to reading it when it is.”

  I chuckled inside. He would have to live, what, like another eighty-years-plus to see that day? That would make him over a hundred years old in my time.

  The next day, after swimming and browning ourselves in the sun, the evening cocktail hour found us partying harder than ever. Ernest took us to his favorite bar, Sloppy Joe’s. With small wooden tables and numerous large fish mounted on the walls, it was little more than a shack with peanut shells on the floor. But this was his watering hole, a festive place where all the locals and bartenders knew him.

  Tan and happy, I felt Ernest gazing at me. He leaned in closer to talk, his hand grazing my bare shoulder and sending electric currents through my body. I was sober enough at that point—which I would not be for the rest of the evening—to actually think about what was going on.

  Then again, I had only had two daiquiris and the night was young.

  Not long after, the three of us left to dine down the street at the same place as the night before. Hadley once more seated me next to Ernest, and this time placed herself across the table. Ernest, again in fine form, entertained us with funny stories and jokes.

  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.
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  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 th
ink 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.