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Authors: Paula McLain
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ghost—me, who knew so very little and nothing good about love?
“Do you think we can ever leave the past behind?” he said.
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
“Sometimes I think if Agnes vanished, this could, too.”
I nodded. I’d had the very same anxiety.
“Maybe she didn’t vanish at all. Maybe she never loved me.” He lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply, the tip flaring an angry red. “Isn’t love a beautiful goddamn liar?”
His voice was so charged with bitterness, I had a hard time meeting his eyes, but he peered at me closely and intensely, saying, “Now I’ve scared you.”
“Only a little.” I tried to smile for him.
“I think we should go back upstairs and dance until morning.”
“Oh, Nesto. I’m awfully tired. Maybe we should just turn in.”
“Please,” he said. “I think it would help.”
“All right then.” I gave him my hand.
Back upstairs the party had mostly dispersed. Ernest slowly rolled the rug to one side and cranked the Victrola. Nora Bayes’s voice quavered into the room—
Make believe you are glad when you’re sorry
.
“That’s my favorite song,” I said to Ernest. “Are you clairvoyant?”
“No, just smart about how to get a girl to stand closer.”
I don’t know how long we danced that night, back and forth across the living room in a long slow ellipse. Every time the recording ended, Ernest shuffled away from me briefly to start it again. Back in my arms, he buried his face in my neck, his hands clasped low on my back. Three minutes of magic suspended and restrung. Maybe happiness was an hourglass already running out, the grains tipping, sifting past each other. Maybe it was a state of mind—as Nora Bayes insisted—a country you could sculpt out of air and then dance into.
“I’ll never lie to you,” I said.
He nodded into my hair. “Let’s always tell each other the truth. We can choose that, can’t we?”
He swept me around and around, slow and strong. The song ended, the needle clicked, whispered, shushed into silence. And we kept dancing, rocking past the window and back again.
SEVEN
When I returned home to St. Louis, Fonnie had a long string of questions and warnings. Just who was this Ernest Hemingway, anyway? What were his prospects? What could he offer me? She’d no sooner finish this line of questioning than begin her rant about my own shortcomings. Did Hemingway know about my nervous attacks and history with weakness? You’d have thought she was talking about a lame horse, but I wasn’t overtroubled. I knew Fonnie’s tactics by heart and could turn her voice off almost entirely. My own voice was harder to control, unfortunately. When I was with Ernest in Chicago I’d felt strong and capable of weathering uncertainty about the future. But outside the circle of his arms, well beyond his range and powerful physical effect on me, I was struggling.
It didn’t help that the stream of letters from him was growing moodier and more intermittent. He hated his job and was fighting with Kenley about an increase in his room and board.
Kenley knows full well how I’m trying to save every last seed for Rome but insists on twisting my arm anyway
, he wrote.
Some friend
. I wanted to commiserate, but was selfishly grateful for any delay in his plans.
I had quite a cache of letters by that point, well over a hundred, which I kept squirreled neatly away on a shelf in my closet upstairs. I took the box down and reread them on days I got no beautifully crumpled
special
, which happened more and more. They cost a dime in postage and he was saving those dimes for lire. It disturbed me to know he was prioritizing Jim Gamble, adventure, and his work. I also couldn’t forget how much younger he was than me. Nine years might not feel like much if we ever got to middle age together, but Ernest could be so very youthful and exuberant and full of plans I had a hard time imagining him in middle age at all. He was a light-footed lad on a
“Do you think we can ever leave the past behind?” he said.
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
“Sometimes I think if Agnes vanished, this could, too.”
I nodded. I’d had the very same anxiety.
“Maybe she didn’t vanish at all. Maybe she never loved me.” He lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply, the tip flaring an angry red. “Isn’t love a beautiful goddamn liar?”
His voice was so charged with bitterness, I had a hard time meeting his eyes, but he peered at me closely and intensely, saying, “Now I’ve scared you.”
“Only a little.” I tried to smile for him.
“I think we should go back upstairs and dance until morning.”
“Oh, Nesto. I’m awfully tired. Maybe we should just turn in.”
“Please,” he said. “I think it would help.”
“All right then.” I gave him my hand.
Back upstairs the party had mostly dispersed. Ernest slowly rolled the rug to one side and cranked the Victrola. Nora Bayes’s voice quavered into the room—
Make believe you are glad when you’re sorry
.
“That’s my favorite song,” I said to Ernest. “Are you clairvoyant?”
“No, just smart about how to get a girl to stand closer.”
I don’t know how long we danced that night, back and forth across the living room in a long slow ellipse. Every time the recording ended, Ernest shuffled away from me briefly to start it again. Back in my arms, he buried his face in my neck, his hands clasped low on my back. Three minutes of magic suspended and restrung. Maybe happiness was an hourglass already running out, the grains tipping, sifting past each other. Maybe it was a state of mind—as Nora Bayes insisted—a country you could sculpt out of air and then dance into.
“I’ll never lie to you,” I said.
He nodded into my hair. “Let’s always tell each other the truth. We can choose that, can’t we?”
He swept me around and around, slow and strong. The song ended, the needle clicked, whispered, shushed into silence. And we kept dancing, rocking past the window and back again.
SEVEN
When I returned home to St. Louis, Fonnie had a long string of questions and warnings. Just who was this Ernest Hemingway, anyway? What were his prospects? What could he offer me? She’d no sooner finish this line of questioning than begin her rant about my own shortcomings. Did Hemingway know about my nervous attacks and history with weakness? You’d have thought she was talking about a lame horse, but I wasn’t overtroubled. I knew Fonnie’s tactics by heart and could turn her voice off almost entirely. My own voice was harder to control, unfortunately. When I was with Ernest in Chicago I’d felt strong and capable of weathering uncertainty about the future. But outside the circle of his arms, well beyond his range and powerful physical effect on me, I was struggling.
It didn’t help that the stream of letters from him was growing moodier and more intermittent. He hated his job and was fighting with Kenley about an increase in his room and board.
Kenley knows full well how I’m trying to save every last seed for Rome but insists on twisting my arm anyway
, he wrote.
Some friend
. I wanted to commiserate, but was selfishly grateful for any delay in his plans.
I had quite a cache of letters by that point, well over a hundred, which I kept squirreled neatly away on a shelf in my closet upstairs. I took the box down and reread them on days I got no beautifully crumpled
special
, which happened more and more. They cost a dime in postage and he was saving those dimes for lire. It disturbed me to know he was prioritizing Jim Gamble, adventure, and his work. I also couldn’t forget how much younger he was than me. Nine years might not feel like much if we ever got to middle age together, but Ernest could be so very youthful and exuberant and full of plans I had a hard time imagining him in middle age at all. He was a light-footed lad on a
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