Four Days with Hemingway's Ghost (19 page)

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 2
3

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 old 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. 

“I’m coming so close to doing something, Lord.  Something I don’t want to do.  But I need the money.  Please help me.  Can you send me some assurance?  Some kind of sign telling me that if I don’t commit the evil act I have in mind, things will still work out?  I am so mentally weak right now.  Please . . . please help me!”

I was so deep into my plea that I hadn’t noticed that the woman at the altar was now walking up the center aisle.  Her gait was slow and unsteady, and her head was down.  As she stepped closer, I saw that her clothes were old.  There was a dark kerchief on her bowed head, and the
long, plain cotton dress she wore was tattered.  Still facing the cross, I watched her approach from the corners of my eyes. 

Just before she walked by me, I saw her raise her head.  I allowed mine to turn toward her.  I hoped that in the cathedral’s silence she hadn’t heard me gasp at the sight of her face.  If she did, she didn’t show it.  She only smiled.

Gracing my eyes was one of the most beautiful young women I’d ever seen.  But at the same time she was ghastly.  With a lock of golden hair hanging from beneath her kerchief, she had the face of a teenaged angel.  Her hope-filled, gray eyes seemed to brighten up the church the same way her smile did her face.  But there was something on her face that ruined it all.  It was far from pretty.  It was on the left side and hung from her jawbone.  It was a growth and the most unsightly thing I had ever seen.  Like a stretched blue balloon filled with liquid, it dangled, bounced and swayed as she walked.  Probably four inches in length, it brushed back and forth over her collarbone. 

I managed to smile back at her and to hold that smile until she walked by.  Then I turned my head and looked back up at the cross.  I stared at it as the aged door behind me creaked closed.  Then I dropped my head and began to pray again.  I no longer asked God for
things
.  I just kept repeating over and over the only three prayers I remembered. 

I don’t know how long I remained in that church.  It had to be close to an hour.  But I do know that when I finally finished praying, I slowly lifted my eyes back to the cross, rose to my feet, and said, “Thank you.  Thank you so very much.” 

Then I walked out. 

Although I’d be late getting home to Blanche, I now knew I had to make one more stop.  Driving from the church back up to Poinciana Boulevard, I turned right and headed straight for Ron’s Gun Shop.

When I entered the store there was a different clerk standing behind the counter.  I told the thin, older man that I wanted to cancel my order.  He was far from enthused, but that was fine.  I couldn’t care in the least.  I’d finally been freed from the insane plan that had obsessed and tormented me for so long.     

When I got home Blanche looked both worried and relieved.

“Geez, Jack, where were you?  You’re never this late,” she said looking at her watch.  “It’s twenty after six.”

At first I didn’t say a thing.  I just gave her a big wide smile, reached out, grabbed her by the shoulders and planted a really good one on her lips.  Then I said, “Sorry.  There were a few things I
had
to do.  Next time I’ll call.  I would have, but I didn’t realize it was getting so late.”

“Well, what did you have to do?”

Looking deep into her green eyes and holding them with my own, I said, “Honey, I had to do a couple of things.  Can we just leave it at that?”

Searching my face in silence, she slowly nodded her head.  Then after a long moment, a small, trusting smile rose on her face, and she said, “Sure, Jacky . . . why not?  We can leave it at that.”

Then reaching in the back pocket of her denim shorts, she pulled out a folded letter.  She looked so very disappointed.  Clenching the letter with both hands in front of her now, she said in a solemn tone, “This came in the mail today.  I’m sorry, but I opened it.” 

I didn’t take the letter right away.  I just stood there looking at the downcast look on my wife’s face.  It dug into me at first.  But then something happened.  Somehow her eyes seemed to
betray her expression.  And just as that red flag popped up in my mind, those eyes widened.  Then in the time it takes to snap a finger, they lit up as if she’d just won the Powerball Jackpot.  Suddenly smiling wider than I’d seen her in years, she flung her hands toward the ceiling, shook the letter as if it were a million dollar check, and screamed, “JACK . . . YOU DID IT!  IT’S FROM AN AGENT!  HE WANTS TO SEE YOUR ENTIRE MANUSCRIPT!”

She threw her arms around me and started jumping up and down like a kid who’d just gotten permission to go to summer camp.  “You did it!  You did it!  You did it!” she said.  “Here, take a look.  It’s from the Bernard Sheehan Agency.  Didn’t you say they were one of the biggest?”

“Yeah, I sure did.”

Slowly I read it aloud, “Dear Mister Phelan, after reading your query letter and the first three chapters of
The Real Ernest Hemingway
, I must say that I am quite enthusiastic about it
. 
If you will, please send me the entire manuscript in an email attachment.  I will be glad to read it in its entirety.  Though it normally takes up to three months for me to get back to an author, I am very impressed with your story and want to expedite the process.  I begin my vacation next Saturday, March 10
th
and
will have sufficient time to read your work.  I should be able to get back to you shortly after I return to my office on the 26
th
. 
Sincerely, Amber
Rinaldi
.”

“Oh Jack, isn’t that great news?”

“You bet it is.  Give me another hug.”

And she did.  Then we opened a bottle of champagne we’d been saving.  Shortly after I’d sent out the query letters, Blanche had bought it at the grocery store and was saving it for just such an occasion.  I can’t tell you how many times I’d opened the refrigerator door and grunted when I saw that green bottle lying on its side in there.  I thought we’d never open it.  

We celebrated on the porch that night and of course, our spirits were high.  But mine weren’t as lofty as Blanche’s.  Sure, with the return of my sanity and the reincarnation of my hopes, I felt really good.  But true to my usual form, I had reservations.  I didn’t tell Blanche, but I had hoped to hear back from Bernard Sheehan himself.  He’s one of the heavyweight agents in New York, not Amber
Rinaldi
.  I’d never heard of her before.