Four Days with Hemingway's Ghost (20 page)

Right away I started thinking,
Amber . . . with a name like that she’s got to be quite young.  What is she, some kind of agent trainee?  Did Bernard Sheehan simply look at my letter and hand it and the three chapters to this Amber?  Not only that, but hadn’t all those other agents already read at least part of my story?  None of them took it!  Who says it’s going to be any different this time?
  

Before going to bed that night, I went online to the agency’s site.  As I suspected, there was a bit there about Amber
Rinaldi
.  She was far and away the youngest agent.  Though she’d graduated from Cornell and had three years editing experience with a publisher, she’d only been an agent for a year.  And there was something else that bothered me.  It also said that she was actively seeking new writers for her list.  Reading between the lines again, I figured she couldn’t have been around long enough to have built solid relationships with any publishers. 

Nevertheless, as we lay in the darkness of our bedroom that night, I felt much better about myself.  I had done the right things that afternoon, and now we had some hope again.  Enough hope that just before I dozed off, I whispered under my breath, “Don’t worry, Ernest.  I won’t let you down.”

Chapter 24

The next two weeks were quite uneventful, and that was fine.  We didn’t get any deeper in debt.  I didn’t lose any more accounts.  And I darn well appreciated having my sanity back.  The possibility of hearing good news from Amber kept me going as well.  She had said she’d be returning to work on Monday the 26
th
, and I was counting the days.  Every evening while checking my emails, I crossed another day off the Defenders of Wildlife calendar tacked to the wall. 

I’d always been an early riser, getting up and about by six o’clock.  But when the big day finally lumbered around, I had coffee brewing by four.  I’d woken up to go to the bathroom, and there was no way I was getting back to sleep.  Perpetually the over-thinker, I always
have
been one to twist, turn, flip and flop every thought. The anticipation was just too much.  I couldn’t wait to hear from Amber. 

When I went to work, the rest of the morning crawled as slowly as a last-legs tortoise.  And the afternoon didn’t move any faster.  Constantly checking my watch and swearing it had died on my wrist, I just couldn’t wait to get home and find out if Amber had called.

“Blanche!” I called out when I finally did come through the door, “
Yo
. . . where are you?”

Flinging my straw hat onto the sofa as if it were a Frisbee, I noticed my dirty, sorry condition in the wall mirror.  I could only shake my head as I headed for the kitchen.

“There you are.” I said as Blanche came through the glass sliders from the backyard. 

“Oh . . . hi,
hon
!
  I had to bring these sheets in from the clothesline.”

“Forget the sheets,” I said after giving her a quick peck, “Did she call?”

“No.  Not yet.  She probably figures you’ve been at work.  I’m sure she will soon.”

“Oh, damn, that’s not a good sign,” I said, going to the refrigerator for a beer.  “I’ve been going out of my head all day long.”

“I’ll bet you have.  Come on now.  Let’s go into the living room.  I’ll get a glass of wine and a beer.”

I drank three cans of beer—no call.  We ate dinner in the recliners while watching TV—still no call.  We went to bed at nine, and that ray of hope had again dimmed.  I was devastated.  This made no sense.  She specifically said she’d call after returning to her office on the 26
th
.  I’d taken the “after” to mean that very day.  For two hours I couldn’t fall asleep.  I rolled from side to side trying to decipher exactly what she’d meant.  And no matter how I looked at it, I was not happy. 

By Tuesday night I was very, very disappointed.  By Wednesday, I was damned angry.  By Thursday I had a full-blown case of what Ernest called the black ass.  But early Friday evening while working on my first beer, the telephone finally rang.

Blanche and I gave each other a wide-eyed, could-that-be-her look.  I took one deep breath, let it out, and picked the wireless from the table between our chairs. 

As if I’d been doing nothing but meditating for the past three torturous weeks, I calmly said, “Hello,” as if it were a question.

“Hello!” said the cheery young voice on the other end.  “Can I please speak to Jack Phelan?”

“This is Jack,” I said.

“Jack, this is Amber
Rinaldi
from the Bernard Sheehan Literary Agency.  How are you today?”

“I’m doing just fine.  It’s good to hear from you . . . I hope.”

She chuckled then said, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t get back to you earlier.  I planned on calling you Monday but didn’t get back to the office until today.  Somebody very close to me passed away and . . . well, I think you know how that goes.”

“Sure I do.  I’m very sorry about your loss.”

“Thank you.  I appreciate that.” 

A short moment passed, but then she continued, “Okay . . . let’s get down to business now.  First I want to tell you that I absolutely loved reading
The Real Ernest Hemingway
.  Mister Sheehan has read it as well, and he, too, is very impressed with it.  So, after talking it over, we’ve decided we would like our agency to represent you.  If you will agree with the terms of our contract, I will do everything I can to make sure your book is published.  We think it could have enormous potential.”

With the phone to my ear, I nodded at Blanche.  Excitedly shaking her small fists, her eyes welled up with tears.  They weren’t just tears of joy but tears also fueled by an immense sense of relief.  She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs.  As I smiled at her, my vision became blurry.  Being the hopelessly emotional sot I am, I felt like I was about to implode.  One breath away from breaking down, I turned my head away from Blanche and managed to hold onto my composure. 

“I would be thrilled to work with you, Amber,” I said.  “Thank you.  Thank you so very much.”

Amber went on to say that she and Mister Sheehan weren’t exactly sure how publishers or the reading public might react to my book being categorized as nonfiction.  But she also said she and Mr. Sheehan were willing to take a chance.  She told me that since they’d both found every single passage so moving and believable, listing it the way I wanted to, as nonfiction just could turn out to be a huge selling point.  And that was another relief.  I didn’t have to tell her that I would never have agreed to categorize it as fiction.

Two days later the contract arrived in the mail.  From the research I’d previously done, it seemed as if all the usual stipulations were in it.  The agency would get fifteen percent of domestic sales—twenty for foreign.  Not once, not twice, but three times Blanche made me read one particular part of the contract aloud.  There was something in there concerning potential film rights.  And boy did that one get us going.  We had a great time fantasizing about that possibility.     

The next morning I signed the contract and hustled it right down to the post office.  I even sprang for the extra money to send it registered mail.  From then on, every day felt like Christmas to Blanche and me.  And after we put out the bedroom light every night, I shared my joy with Ernest Hemingway.  I also thanked God.

Exactly two weeks from the day Amber had called with the good news, Blanche and I got yet another surprise.  South Florida had been going through a dry spell for more than a week, and our lawn was looking rough.  Brown spots the shade of old doormats were spreading quickly.  So one night right after the sun had gone down, Blanche went out front to turn on the sprinkler for a while.  We’d just finished dinner in the recliners and were getting ready to watch a
Cheers
rerun.  I went into the kitchen and rinsed off our plates, and just as I finished and turned off the faucet, I heard a scream.  It was long and guttural, starting off as a shrill and quickly evolving into a full blown scream. 

“HIYEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAA!”
 

Oh my good God! I thought she must have gotten hit by a car.  Talk about blood curdling; this one froze still the blood in my veins.  My heart literally stopped, missed a beat, hesitated, and then finally turned over again.

I bolted out of the kitchen, through the living room, and toward the front door.  But before I got there, she screamed again, “OHHH MYYY GOD!  JAAAAAACK!  COME QUICK!  HURRY!  I BROKE MY LEG!” 

Charging outside, I ran to where she was laying on her back and dropped knees first to the grass.

“Oh, Jack,” she cried, “I broke my leg or my ankle.”

“Calm down, honey,” I said stroking her damp hair as the oscillating sprinkler showered us with water.  “Maybe you just sprained your ankle.”

With the excruciating pain rushing her desperate frightened words out, she said, “NO!  NO!  It isn’t sprained!  I heard my bone crack!  I think it’s my ankle!  I stepped into that little hole we’ve been meaning to fill up and twisted it!  When I went down, my foot was stuck in the hole!  I heard it crack!  Oh my God, call an ambulance. 
Hurry!”

She was wearing shorts and flip flops, and in the dim light I saw a bulge on her ankle the size of a small cantaloupe.  Gently I touched it with my finger tips.  It was nasty.  As the sprinkler doused us with water another time, I said, “Honey, maybe you just sprained it.  Come on.  Let me help you inside.  We’ll put some ice on it.”

“
Godammit
, Jack, NOOO!  IT’S BROKEN!  Please, just get me to the hospital!”

I grabbed her under the arms and lifted her up.  She put her arm around my shoulders, and I helped her slowly, painfully hop to her Hyundai
Elantra
.  With both of us soaking wet by now and with dead grass and sand all over Blanche’s back and in her hair, I sped off to Palm Beach General.

“God, oh God, why did this have to happen, Jack?  The pain is killing me.  I don’t know how much longer I can take it.” 

Lord, how I wished I could take her suffering for her.  Looking at her alongside me, I gritted my teeth so hard they should have broken.  She was slumped against the door with her head leaning against the window.  It was getting dark by now, and as we tore past a streetlight, its somber glow flashed through the windshield and over her face.  I could see all her deep pain scrunched up in it. 

“Son of a bitch!”
I blurted slamming my fist on the top of the dashboard.  “WHY?  WHY didn’t I fill that fucking hole?  I am so sorry, honey.”

With pain lacing her words, she said in a weak, scared tone, “It’s not your fault, Jack.  We’ve both twisted our ankles in that thing a few times.  I was going to fill it myself but kept forgetting about it, too.”

“I meant to do it last weekend when I went out to cut the grass,” I said swinging a hard left into the hospital parking lot.  “I was going to fill the damned thing when I finished the lawn.  Shit, it isn’t even a hole—just a three inch depression.”

I slammed to a stop in front of the emergency entrance and raced inside.  Two nurses rushed back outside with me, and we carefully loaded Blanche into a wheelchair.  It was just after eight o’clock when they took Blanche into a small room adjacent to the Friday-night-crowded waiting area.  Sitting upright in a chair alongside the bed and stroking the back of her hand, I watched as a nurse asked Blanche questions; then took her pulse and blood pressure.  When she was finished, the pert redhead elevated the back of the bed so that Blanche was almost sitting up.  She
put an ice pack on her ankle and asked, “On a scale of one to ten, how bad is the pain” Blanche told her it was a ten, and then the nurse was gone.

About every thirty minutes for the next two hours, that nurse or another poked her head into the doorway and asked how she was doing.  Each time Blanche said, “Not good,” and again the nurse would disappear. 

By a quarter to ten, I was pissed.  Still no doctor had come.  I knew that a break like Blanche’s was something that couldn’t be taken lightly.  I’d heard that blood clots could form and actually endanger a person’s life.  My wife’s ankle and now her foot were swollen and red.  As unsightly as they were, things then got downright ugly.  For years Blanche had occasionally gotten bad cramps in her feet—not all that often, maybe every three or four months.  And they were always short lived, usually lasting only about a minute.  But they were very painful.  And now, of all the times for it to happen, she felt one coming on.

“Oh shit, Jack,” she said, “I feel a cramp coming on.”

“Oh no, don’t say that.  Not now.”

“I feel it.  It hurts.  Good Lord, please no.  Not now. 
Owww
! 
Ow
,
ow
,
ow
!  Look at them.  Look at my toes!”

Red as they’d been, they were now turning crimson.  Her ankle was badly shattered—not broken—but shattered.  Her toes clenched tighter and tighter, and they got even redder.  All the joints were turning white.  And as if someone had tightened a vice on her excruciating ankle, Blanche let out a scream that made the ones on the lawn sound like whispers.