Hemingway's Student by Paul Hendrickson

Author:Paul Hendrickson [Hendrickson, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2015-07-21T00:00:00+00:00

That same year, an ex-hobo, who must still have been carrying somewhere inside dreams of becoming a recognized writer, sold a second story to Esquire. It was called “One Too Many,” and it picked up some of the old Mexico adventures. He wrote about its acceptance to his mentor, and from Cuba came a wire of congratulation, care of Mesquite Lumber Company: HAPPIEST YOUR SALE ESQUIRE VERY PROUD SURE YOULL SELL OTHERS IF STORES AS GOOD AS YOUR LETTERS BEST LUCK ERNEST. That December, in his Christmas card, Hemingway wrote: “Dear Maestro: Love to you and your family and congratulations on all the good work this year. Best always. Ernest.” But for whatever reason, “One Too Many” didn’t get published.

The “abused share cropper of the high seas”—as Hemingway had once mocked him in a letter to a mutual acquaintance—was in his mid-forties by now, still fit, with a goatee. Late at night, he’d sit with his shoes and socks off in his favorite corner, next to the immense fireplace that he’d set into mortar, rock by rock. He’d be reading, or playing his violin, or studying Russian, or recording things onto cassette tapes, or making journal entries, or just puffing on a homemade pipe. His family was aware of a long-ago manuscript he’d drafted in the company of Ernest Hemingway—that’s about all they knew. He’d grown increasingly reticent around them, especially his children.

But in other ways, his eccentricities raged. He enjoyed dressing like the rag-picker’s son. He carved his sandals from rubber tires. He wore his belt over top of the loops—he’d learned to do that on Pilar. He’d show up in Robert Lee on a Saturday wearing three and four hats stacked on top of one another. He’d drive through town in his beat-up pickup with his beloved horse Bozo in the rear and then let the nag out to graze on the courthouse lawn—where was the city ordinance that prohibited it? He walked through the streets sawing away on his violin, acknowledging no one. He’d sit in the back of the Baptist church and sing loudly and off-key and out of synch with the rest of the congregation—and stay afterward to offer a point-by-point critique of the pastor’s sermon. He’d start arguments with the Ford dealer or the guy who had the hardware store, and then quote to them arcane points of tort law, for he’d become something of a self-taught lawyer, having scrounged out-of-date Texas law books at garage sales. Still, most of it seemed harmless enough, the various actings-out of a Coke County crank.

Harmless? There’s a cartoon of him that his daughter drew—she might have been perhaps seven or eight at the time, so this would have meant the early fifties. It’s of a figure with horns and huge teeth and menacing eyes and a pointy tail and freakish-looking ears and an ugly stubble of whiskers. The caption bubbles surrounding the monster: “Ears that hear everything.” “I am boss.” “Fool.” “Take your bath.”

If that was the scary father, there was the good one, too, only you never quite knew when he would show.

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