Four Days With Hemingway's Ghost by Tom Winton

Author:Tom Winton [Winton, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General Fiction, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 9781478160588
Google: A6aIMAEACAAJ
Amazon: 1478160586
Barnesnoble: 1478160586
Goodreads: 15743686
Publisher: Tom Winton
Published: 2012-06-26T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

As Ernest and I made our way past a drug store, a restaurant, a pizza joint and all the rest, I was far too deep in a funereal funk to notice the buildings. Sure, I was glad as hell that I’d remembered who my wife was and that she was such a kind, caring human being. She was a woman so good that her life had always meant more to me than my own. But it was also mentally paralyzing knowing I may never return to her. I’d answered a couple of Ernest’s questions after we passed Blanche’s place, but after that I could no longer make sense of his words. I didn’t try to. I was too embedded in dark worry.

We’d been traipsing two full blocks down the gray sidewalk before Ernest’s words began penetrating my consciousness again. He’d been leaning into my face and talking to me, but until now I’d heard none of it . . . .

“For God’s sake, Jack, pull yourself together. Calm down, son. Nobody has yet said you’re not going back to her.”

“Nobody has said I am either,” I came back, as we stopped to wait for a red light on the corner of Main and Roosevelt. Ernest said nothing more.

When the light turned green, we headed across the street and made our way through a flock of pedestrians crossing from the opposite corner. When we reached the other side, we passed a subway entrance and got into the first cab on line at the curbside taxi stand. The driver was a young guy with long chestnut hair and granny glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He looked like a 1960’s throwback. I figured he was a college student since there were textbooks strewn on the front seat next to him. The cab’s radio had been playing loudly when we first approached, but he switched it off when we climbed in.

Ernest whispered from the side of his mouth, “Tell him we’re heading to the Algonquin Hotel at 59 West 44th.”

I did and then saw the kid’s face light up in the rearview mirror. Manhattan was a good distance away. He’d be able to run up quite a few bucks on the meter. But he had other ideas.

“How about I don’t turn the meter on,” he said, now looking at me in the mirror? “I’ll take you to the hotel for just a flat twenty bucks.”

I turned to Ernest who was shaking his head no. He handed me five crisp, new twenties and whispered, “Tell him to turn the meter on.”

I did. And on the other side of a glass partition the driver disgustedly flung the meter’s metal flag up and “hrmmphhed” one time before pulling away from the curb.

“I thought you guys didn’t deal with money,” I said to Ernest. “You said you didn’t carry any, didn’t need to.”

“When we have to, we do.”

“Where’d you get it?”

Wiggling two fingers in the breast pocket of his beige safari shirt, he said, “I just reached in here, and voila, five double sawbucks.

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