Hemingway's Girl by Erika Robuck Page B

hands.
    “If Dad was still alive, you wouldn’t notice me,” said Mariella. “Just pay attention
     to the girls and don’t worry about me.”
    “How can I not worry about you? Do you want to end up with a baby of your own? Do
     you want to end up like me?”
    “I’m not stupid.”
    Her mother snapped back as if she’d been struck.
    “I’m sorry,” said Mariella. “I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”
    The rain started up hard again, and the thunder growled after each flash of lightning.
    “It’s not about
estupidez
,” said Eva. “It’s about desire. Desire wins, Mariella.”
    Mariella didn’t want to talk about desire with her mother.
    “Not for me,” said Mariella.
    She went to the room she shared with her sisters and shut the door. She took off her
     clothes, put on a nightshirt, and crawled into the pallet she slept on near her sisters’
     mattress. Mariella could hear her mother put on Ponce’s
Suite in A Minor
. Hal had bought Eva a portable windup phonograph several years ago, in spite of the
     fact that they could barely afford their house. He used to bring her records whenever
     he could. The melancholy guitar sounds depressed Mariella and made her miss her father.
    At the end of the song, she heard the needle scratch and saw the light go out in the
     hallway. She heard her mother feel along the wall and stop outside her door. Eva opened
     it and stood there for a few minutes. Then she walked to her room and shut the door.
    Mariella was tense. It was hot so she took off her nightshirt and lay naked in her
     bed. The sheet stuck to her, but she didn’t want to pull it down and expose herself
     in a room with her sisters. The cloth settled around the contours of her body with
     a pleasant weight, and Mariella started to relax into the bed.
    It was on hot, frustrating nights like these that Mariella wished she lived alone,
     or maybe with a lover or a husband. Her mind played at what it would be like to marry
     Papa. She thought of their fishing trip together and imagined what it would be like
     to take him right there on the boat. Her mind couldn’t wander too far, however. Guilt
     caused the fantasy to recoil, suppressing the coveting.
    She turned her thoughts to Gavin. Now,
he
was within the realm of possibility. So possible, in fact, that it suddenly scared
     Mariella more than her flirtation with Hemingway. She knew the barrier of Papa’s marriage
     was there, but there were no outside barriers with Gavin. Well, no barriers except
     her mother.
    When they had danced, she’d felt the attraction. It made her heart race. He was as
     tall as Hemingway, but not as thick. She liked the feel of his lean, muscular body.
     She liked the smell of tobacco and aftershave on him.
    She ran her hands down the sheet and felt her body soften.
    But her mother’s words snapped into her mind.
You don’t want to end up like me.
And how right she was. Three daughters, poor, widowed—no, Mariella would not end
     up like Eva.
    Lulu’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.
    Mariella listened to see whether she’d go back to sleep, but the minutes passed and
     the child kept whining. Mariella threw off the sheet, pulled her nightshirt over her
     head, and tiptoed to the bed to quiet her sister so she wouldn’t wake Estelle.
    “What is it, Lu?”
    Her soft, dark curls were wet on her forehead. “I’m hot.”
    Mariella felt her head and was thankful Lulu didn’t feel feverish, just sweaty.
    “How’s your belly?” whispered Mariella.
    “It’s fine,” said Lulu.
    “Good. I’ll be right back.”
    Mariella went to the kitchen to get a cold rag and a cup of water, because a drink
     would be Lulu’s next request. She went back to the room and sat on the edge of the
     bed. She took the cool rag and ran it over Lulu’s head. Then she blew on her softly.
     Lulu closed her eyes and smiled and after a little while said, “I’m thirsty.” Mariella
     produced the cup and gave it to her. She helped her