Paula McLain: The Paris Wife

The knee is nearly enough on its own, but there’s a whole package of a man attached, tall and lean, with a lot of very dark hair and a dimple in his left cheek you could fall into. His friends call him Hemingstein, Oinbones, Bird, Nesto, Wemedge, anything they can dream up on the spot. He calls Kate Stut or Butstein (not very flattering!), and another fellow Little Fever, and yet another Horney or the Great Horned Article. He seems to know everyone, and everyone seems to know the same jokes and stories. They telegraph punch lines back and forth in code, lightning fast and wisecracking. I can’t keep up, but I don’t mind really. Being near these happy strangers is like a powerful transfusion of good cheer.

When Kate wanders over from the vicinity of the kitchen, he points his perfect chin at me and says, “What should we name our new friend?”

“Hash,” Kate says.

“Hashedad’s better,” he says. “Hasovitch.”

“And you’re Bird?” I ask.

“Wem,” Kate says.

“I’m the fellow who thinks someone should be dancing.” He smiles with everything he’s got, and in very short order, Kate’s brother Kenley has kicked the living room carpet to one side and is manning the Victrola. We throw ourselves into it, dancing our way through a stack of records. He’s not a natural, but his arms and legs are free in their joints, and I can tell that he likes being in his body. He’s not the least shy about moving in on me either. In no time at all our hands are damp and clenched, our cheeks close enough that I can feel the very real heat of him. And that’s when he finally tells me his name is Ernest.

“I’m thinking of giving it away, though. Ernest is so dull, and Hemingway? Who wants a Hemingway?”

Probably every girl between here and Michigan Avenue , I think, looking at my feet to keep from blushing. When I look up again, he has his brown eyes locked on me.

“Well? What do you think? Should I toss it out?”

“Maybe not just yet.”

A slow number starts, and without asking, he reaches for my waist and scoops me toward his body, which is even better up close. His chest is solid and so are his arms. I rest my hands on them lightly as he backs me around the room, past Kenley cranking the Victrola with glee, past Kate giving us a long, curious look. I close my eyes and lean into Ernest, smelling bourbon and soap, tobacco and damp cotton-and everything about this moment is so sharp and lovely, I do something completely out of character and just let myself have it.

There’s a song from that time by Nora Bayes called “Make Believe,” which might have been the most lilting and persuasive treatise on self-delusion I’d ever heard. Nora Bayes was beautiful, and she sang with a trembling voice that told you she knew things about love. When she advised you to throw off all the old pain and worry and heartache and smile -well, you believed she’d done this herself. It wasn’t a suggestion but a prescription. The song must have been a favorite of Kenley’s, too. He played it three times the night I arrived in Chicago, and each time I felt it speaking directly to me: Make believe you are glad when you’re sorry. Sunshine will follow the rain .

I’d had my share of rain. My mother’s illness and death had weighed on me, but the years before had been heavy, too. I was only twenty-eight, and yet I’d been living like a spinster on the second floor of my older sister Fonnie’s house while she and her husband, Roland, and their four dear beasts lived downstairs. I hadn’t meant for things to stay this way. I assumed I’d get married or find a career like my school friends. They were harried young mothers now, schoolteachers or secretaries or aspiring ad writers, like Kate. Whatever they were, they were living their lives, out there doing it, making their mistakes. Somehow I’d gotten stuck along the way-long before my mother’s illness-and I didn’t know how to free myself exactly.

Sometimes, after playing an hour of passable Chopin, I’d collapse onto the sofa or the carpet, feeling whatever energy I’d had while playing leave my body. It was terrible to feel so empty, as if I were nothing. Why couldn’t I be happy? And just what was happiness anyway? Could you fake it, as Nora Bayes insisted? Could you force it like a spring bulb in your kitchen, or rub up against it at a party in Chicago and catch it like a cold?

Ernest Hemingway was still very much a stranger to me, but he seemed to do happiness all the way up and through. There wasn’t any fear in him that I could see, just intensity and aliveness. His eyes sparked all over everything, all over me as he leaned back on his heel and spun me toward him. He tucked me fast against his chest, his breath warm on my neck and hair.

“How long have you known Stut?” he asked.

“We went to grade school together in St. Louis, at Mary Institute. What about you?”

“You want my whole educational pedigree? It’s not much.”

“No,” I laughed. “Tell me about Kate.”

“That would fill a book, and I’m not sure I’m the fellow to write it.” His voice was light, still teasing, but he’d stopped smiling.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” he said. “The short and sweet part is our families both have summer cottages up near Petoskey. That’s Michigan to a southerner like you.”

“Funny that we both grew up with Kate.”

“I was ten to her eighteen. Let’s just say I was happy to grow up alongside her. With a nice view of the scenery.”

“You had a crush, in other words.”

“No, those are the right words,” he said, then looked away.

I’d obviously touched some kind of nerve in him, and I didn’t want to do it again. I liked him smiling and laughing and loose. In fact, my response to him was so powerful that I already knew I would do a lot to keep him happy. I changed the subject fast.

“Are you from Chicago?”

“Oak Park. That’s right up the street.”

“For a southerner like me.”

“Precisely.”

“Well, you’re a bang-up dancer, Oak Park.”

“You too, St. Louis.”

The song ended and we parted to catch our breath. I moved to one side of Kenley’s long living room while Ernest was quickly swallowed up by admirers-women, naturally. They seemed awfully young and sure of themselves with their bobbed hair and brightly rouged cheeks. I was closer to a Victorian holdout than a flapper. My hair was still long, knotted at the nape of my neck, but it was a good rich auburn color, and though my dress wasn’t up to the minute, my figure made up for that, I thought. In fact, I’d been feeling very good about the way I looked the whole time Ernest and I were dancing-he was so appreciative with those eyes!-but now that he was surrounded by vivacious women, my confidence was waning.

“You seemed awfully friendly with Nesto,” Kate said, appearing at my elbow.

“Maybe. Can I have the rest of that?” I pointed to her drink.

“It’s rather volcanic.” She grimaced and passed it over.

“What is it?” I put my face to the rim of the glass, which was close enough. It smelled like rancid gasoline.

“Something homemade. Little Fever handed it to me in the kitchen. I’m not sure he didn’t cook it up in his shoe.”

Over against a long row of windows, Ernest began parading back and forth in a dark blue military cape someone had dug up. When he turned, the cape lifted and flared dramatically.

“That’s quite a costume,” I said.

“He’s a war hero, didn’t he tell you?”

I shook my head.

“I’m sure he’ll get to it eventually.” Her face didn’t give anything away, but her voice had an edge.

“He told me he used to pine for you.”