Ernest Hemingway - The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway

“I love you, daughter,” he said. He did not think it was true. But it sounded all right as he said it. “I love you very much and I’m going to try to be very good to you.”

“And you’re going to be jolly.”

“And I’m going to be jolly.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said. “Have we started already?”

“We’re on the road.”

“When will we see the birds?”

“They’re much further in this time of year.”

“Roger.”

“Yes, Bratchen.”

“You don’t have to be jolly if you don’t feel like it. We’ll be jolly enough. You feel however you feel and I’ll be jolly for us both. I can’t help it today.”

He saw on ahead where the road turned to the right and ran northwest through the forest swamp instead of west. That was good. That was really much better. Pretty soon they would come to the big osprey’s nest in the dead cypress tree. They had just passed the place where he had killed the rattlesnake that winter driving through here with David’s mother before Andrew was born. That was the year they both bought Seminole shirts at the trading post at Everglades and wore them in the car. He had given the big rattlesnake to some Indians that had come in to trade and they were pleased with the snake because he had a fine hide and twelve rattles and Roger remembered how heavy and thick he was when he lifted him with his huge, flattened head hanging and how the Indian smiled when he took him. That was the year they shot the wild turkey as he crossed the road that early morning coming out of the mist that was just thinning with the first sun, the cypresses showing black in the silver mist and the turkey brown-bronze and lovely as he stepped onto the road, stepping high-headed, then crouching to run, then flopping on the road.

“I’m fine,” he told the girl. “We get into some nice country now.”

“Where do you think we’ll get to tonight?”

“We’ll find some place. Once we get to the gulf side this breeze will be a sea breeze instead of a land breeze and it will be cool.”

“That will be lovely,” the girl said. “I hated to think of staying the first night in that hotel.”

“We were awfully lucky to get away. I didn’t think we could do it that quickly.”

“I wonder how Tom is.”

“Lonely,” Roger said.

“Isn’t he a wonderful guy?”

“He’s my best friend and my conscience and my father and my brother and my banker. He’s like a saint. Only jolly.”

“I never knew anybody as fine,” she said. “It breaks your heart the way he loves you and the boys.”

“I wish he could have them all summer.”

“Won’t you miss them terribly?”

“I miss them all the time.”

They had put the wild turkey in the back of the seat and he had been so heavy, warm and beautiful with the shining bronze plumage, so different from the blues and blacks of a domestic turkey, and David’s mother was so excited she could hardly speak. And then she had said, “No. Let me hold him. I want to see him again. We can put him away later.” And he had put a newspaper on her lap and she had tucked the bird’s bloodied head under his wing, folding the wing carefully over it, and sat there stroking and smoothing his breast feathers while he, Roger, drove. Finally she said, “He’s cold now” and had wrapped him in the paper and put him in the back of the seat again and said, “Thank you for letting me keep him when I wanted him so much.” Roger had kissed her while he drove and she had said, “Oh Roger we’re so happy and we always will be won’t we?” That was just around this next slanting turn the road makes up ahead. The sun was down to the top of the treetops now. But they had not seen the birds.

“You won’t miss them so much you won’t be able to love me will you?”

“No. Truly.”

“I understand it making you sad. But you were going to be away from them anyway weren’t you?”

“Sure. Please don’t worry, daughter.”

“I like it when you say daughter. Say it again.”

“It comes at the end of a sentence,” he said. “Daughter.”

“Maybe it’s because I’m younger,” she said. “I love the kids. I love them all three, hard, and I think they’re wonderful. I didn’t know there were kids like that. But Andy’s too young for me to marry and I love you. So I forget about them and just am as happy as I can be to be with you.”

“You’re good.”

“I’m not really. I’m awfully difficult. But I do know when I love someone and I’ve loved you ever since I can remember. So I’m going to try to be good.”

“You’re being wonderful.”

“Oh I can be much better than this.”

“Don’t try.”

“I’m not going to for a while. Roger I’m so happy. We’ll be happy won’t we?”

“Yes, daughter.”

“And we can be happy for always can’t we? I know it sounds silly me being Mother’s daughter and you with everyone. But I believe in it and it’s possible. I know it’s possible. I’ve loved you all my life and if that’s possible it’s possible to be happy isn’t it? Say it is anyway.”

“I think it is.”

He’d always said it was. Not in this car though. In other cars in other countries. But he had said it enough in this country too and he had believed it. It would have been possible too. Everything was possible once. It was possible on this road on that stretch that now lay ahead where the canal ran clear and flowing by the right-hand side of the road where the Indian poled his dugout. There was no Indian there now. That was before. When it was possible. Before the birds were gone. That was the other year before the turkey. That year before the big rattlesnake was the year they saw the Indian poling the dugout and the buck in the bow of the dugout with his white throat and chest, his slender legs with the delicate shaped hoofs, shaped like a broken heart, drawn up and his head with the beautiful miniature horns looking toward the Indian. They had stopped the car and spoken to the Indian but he did not understand English and grinned and the small buck lay there dead with his eyes open looking straight at the Indian. It was possible then and for five years after. But what was possible now? Nothing was possible now unless he himself was and he must say the things if there was ever to be a chance of them being true. Even if it were wrong to say them he must say them. They never could be true unless he said them. He had to say them and then perhaps he could feel them and then perhaps he could believe them. And then perhaps they would be true. Perhaps is an ugly word, he thought, but it is even worse on the end of your cigar.

“Have you got cigarettes?” he asked the girl. “I don’t know whether that lighter works.”

“I haven’t tried it. I haven’t smoked. I’ve felt so unnervous.”

“You don’t just smoke when you’re nervous do you?”

“I think so. Mostly.”

“Try the lighter.”

“All right.”

“Who was the guy you married?”

“Oh let’s not talk about him.”

“No. I just meant who was he?”

“No one you know.”

“Don’t you really want to tell me about him?”

“No, Roger. No.”

“All right.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “He was English.”

“Was?”

“Is. But I like was better. Besides you said was.”

“Was is a good word,” he said. “It’s a hell of a lot better word than perhaps.”

“All right. I don’t understand it at all but I believe you. Roger?”

“Yes, daughter.”

“Do you feel any better?”

“Much. I’m fine.”

“All right. I’ll tell you about him. He turned out to be gay. That was it. He hadn’t said anything about it and he didn’t act that way at all. Not at all. Truly. You probably think I’m stupid. But he didn’t in any way. He was absolutely beautiful. You know how they can be. And then I found out about it. Right away of course. The same night actually. Now is it all right not to talk about it?”