Hemingways cats, p.5
Hemingway's Cats, page 5
Rooster squinted his eyes, took one look at the address, and sighed. “Oh, I’m sorry. You can’t get there from here.”
“What?”
“It’s just not possible.”
“Not possible? Are you kidding?”
Rooster saw the alarmed look on Laura’s face and immediately fessed up. “Of course I’m kidding! Of course you can get there from here! Sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you out.”
Laura breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s okay. It’s been a freaky day. So, this address . . . is it close by? Can I walk there in fifteen minutes or so?”
“With all that baggage you’re carrying? Maybe. You’d be cutting it close, though.”
Laura groaned. “Well, I’d better get moving then. Can you point me in the right direction?”
Rooster cleared his throat. “Well, you’re on Whitehead now. If you go that way for about seven, no, maybe ten blocks or so, and then turn left and another left, no, right, wait . . . what’s the street number again?”
Laura had the sinking feeling that she wasn’t going to make it on time when she heard something in the distance. It sounded like reggae music, and it was growing louder every second. Suddenly, without warning, a car came roaring down the street and screeched to a stop behind her.
It was a bright pink taxicab with palm tree decals and musical notes on the side.
“Need a ride, miss?”
* * *
It wasn’t by accident that Mama Marley showed up at the Hemingway House just when Laura needed a ride. It wasn’t luck or fate either. Nor was it a weird hunch or mental telepathy or some kind of Caribbean magic that Mama learned from her Jamaican grandmother. No, it was really quite simple, and Mama didn’t waste any time explaining it to Laura.
“You forgot to pay me.”
“Oh! I’m sorry,” said Laura, sliding into the back seat with her bags. “I guess I got a little flustered because of, you know . . .”
“Those damn birds.”
“They were hungry.”
“They’re a menace.” Mama shook her head and revved up the engine. “So where are we going? Far away from these chickens and cats, I hope.”
Laura gave Mama the address on Southard Street. “This is where I’ll be staying.”
Mama squinted and made a face. “You’re staying at the Crabb house? Really?”
“Yes. Why? Is something wrong?”
Mama didn’t answer, just shook her head, cranked up the music, and started driving.
Laura sat back and tried to enjoy the ride. Which was impossible. The reggae music was too loud, the car brakes were too squeaky, and the anticipation of finally meeting the famous (or infamous?) Crabb sisters was making her more than a little nervous. She turned on her phone to take another look at the roommate ad she answered:
SUNNY PRIVATE ROOM FOR RENT IN CHARMING BUNGALOW. Enjoy the flora & fauna of Key West in this perfectly located house share. Close to bars, restaurants, tourist sites, and marina. Female preferred for summer share or longer. Apply to Jilly & Jolene Crabb at . . .
It sounded perfect.
A little too perfect, perhaps? Laura had to wonder. The sisters certainly sounded nice on the phone. Or at least the one sister she talked to—Jolene—sounded nice. She didn’t speak to the other one. Jilly. For all Laura knew, Jilly was a raving psycho or an axe murderess or—
“I’m going to circle around the cemetery,” said Mama Marley. “Southard is one-way.”
Laura looked up from her phone. They were heading down a palm-shaded street lined with pastel-colored cottages and white picket fences. But the scenery changed abruptly when they reached the cemetery. The sky opened up above them, and the sun blazed down on a large, open expanse of white parched gravestones and blocky mausoleums surrounded by a wrought-iron fence.
As they drove by, Mama Marley took her right hand off the steering wheel and made the sign of the cross. “Always honor the dead. That’s what my grandma taught me.”
Laura read the words above the cemetery’s entrance gate. “‘A Los Martires de Cuba.’”
“For the martyrs of Cuba,” Mama explained. “They were freedom fighters of the revolution. There’s a lot of history in that old cemetery. But my favorite is the gravestone that reads: ‘I Told You I Was Sick.’ Ha!”
Laura laughed as they turned onto another postcard-pretty street. The homes here were just so beautiful and charming, like gingerbread houses decorated with pastel frosting and surrounded by lush little gardens full of tropical plants and flowers. Some of the homes were two full stories tall with wraparound balconies and verandas. A few were actually quite large and even had swimming pools, sparkling oases of shimmering blue against the bright green foliage and candy-colored siding.
“Wow, look at these homes,” Laura whispered in awe. “I can’t believe I’m going to be living in such a fancy neighborhood.”
Mama shot her a look in the rearview mirror. “Don’t get too excited,” she said. “The Crabb house is the one coming up on the right.”
Laura leaned forward to get a first glimpse of her new home.
“Oh. I see. It’s very . . .”
“Shabby? Run-down?”
“I was going to say pink.”
“Were you now?” Mama said with a laugh. “My senior prom corsage was pink, too. But now? It’s like that house. Dried up, faded, and ready to crumble.”
“Yeah, I guess it could use a fresh coat of paint.”
“Couldn’t we all,” Mama mumbled. She stopped the car, popped the trunk, and got out to retrieve Laura’s luggage.
Laura climbed out of the cab and onto the sidewalk, her eyes glued to the very small, very pale pink house in front of her. It was a typical Key West bungalow, short and narrow with an angled tin roof, covered porch, and white picket fence around a tiny front yard. The railings, shutters, and trim were painted white, which was very cute, but it was hard to see the details because of the wildly overgrown plants in the yard—which was probably for the best. Nestled among the dense foliage was a veritable flea market of odds and ends: a clamshell-shaped birdbath, a moss-covered mermaid statue, a spouting whale fountain, a fisherman’s net full of shells and sea glass, a cracked mosaic sundial, a mirrored gazing ball, and a wildly eclectic assortment of bird feeders and wind chimes hanging from the trees. Leaning on the side of the house was a large inflatable dolphin next to a small wooden structure that looked like it could be either a chicken coop or a rabbit hutch.
You said you like animals, right?
Jake’s words echoed in her head, only to be drowned out by something even more ominous: an extremely loud, birdlike squawk inside the house.
Awwwwrrrrrk!!!
Mama Marley let out a yelp and dropped Laura’s luggage on the sidewalk. “Oh, I really don’t like the sound of that,” she said. “Quick, pay me so I can get the heck out of here.”
Laura dug her credit card out of her purse and handed it to the cabdriver. Mama didn’t waste any time. She processed the charge, handed Laura’s card back, and hit the gas pedal so fast and hard Laura didn’t have a chance to say thanks again. All she could do was wave good-bye as the taxicab turned the corner, taking its reggae music along with it. Reaching down for her luggage, she took a deep breath and prepared herself for . . . well, whatever was in that house.
“Welcome to Margaritaville, roomie!”
“Yes, welcome! Let us help you with those bags!”
Laura looked up to see two women in their mid-twenties—identical twins, apparently—crossing the front yard of the bungalow. They made quite a striking pair, with their long black hair, big brown eyes, and sultry yet classical features. They reminded Laura of foreign film stars from the 1960s. Their bodies looked ridiculously taut and tanned in their matching khaki shorts and yellow bikini tops. Obviously the Crabb sisters were very athletic—they sailed and scuba dived for a living, after all—and Laura might have felt intimidated if they didn’t seem so incredibly nice, too.
“Come on inside. It’s crazy stupid hot out here.”
“Yeah, you must be melting. It doesn’t get this hot in Syracuse, does it?”
“You look flushed. Are you okay? You might be experiencing heatstroke.”
“You should probably take a shower to cool off.”
The Crabb sisters kept talking—pretty much nonstop—as they grabbed Laura’s bags and ushered her into the bungalow. As soon as they stepped inside, Laura felt a lovely cool breeze on her face from a pair of large ceiling fans with blades shaped like palm leaves. She tried glancing around the room, but her eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dimmer light yet to see anything. She closed her eyes, waited a few seconds, then opened them again to take in her new home.
“Whoa!” she gasped.
It was a lot to take in.
And Laura thought the yard was packed full of flea market finds. The inside of the house could have been the actual flea market where those finds were found. The space was basically two medium-sized rooms divided by an arch with a narrow staircase on one side and a bamboo tiki bar on the other. Both rooms were colorful, cluttered, and crammed full of bizarre and interesting items. It would probably take Laura all summer to properly examine every oddball knickknack and thingamabob. The living room was painted a pale lime green, which perfectly complemented the pale turquoise walls of the dining room. The ceiling was a muted pink, and the fans yellow. The furniture was a mix-and-match assortment of salvaged antiques, shabby chic stuffed armchairs, and what Laura could only assume were random treasures found in the trash. The combination of colors, styles, and dumpster dive doodads made for quite an eyeful.
But it wasn’t the décor that made Laura gasp.
It was the wildlife.
Nestled among the shell-studded lampshades, dancing hula girl dolls, and vintage framed photographs of old bearded sea captains was an impressive variety of large glass aquariums, animal tanks, and birdcages. The largest of the cages filled the entire corner of the dining room. It had Victorian-style turrets and gables and made a magnificently grand home for a magnificently grand parrot.
Awwwwrrrrrk!!!
“Polly, hush!” said Jolene—or maybe it was Jilly. “Don’t squawk at our new roommate. Her name is Laura. Can you say ‘Laura’?”
The large, brightly colored parrot tilted her head to one side, then the other, then opened her beak and started to sing, “Working nine to fiiiiiiive . . .”
Laura burst out laughing.
The Crabb sister rolled her eyes and sighed. “She loves Dolly Parton. Knows all her songs. That’s why we named her Polly Parton.”
“That’s perfect,” said Laura. “I love Dolly. And Polly.” She glanced at the other cages and tanks in the room. “So who are these other . . . uh, roommates?”
The other sister took a deep breath. “Oh, yeah, well, this could take a while. Jilly, could you grab my bag in my room while I introduce Laura to the family?”
“Sure,” said Jilly, heading to the stairs. “Make it fast, though. That nice family from Kansas is expecting us at ten. And did I mention that they’ve got two gorgeous college-aged sons who, I’m guessing, have never snorkeled before?” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively and dashed up the stairs.
Jolene turned to Laura and lowered her voice. “You have to forgive Jilly. She’s boy crazy. Which is why I advertised for a female roommate. Can you imagine if she dated and dumped some poor boy who lived with us? Things would get pretty weird around here.”
“I can imagine,” said Laura, shooting a glance at the aquariums and cages. “So, um . . . show me your pets.”
“Animal companions,” said Jolene, pulling Laura toward a brightly lit tank. “This is Antony and Cleopatra. They’re tarantulas.”
“I see. Very cute. And furry.”
“And these are the lovebirds over here.” She pointed to a cage with two separate perches, each with a small colorful bird sitting on it. “We thought they’d be super affectionate and loving, being lovebirds and all, but I don’t think they like each other very much. We named them Romeo and Juliet. It’s a tragedy.”
“Yes, it is.”
“And over here are our box turtles, Rocky and Rambo. One of them is female, but we’re not sure which. They both look like tough guys to me.”
Laura studied the turtles through the glass. They looked perfectly identical. Just like Jolene and Jilly. I’ll have to figure out a way to tell them apart, she told herself.
“And in this corner,” Jolene went on, “is the super handsome and super cool Iggy Popstar. He’s an iguana.”
“Yes, he is,” said Laura, admiring the elegant way the green lizard held a pose on his rock. “Super handsome and super cool.”
“We need to find Iggy a partner. I just can’t imagine going through life all alone. Jilly and I always try to adopt our animals in pairs.”
“A regular Noah’s ark.”
“You never know when the next big flood will hit.”
Jolene glanced at her waterproof sports watch and started picking up the pace. She rushed through a seemingly endless collection of tropical fish, most of whom were named after famous pop music duos of the 1970s: Sonny and Cher, Peaches and Herb, Captain and Tennille, Elton John and Kiki Dee, Ike and Tina Turner, John and Yoko. A pair of angelfish, however, were named after Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.
“And who lives in here?” asked Laura, leaning over an empty glass tank lined with sand, some rocks, and a large dried branch.
Jolene turned and looked. Then she sighed heavily and shouted toward the stairs, “Jilly! Have you seen Sammy? He got out of his tank again!”
“No, I haven’t seen him,” said Jilly, descending the stairs with Jolene’s bag. “We don’t have time to look for him now. We have to go. Those corn-fed Kansas boys are waiting.”
Jolene looked at Laura apologetically. “I’m sorry we’re in such a rush. After work, we’ll take you out for dinner and have some awesome key lime pie . . .”
“And margaritas!”
“Maybe. Laura’s probably exhausted from her trip.” She turned back to Laura. “You can unpack and take a shower while we’re gone. Your room is through the kitchen there. It’s a converted sun-room but really nice.”
“Sounds great. Thanks.” Laura gathered up her luggage and headed to her room.
The Crabb sisters waited until she was gone, then started whispering.
“She seems cool.”
“Yeah, I like her.”
“Do you think the animals freaked her out?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
A short, muffled scream came from the back room.
The sisters froze. “Laura? Are you all right?”
Laura shouted back, “I’m fine! But I have to ask. Is Sammy a snake?”
“Yes! He is!” shouted Jolene, grimacing.
“What color?” asked Jilly, suppressing a giggle.
“Orange and yellow!” Laura yelled back. “He matches the bedspread!”
“Oh,” said Jilly. “That’s not Sammy!”
“It’s not?!!”
“No,” said Jolene. “That’s Delilah!”
Chapter 4
Key West After Dark
The typical Key West tourist may not know a lot about the life and literature of Ernest Hemingway—maybe they skipped reading The Sun Also Rises in high school—but they definitely know two essential facts about the quirky little island Hemingway called home:
The sun also sets there.
And it is glorious.
Every evening, as that blazing orb in the sky makes its slow, lazy descent into the shimmering waters of the Gulf of Mexico, hundreds of people head to Mallory Square and the nearby piers to watch one of Key West’s magnificent, world-famous sunsets. It is a time-honored tradition here, one that feels more like a pop-up carnival than a natural daily occurrence. Local musicians and artists, street magicians and jugglers, jewelry makers and souvenir peddlers fill the square to entertain the crowds and—they hope—make a few bucks. Which can be quite a challenge. Most of their potential customers and tippers can barely take their eyes off the spectacular light show in the sky. Who can blame them? With each passing minute, the view only gets more dramatic, more dazzling, more Instagram-ready. As the sun sinks lower and the colors gleam brighter, the sightseers drift closer to the water’s edge. Clutching their cameras, smartphones, and selfie sticks, they wait for the perfect moment to capture the perfect image for the perfect social media post. No Photoshop required.
Greetings from Key West! Wish you were here!
Not everyone is taking pictures, though.
Standing among the photo op seekers and selfie takers, a young college grad from Syracuse, New York, stares in awe at the brilliant display of blood-orange waters, raspberry clouds, and deep purple haze. It doesn’t even occur to her to pull out her phone and take a picture. She’s too overwhelmed, too . . . happy? excited? . . . just to be right here, right now, gazing at the sky over Key West. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she was looking up at the sky over Syracuse and worrying about her future. Now here she is. Living in the moment. Not thinking about anything. Just taking in that incredible, gorgeous sunset.
And waiting for her new roommates to decide on a place for dinner.
“Pepe’s has the best key lime pie,” says Jilly.
“You think? I prefer Kermit’s,” says Jolene.
“Whatever. What are you in the mood for, Laura?”
The grad student from Syracuse smiles gently, her eyes fixed on the horizon.
“Anything,” she says. “Everything.”
* * *
Meanwhile, at the Hemingway House . . .
Ernestine the cat—better known as Nessie—sat upright in her favorite spot on the front porch and watched the glowing red sun disappear behind the palm trees.
She knew what that meant.
It meant that the temperature would drop—and the cats would come out, restless and frisky after napping half the day in whatever shade they could find.
It meant that the gardening crew would start packing up their shovels and shears, bagging up their trimmings, and loading up their truck for the night.
