martinsmithstories

Image by MasterTux from Pixabay

A week of life as a bohemian had left Hemingway bored and, to be truthful, still a little blue. As Mary sat at the dining table, lost in a world of spreadsheets, price-earnings ratios and investment tips, he sat in his recliner and mulled. The sharp, vinegary after-taste of cask wine, coupled with queasiness from churning over what he hadn’t done yet to ensure the success of his grant application, dampened any urge to use his free time creatively or productively.

He released a yawn when Mary mumbled something about put options, followed by the dull thuds of her middle finger on the laptop touchpad. He placed his elbows on the recliner’s arms and twiddled his thumbs until a smile came over his face, and he looked over at his wife and released a polite cough.

‘Sorry to interrupt your number crunching, my dear, but I must tell you that if I’m to get this grant, then I need to stand out from the pack.’

‘The citronella candle is in the laundry. You’ll need it.’

‘What on earth for?’

‘If you are going to stand out at the back. The mosquitoes are terrible this time of year.’

‘I said stand out from the pack, not stand out at the back. Sometimes, Mary, I swear you don’t give me your full attention.’

‘Oh, but I do, Hem.’

‘Anyway, as I was saying, I need to stand out from the pack if I’m to succeed in getting this grant. I believe I need to do something about my able-bodiedness. And I’ve come up with a brilliant idea.’

‘And what’s that, my dearest Hem? I await with full attention, open-mindedness and wifely countenance.’

‘I appreciate that, my dear. Look, I’ve decided to disable myself. I’m going to have my right thumb removed. I don’t really need it. Not for the essentials, anyway. I’ll still be able to use a corkscrew, hold a wine class and pat Barnie, not to mention hold you in my loving arms. And just think of the implausibility of it. A writer missing a thumb! I can hear the assessors’ groans of empathy already. It’s a real box-ticker. I’ll admit I’ll have trouble trying to hit the space bar on the keyboard, but I’ll adapt. Then again, James Joyce got away with that stream-of-consciousness stuff without using a space bar.’

‘I think you’ll find Mr Joyce eliminated punctuation, not spaces, Hem.’

‘Punctuation, spaces, whatever. You just have to pick up Ulysses and know there’s a writer who has ground his right thumb to the nub. And might I refer you to Exhibit A: Gisele Freund’s James Joyce’s Hands? Not a right thumb in sight. Proves my point. And look how successful Joyce was. He was a pack stand-outer. Bet if the assessors took one look at his right hand in the flesh, they’d be throwing grant cash at him.’

‘And how do you propose removing your thumb, Hem?’

‘Quite simple, my dear. I’ll pop into Basil’s next door and borrow his bench saw. A dram of Macallan’s and a stiff upper lip and, whizz, it’ll be off, and I’ll be running all the way to the bank with my grant cheque.’

Next day, a long, harrowing scream came from Basil’s workshed. Roars of agony followed, only to be drowned out by the wailing of a rapidly approaching ambulance. Neighbours gathered on nature strips and stood in solemn silence as the paramedics rushed a bleeding patient into the back of their vehicle. Neighbours gossiped on nature strips and collapsed in roars of laughter, only to be drowned out by the wailing of a rapidly departing ambulance.

The doors of the Emergency Department boomed open, and a team of medics rushed towards and surrounded a screaming, writhing, pale Hemingway on his stretcher.

‘A priest! A priest! My wine cellar for a last-rites priest!’ he shouted.

‘Stat,’ the intern said.

‘Cask my blood, harvest my organs, but bury my palate at Wounded Knee!’

‘Stat,’ the resident said.

‘What light through yonder Frankenstein’s breaks?’

‘Stat,’ the registrar said.

‘Il mio sangue mi sta soffocando! Muoio maledetto! Io muoio! Io muoio! Io muoio!’

‘Stat?’ a nurse said as she jabbed a huge needle into Hemingway’s arm.

‘Friends, applaud, the comedy is over—’

Next morning, Hemingway sat in a wheelchair before the Discharge desk. His shoulders hunched, drool hung from his bottom lip and his unfocused eyes drifted about.

‘Mrs Whyte,’ the specialist said, ‘you can take Mr Whyte home now.’

‘Oh, Dr Hansom, please call me Mary.’ She fluttered her eyelashes. ‘And thank you. It’s been quite a shock for my Hem.’

‘Our pleasure, Mrs Whyte. And please assure Mr Whyte that his broken fingernail will fully recover, though he will be a person with disability for a week or two.’

Hemingway’s head shot up. He wiped the drool with his left hand and focused his eyes on Mary.

‘Quick, Mary,’ he whispered, ‘home at once. There’s not a second to waste. I need to update my grant application with my disability status. Only two weeks left before the successful applicants are announced!’

As Mary wheeled Hemingway out the exit, he turned and looked back at Dr Hansom and grinned and raised his hand and gave the doctor a heavily bandaged thumbs-up.

***

That night, Hemingway sat in his recliner and flicked through the pages of Wine Monthly. Normally, he spent hours poring over the Specials and placing neat ticks against potential buys. He would allow himself a smug chuckle when he multiplied the catalogue price by the number of units stored in the cellar below his feet. But not tonight. He rushed through the journal in three minutes and spent the next five minutes staring at the tassels on his loafers. He looked up and saw his wife curled up on the lounge before the TV. He released a polite cough.

‘Mary, I’m contemplating coming over to your side.’

‘That’d be lovely, Hem. Nothing nicer than cuddling up together on the sofa and watching a Scandinavian thriller.’

‘That’s not what I’m referring to. I mean, I’m thinking of becoming a woman, of having gender reassignment surgery to up my grant chances. Seems like most writing grants are awarded to women these days.’

‘And deservedly so, I say.’

‘Well, if I can’t beat them, I might as well join them. Might as well take advantage of my script for painkillers.’

‘That does sound a trifle over the top, if I may say so, Hem. Have you ever thought about crowd-funding? It’s a lot easier and so much less painful. Besides, I am very fond of your little boy bits down there.’

‘Come, Mary. Don’t be selfish. Think of the principle, the greater good. No, you’ve convinced me. I’ll just pop down tomorrow morning to Doctor Schnapps’s for a referral.’

‘Are you sure you know what you’re taking on? Or should I say “taking off”? Being a woman is not all that easy.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Where do I start? The misogyny, the pay gap, the pain of childbirth, hormones, menopause, butting one’s head on the glass ceiling, housework, pink taxes, waxing, plucking, toilet queues, Boxing Day sales stampedes. I could go on and on, Hem. And don’t even get me started on the hair.’

‘Yes, yes, I see your point, my dear. But I’m prepared to make such a sacrifice if it will enhance my chances of grant success.’

‘There are other options, you know.’

‘Really? Like what?’

‘Like, for example, declaring yourself as identifying as non-binary.’

‘Non-spinary, you say? What, be spineless? Like the rest of the males in my family?’

‘No, not non-spinary, Hem. Non-binary. To not identify exclusively as a man or a woman.’

‘What, like those LGB-alphabet-soup types?’

‘No, that’s one’s sexual orientation. Who you have sex with. You know, like the other night with Cleaver, Clover with an A and the donkey. Non-binary is about one’s gender identity. Who you have sex as. You can identify as anything you want.’

‘Oh, I see. So that’s what the Gender Identity section of the grant application form is about. Well, I’ll admit, my dear, the press these days seems to spend an inordinate amount of time focusing on people’s gender identity. And, I bet, so do the grant assessors. Who the hell cares who a writer is or what they do on the sheets of their bed? Surely it’s what is written on the sheets of their book that counts. Substance over form, I say. Anyway, my dear, you’re telling me I can identify as anything I want, and I won’t need the nip and tuck?’

‘Yes.’

‘And I get to keep my boy bits?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, my dear, that calls for a celebration. Let’s break open a bottle of Louis Roederer.’

The next morning, Hemingway opened his online application and declared himself as identifying as a bottle of Scharzhofberger Riesling Trockenbeerenauslese.

***

Two weeks later, Mary sat cross-legged on her yoga mat with her eyes closed, her wrists resting on her knees and her palms facing upwards.

‘Ommm,’ she hummed. ‘Ommmmmm.’

Opposite her, Hemingway stood with his left arm bent and raised. Three times he mouthed a “Cheers” and raised his cupped hand higher.

Mary opened an eye and said, ‘Hem, what in Naraka are you doing?’

‘Exercising, my dear.’

‘Exercising?’

Mary formed an Upward-facing Dog pose.

‘I am giving my toasting arm a thorough workout, my dear. I am anticipating a day of celebration, tomorrow.’

‘Celebrating what, Hem?’

Mary formed a Warrior pose.

‘It’s been eight weeks, Mary. Tomorrow’s the big day. Grant Day.’

‘Hem, I hope you’re not setting yourself up for a big disappointment.’

Mary formed a Half Moon Pose.

‘Nonsense. I’m a shoo-in. I’ve met all the diversity and disadvantaged criteria.’

Mary released a long, calming sigh and reached for a nearby towel.

‘Hem, should I pick up a box of Amedei Toscano Black Truffles in Swarovski Chocolate? I know how you comfort eat when life doesn’t quite go as planned.’

‘A kind gesture, my dear, but not needed. The grant’s in the bag, and literary stardom beckons. Anyway, if I, for some inexplicable reason, do miss out, I’ve a Plan C to guarantee publication, success and fame.’

‘And what’s Plan C?’

‘I’m glad you asked, my dear. Plan C is a notorious death. How does doing a Hemingway sound?’

‘A what?’

‘A Hemingway. You know, taking a shotgun to my head.’

‘Could you do it outside? Blood stains in the Persian rug are a little difficult to scrub.’

‘What about a Mishima?’

‘A what?’

‘Mishima. Like that Japanese chap. Death by seppuku. Ritualistic suicide by disembowelment. I’ll need your help, though. I require a kaishakunin to complete my beheading. Or how about a Woolf? All I need is a coat full of rocks and a river with a good, swift current, and, voilà, infamy and fortune.’

‘I’m afraid the rocks might be in your head, Hem.’

‘What was that?’

‘I said, don’t forget to wind the clock right near your bed, Hem.’

‘OK. Will do. What about a good old-fashioned oven gassing? A la Plath, in the kitchen.’

‘But, Hem, our oven is electric.’

‘Damn those solar panels we put in last winter. I’ve got it! One has to be true to oneself and one’s nom de plume. Hem Locke. Death by poisoning. Brilliant. I might pop down to that Chinese herbalist chappie, Pien Chueh, at the market right now.’

‘Could you put the bins out before you go? And take care. Your shoelace is undone. You could trip and hurt yourself.’

‘Will do.’

As he bent to tie his shoelace, he chuckled to himself as he just knew he was a shoo-in for grant success. But he toppled forward and dropped dead from a pulmonary haemorrhage. Alas, he’d done a Dostoevsky.

***

Hemingway Whyte’s funeral was held on a Tuesday, in lieu of the monthly meeting of his wine club. Damn shame to lose a palate of old Whytie’s ilk, the members concurred.

Later, at the wake held at the Whytes’ palatial home, the mourners gathered as one—Mary, a jet-lagged Amarone, the wine club members, the ladies from Mary’s investment, book and Probus clubs, Partoo Partoe from the Power to Power Poles Proletariat, the concierge from the Marriott, the McWilliams, Sergeant Pimms and Constable Amaro, a bubblegum-blowing Bo Blo from the tanning studio, the courier from Gaston’s Gusto Hampers, Basil and Betty Mezcal, Dr Hansom and the rest of the medical team from Emergency, Marlin in a bowl and Barnie wearing a collar of a mourning black—and Cleaver, with Clover with an A standing beside him in little more than a black G-string, asked one and all to raise their glasses and give three cheers for Hemingway.

‘Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!’ those gathered chorused.

That night, after the guests had offered their condolences and left Mary to an empty house, she made herself a cup of herbal tea, kicked off her black heels and sat on the lounge. She reached over and picked up a bundle of unopened mail that sat on the coffee table before her. There were several subscribed magazines and a card to pick up a delivery from the post office. Mary set these aside and opened the first of three remaining envelopes. It contained an invoice from the Marriott for repairs to the room that Hemingway had trashed. By the look of the bill, they must have had to refixture the entire suite, maybe even the room below. Scandal and debauchery certainly came at a heavy price.

She placed the invoice and its envelope on the coffee table and opened the second envelope. It was from their electricity supplier: an overdue account stamped with a disconnection notice if not paid within 7 days. Mary sighed. To lose a husband and power within the same fortnight suggested that life was a little unfair at times.

Mary tore open the last envelope and unfolded the letter within. It was from the Arts Council. As she read, widow tears sent streaks of mascara down her puffy, red cheeks.

‘Oh, Hem,’ she said to the silence of the still house. ‘Oh, my dear, dear Hemingway.’