Dinner with Nick

 

   

  

  

The waitress would be here with our food soon.  Sitting back in his chair, Papa eyes me from across the table for the longest time, and then jabs at me "So, do you write hard every day?" I stammer, "Not every day," half apologizing and half praying our order arrives before the questions get deeper. My face has to be burning red, at the very least my ears.  “But tryin' to," I add," -How's Nick? I don't remember when I read anything new about him for a long time.”

    Papa stares blankly out the window and almost seems to smile, but he just gulps his whiskey with none of that trademark Hemingway bravado. “Nick’s been gone for years," drains out of him, faded and uneasy, which surprises me a little. I guess if I hadn’t talked to anyone in fifty years or so it would make me uneasy too. “Still headed somewhere I suppose, or he's already there,” he finally offers.

    From all the short stories I ever read, my favorite character is Nick Adams. To wander with him and pass the time would be swell indeed. Nick would say "swell" too I think. We would cut across a sunny field, kicking rocks along the path. After a bit we come across a fence. I would hold the rifle for him while he clambers through the wires. Then he’d hold the wire up for me.

Maybe a mile on the other side we pitch camp. We throw our bed rolls under some trees near the bend in the creek. It's early so we decide to take a swim and then fish till early evening.  Nick produces a small pan, a packet of cornmeal and a jar of oil from his knapsack so we can fry up the fish for dinner. The potatoes we dug up that morning come out of the coals with their jackets still on and so steamy hot you couldn’t hold one with your bare hands. We swap a few stories while we eat and lick our fingers clean. Fall is getting close; a few golden leaves were already floating down the creek

    With loosened belts and lie back in the grass with full bellies and smoked a cigarette or two while the clouds turned orange then rusty red and then purple as the sun slips from the sky. He rambles on about traveling, his dad and the old fighter by the railroad camp; I sop it up like gravy. Sleep comes fast and easy.

  I sure regretted not reading about him thirty years earlier than I did.

   Ernest agreed, “I wish I had written about him longer too." He wipes his mouth, downs his whiskey and says, "Dinner is on me; they’ll put it on my tab. It’s getting late and I better get back before someone spots me and puts two and two together."

    As he rises to leave, he shakes my hand.  While fingering a crumb from his beard he mumbles something that sounds like, "I never really ran that far in Pamplona. I was tired, still am. Keep your powder dry son. G'night."

    In my stale motel room, I drag the blankets off the bed and open the sliding door to the patio. It's been too long since I slept under the stars. The air is cool on my face and smells alive. 

Good night, Nick, wherever you are.