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90 • the men in white coats By 1953, I had been working as the Hemingways’ majordomo for almost seven years and had the daily routines down to a science. Usually around 11:00 a.m. we received the ice delivery. Each morning when I heard the truck drive up to the house, I rushed to the pantry and made room for the ice in the refrigerator. Then I went out and shooed away the cats and dogs sleeping on the kitchen stairs. The driver then came up the steps and into the pantry and left the block of ice for me to break. One morning a younger deliveryman came to the house. He was covering for the regular man, who was sick. The man carried the large block of ice up the steps to the kitchen. Ramón held the door open for him. As the young man reached the last step, he lost his footing and fell backward, down all twelve steps. The massive ice block hit the second step and broke in half. The frightened young man quickly got to his feet. Ramón and I rushed down to his aide. We saw traces of blood and asked him if he was hurt. He assured us he had not been injured but feared that one of the cats or dogs may have been hit by the block of ice. Hemingway had heard the noise from his workroom and walked over to the dining room. I explained to him what had happened and that we thought that one of the cats or dogs may be injured. Concerned, Papa rushed and met me by the kitchen steps. The deliveryman apologized profusely and left in a hurry. Mary came down from the tower with Pancho, where they had been measuring and discussing the design of more furniture for the third floor. We followed the trail of blood hoping to find the poor animal that had hemingway’s cuban son 91 been injured. I found Wiwi in the bushes not far from the steps. The cat had been crushed by the block of ice and was losing a lot of blood. “It looks really bad,” Hemingway said, examining the cat. His face was flushed and his eyes watered. He sat next to the cat and began to caress its head. I phoned our veterinarian, Dr. Lagarde, who told me there was nothing he could do and that Hemingway knew exactly what had to be done. Papa was still caressing the cat when I got back to him. “I know what I have to do. Bring me the .22 caliber rifle,” he said in a low voice, tears rolling down his cheeks. I came back with the rifle. Softly, Papa caressed and spoke to Wiwi. He looked at me. I helped him stand up. He composed himself. I handed him the rifle. His eyes welled with tears. I could see the hesitation in his face. I started to cry. “Papa, do you want me to do it?” I asked. “No, I must do it. It’s my duty.” Hemingway looked at Wiwi and more tears came down his face. “Call out to him. Stand in front of him and call out to him. I don’t want him to see me shoot.” Papa walked behind Wiwi and put the end of the rifle behind the cat’s head. He hesitated, looked at me. I locked my eyes on him. He looked down. Bang! Not looking at my face, he handed me the rifle, weeping as I had never seen him do before. “Take care of the rest,” he said before he rushed up to the house. I waited for Papa to reach the house, then followed him in. He went to his bathroom. I locked the rifle back in the closet of his study and then went to the living room to find an old copy of the New York Times to wrap Wiwi in. As I cleaned the blood from the steps, I heard Papa loudly arguing in the living room. I ran to the kitchen, where Ramón waited for me. “Hurry, hurry, caballero is very angry!” Ramón said as he held the door open for me. By the time I got to the living room, Hemingway had gone into his workroom. Mary rushed to me crying, asking where the rifle was. I told her it was locked in the studio. “It’s good that you locked the rifle. If...

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