Hilda & Hemingway in:

"The End... Or..., What's It To Ya, Anyway?"

Frank Westcott

"Hey, Hem, why such a long face?"

I had come into Hilda's café like I usually do on Saturday mornings. Needless to say, I wasn't feeling too perky and I couldn't hide it from anyone, least of all Hilda. She knew me too well after I'd been dropping by her café for nearly seven years for coffee, and to sit at one of the tables by the window and work on a story, or to make notes for a story I was working on, or simply to just sit there and think. Usually when I came in, there were books under my arm or a notepad in my pocket. Today, I carried nothing. Just me in a lumberjack shirt, blue jeans, and summer sandals. It was July. The sun was shining hot and bright. The sky was baby blue and I was depressed.

I didn't want to answer to Hilda, so I didn't.

She came over, her white apron swinging from side-to-side in front of her, as she walked. She had on a pair of wooden clogs. Good for her feet, she said. Looked like Dutch shoes. I knew she never put her fingers into any dikes, but the odd pie now and again. Usually strawberry when they were fresh and in season.

"So Hem, what's the matter with my favorite, not so famous, writer? Nothing can be that bad. You look like you lost your best friend."

I tapped my fingers lightly on the red tablecloth, one of the new ones she'd bought for the summer season. They were nice. She had clear cut class vases with daisies in them on each table. I liked the daisies. They were pretty. They reminded me of a child's game we used to play in the field where daisies grew behind my house as a kid. I didn't want to play the game now. I didn't want to answer. I knew the answer. It was a matter of what I was going to do about it.

I looked up at Hilda and said, "She lied to me."

"Oh-oh..." Hilda said. "Well..., it's better to find out now."

"Is it?" I said.

"Yes. Definitely. For you. Yes. The sooner the better. I'm sorry, Hem. You liked her didn't you?"

"I loved her."

Hilda stared out the window and nodded. "Yes..., I think you did."

"I did." I said.

"Okay, you did. What is it they say? No use crying over spilt milk. I know it's not much help."

"No it isn't," I said. "I don't know what to do now."

"Well, did she have a good reason for lying to you?"

"She thinks she does. She said she does. But they're just excuses. She could have told me months ago. Well, three or four months ago, anyway. It wouldn't have hurt then. It wouldn't have hurt like it does now. It colors everything that has happened between us. The trust, the honesty, or what I thought was the trust and the honesty, but it wasn't. She says it has bothered her since she lied to me and that she has wanted to tell me since, but was unable to. That's crap. She didn't because she chose not to."

"Have you ever lied?"

"Yes."

"Well, there you go, saint."

"That's different. I never have when it counts. Not when it counts."

"When does it count?"

"When it affects a relationship you care about. Another person you care about. Someone you love. No I haven't."

"And that's what she did?'

"Yes."

"Well, you were the wrong person to do that to. I'm sorry, Hem."

"Me too."

"Are you going to see her again?'

"I don't know."

"Well, at least you know that. How do you like my daisies?"

"I like them."

"Well take a bunch home with you..."

"Okay... I think I'll go."

I left and drove the long way. When I got home, there was a message from her on my answering machine... "I know I hurt you deeply. I'm sorry. I'll always love you. And I'll understand if you never see me again."

I wrote this to here, and then I got up and phoned her. If she was there, she didn't answer. Her machine did. One machine talking to another. How appropriate. I tuned out her recorded message and waited for the beep. I took a long breath, looked at the daisies Hilda had given me, and said three words evenly into her machine.

"No you won't."

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