Of course my mother had never heard of Ernest Hemingway. No one, for that matter, had really heard of him. All she knew was that the family had a son who was living in Paris, France. He was married, and his family spoke about him with a certain coolness. My mother, in her simple way, assumed that the family disapproved of their son living abroad, or else they didn’t like the girl he had married. She had no idea he was a writer.

Dr. and Mrs. Hemingway interviewed the four young women on a hot, late summer day. My mother and Aunt Ingrid and Mary Morgan and Gladys Heinz all wore hats and gloves and stockings, and they sat uneasily in the airless front room, the living room, as Mrs. Hemingway called it. The Hemingways explained that they didn’t normally rent out their third floor, but that their daughter, Sonny, was in college and that college was expensive. This statement was allowed to float for a minute on the still air, and then Mrs. Hemingway explained a few household rules: the rent was payable at the beginning of each month. She herself was a light sleeper and could not tolerate noise after ten o’clock. The gas bill would be shared and so would the bill for water. Baths were to be limited to two inches in the tub, which was all she herself ever required. She said that she and her husband had considered carefully the kind of people they preferred as tenants, and they both thought that young women in the teaching profession represented all that was ideal. They regretted that their son Ernest had not considered a career in education. They regretted it deeply.

The third-floor apartment contained two bedrooms and a sitting room with a shuttered-off kitchen at one end. The ceiling sloped sharply in the kitchen part of the room and, standing at the sink, they had to duck their heads, especially Mary Morgan who was taller than the others.

They took turns cooking. My mother’s specialty was cheese rarebit, a soggy dish that she occasionally made for us when we were children. Aunt Ingrid made chicken à la king in toast cups. Gladys Heinz made a good nutritious meat loaf, and Mary Morgan, hopeless when it came to cooking, washed dishes night after night with her long neck bent against the ceiling.

On one occasion they were invited downstairs for Sunday dinner. There was a standing rib roast, mashed turnips, canned peas and tapioca pudding. The four of them were astonished to learn that Dr. Hemingway had done all the cooking himself. Speechless, they turned their eyes to Mrs. Hemingway who pronounced in a deep voice, “I have never taken an interest in cooking.” After dessert the Hemingways talked about their children. There had been a recent letter from Sonny, but it was some time since they had heard from their son in Paris.

“Is he an artist?” Aunt Ingrid asked.