Island Song

Island Song by Alan Chin

Zumaya Publications www.zumayapublications.com

Copyright ©2008 by Alan Chin First published in 2008, 2008 NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others. This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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Island Song by Alan Chin

CONTENTS Acknowledgements 1 2. 3 4. 5. 6. 7. 8 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 3

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26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. About the Author ABOUT THE ARTIST ****

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ISLAND SONG by ALAN CHIN

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Island Song by Alan Chin

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental. ISLAND SONG © 2008 by Alan Chin ISBN 978-1-934841-03-7 Cover art by Rebecca Clymo Cover design by Martine Jardin

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All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is prohibited without the written permission of the author or publisher. Zumaya Boundless is an imprint of Zumaya Publications LLC, Austin TX. Look for us online at www.zumayapublications.com

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Chin, Alan. Island song / Alan Chin. p. cm. ISBN 978-1-934841-02-0 (alk. paper) 1. Male friendship—Fiction. 2. Hawaii—Fiction. 3. Shamans—Fiction. I. Title. PS3603.H566I85 2008 813'.6—dc22 2008030399

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Acknowledgements Many thanks are due to the following people: Steven Brown, Alex Diefenbach, Stephen Gregoire, Ed Harris, Bob Mooney, Ken Poole and Doug Slayton. Most of all, I am grateful to my husband, Herman Chin, who has supported my efforts in every way. [Back to Table of Contents]

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And if you hit upon the idea that this or that country is safe, prosperous, or fortunate, give it up, my friend ... for you ought to know that the world is ablaze with the fires of some faults or others. There is certain to be some suffering ... and a wholly fortunate country does not exist anywhere. Whether it be excessive cold or heat, sickness or danger, something always afflicts people everywhere; no safe refuge can thus be found in the world. —Buddhist Scriptures [Back to Table of Contents]

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1 A full moon rises from the sea. Strands of silver light reach across the vast Pacific, caressing an old man's face as he sits in the bow of an outrigger canoe. The old man studies the moon until it hovers well above the horizon, a radiant beacon lighting the way. He lifts his left arm and signals to move ahead. Songoree, the young man in the stern, digs his paddle into the dark water, driving the canoe through the channel and beyond the mouth of Neue Bay. A fresh wind drifts over the bay from the northeast. It whispers as it moves over the canoe and falls silent as it flows back over the channel. The only other sound is the splash of the paddle gliding in and out of the water. The old man signals to halt. Songoree lifts his paddle, waits. The boat slows and begins to drift with the tide. He watches the old one taste the air, feel the wind caress his cheek, note which direction the boat moves. Songoree's gaze shifts to the water. He listens. Up ahead, he hears the faint splash of sharks as they pursue their prey. He sees the phosphorescent wakes the night hunters carve through the inky water. Neue Bay is a safe place to swim during the day, he knows, but at night the big sharks, the really dangerous fish, swim over the reef to hunt close to shore. These fish have no fear, but they are feared by everything that swims. 11

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The old man smiles. He motions in a direction slightly east of the boat's heading. Songoree glances over his shoulder to check the position of the dim glow of lights far off the stern. He digs his paddle into the water, makes the adjustment in course. Moonlight silvers the strong lines of Songoree's bare chest and lean torso. His hair shines blue, and sweeps back over his shoulders, held in place by coconut oil and a wreath made of fragrant maile leaves. A single-strand pink coral necklace hangs around his neck, and a blood-red tapa cloth hugs his body from waist to knees. The dark cloth blends with the shadows in the boat, making it appear as thought Songoree is an extension of the canoe, some bizarre sea creature hunting the perimeter of the reef. Over the wind's murmur comes a faint sound, a pulse, which announces they are nearing their destination. Songoree sighs. The tedious journey has his arms and back burning. He has kept a fast pace until now, to prove his mettle to the old man, but he knows he can't maintain his bold tempo much longer. The growing sound of surf renews his hope that his strength will last. This mission, Songoree thinks, is impossible even for an extraordinary man much less for mere islanders like us. But I have no choice and neither does Grandfather. We have stepped onto the path, and our only option now is to take the next step, even though failure is certain. Grandfather has the insane idea that a man with a pure vision, a Gandhi, can change the entire human experience. It's true that Grandfather is remarkable. He holds knowledge 12

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passed down from generations of island shamans, but he is still just one old man—and perhaps a crazy old man, at that. Songoree tries to lift his spirits, reminding himself that the mission will soon be over, that they will perform the ceremony and that will be the end of it. But a stubborn fear lodges in his heart. The weight of it crushes him, making it difficult for him to breathe. It is more than fear of failure. Failing will prove once and for all that his years of training with his grandfather were wasted, that the old man is no great shaman, merely a sham. Songoree shakes the thought from his mind, but the fear remains locked in his heart. He grits his teeth, digs his paddle into the water, leans on it, drives the canoe towards their destination. Songoree paddles another thirty minutes before the sound of breakers boom like thunder. He knows that landing the canoe in huge surf is hazardous even in daylight, and he has never attempted such a feat at night. If they capsize, he will need to pull the old man through the breakers. He comes alert. His fatigue dissolves. Beads of sweat coat his face while his teeth chatter. He fights to maneuver the canoe through the swells and over the fingers of reef clawing at the water's surface. Suddenly, the boat's aft rises on a huge wall of water. Now the canoe is almost perpendicular, and Songoree paddles a frenzied pace as they speed toward shore. Water sprays his face. The salty mist blinds him. He maneuvers on instinct alone while the wave, dying around him, rushes towards the sand. He blinks his eyes until his vision returns. 13

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The old man sits in the bow, still as a statue. Songoree beaches the craft just below a rocky point that defines the northern crest of the island. As he bounds from the boat he steals a glance at Grandfather's face, expecting some recognition of his skill, but the old man shows nothing. Hauling the outrigger onto a patch of sand, Songoree takes the old man's arm. "Let me help you, Grandfather." Grandfather strains to a standing position. He pauses for a moment while his body adjusts to movement again after sitting for so long a time. Grandfather has deep-set eyes the color of black coral, and his face is cracked like the glaze on ancient pottery. A feathered cape covers his thin body, its brilliant colors dulled by the dim light. His silver hair falls to the middle of his back. Around the old man's neck hangs his ceremonial necklace, a simple piece of carved jade bordered by a string of sharks' teeth—trophies he had ripped from the mouths of his prey in his younger years. Grandfather bends to grab his staff from the canoe. It towers three feet above his head, and carved into the dark wood are faces of the island gods: Kane, Kanalou, Ku, Lono and Pele. The old man's bloodline reaches back to the first group of Polynesian settlers who discovered this fleet of Pacific islands. His family migrated to this largest and most southern island before even the first of the great wars. They settled near the Paopao River in a valley called Waimanu, a place known for its immense spiritual power. Now the old man has gone far 14

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beyond his eightieth year and has outlived Kushi, his wife of forty years, his only son and one of his two daughters. Songoree is now his sole companion and caretaker. Only a few islanders know the old man's true name, and no one but Songoree knows his spiritual name. Songoree, like everyone else on this part of the island, simply calls him Grandfather. Songoree busies himself with lighting a torch, which proves difficult in the damp breeze. Once lit, the red-yellow flames dance on the wind. It casts a shimmering light on Grandfather's cape. The colorful feathers come alive. The effect makes Songoree stare wide-eyed, mesmerized. Grandfather lays a gentle hand on the back of Songoree's neck. "Focus." His voice is firm. "No monkey-boy business tonight. The fate of mankind hangs on what happens here. You must stay focused or all is lost. Now fetch my helmet." Songoree retrieves a carved gourd from the outrigger. It is adorned with feathers and shark's teeth. The old man dons the helmet and, except for the two gaping eyeholes, it covers his head. A sharp beak is carved between the eyeholes, and set below that are two rows of shark's teeth, upper and lower, making him look like a cross between a huge bird of prey and a menacing shark. Intricately carved lines on the mask emulate overlapping feathers covering the sharp angles of a shark's facial structure. The lines are simple yet forceful, projecting an image of wild savagery. Only Grandfather's long strands of silver hair and his bony legs extending below the cape show his humanity. 15

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Songoree steps closer to examine the mask. It suggests the outline of a primitive human face within its structure, as if the mask were meant to reveal the animal savagery within human nature, or perhaps man's temperament within nature's most fierce predators. Either way, he can't quite dismiss the feeling that the mask is a projection of his own essence. "Quickly." Grandfather grabs the torch. He hurries across the beach and on to the lava beds. They travel as swiftly as Grandfather's legs will move. After a considerable distance, they stop where the barren rock fields skirt the rain forest. Honeycreeper finches and hooting pueho owls call from the tropical canopy. Grandfather takes the torch, nods towards the trees. Songoree dashes into the undergrowth. He returns a few minutes later carrying several palm fronds under one arm and a bundle of sticks under the other. Grandfather holds the torch low to the ground as Songoree arranges the palm leaves so the tips all touch at one point and fan out, creating a sizable circle atop a smooth spot on the lava rock. He makes two more trips to the forest to gather enough wood for the night's ceremonial fire. He builds a pile of sticks in the center of the palm circle and steps away while Grandfather buries the torch in the pile. A flame catches hold. Grandfather passes both the torch and his staff to Songoree before stepping into the circle of palm fronds to kneel before the fire. "I enter the circle of life. I bow to the light." Songoree drops the torch and enters the circle from the opposite side. With the staff held high, he echoes his 16

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grandfather's words. He looks over his shoulder to insure that the bundle of firewood at the edge of the circle is within easy reach. It is his job to tend the fire throughout the ceremony. He watches the old man check the position of the moon, taste the air, listen to the breeze rustling the nearby palms. Everything is perfect, Songoree thinks. Why is he waiting? Grandfather pulls a sharkskin pouch from beneath his feathered cape. He opens it, grabs a handful of ground roots and sprinkles it on the fire. Blue sparks erupt from the flames while pungent smoke rushes on the wind toward the trees. "Let the herbs of this sacred land call the island gods," Grandfather says. He draws several offerings from the pouch and lays them beside the fire—a flask of rice wine, polished seashells, sweet candies, a handful of rice, a folded leaf holding a purplish mound of poi. "Great Kane, god of all that is, and Pele, fiery goddess who shapes these sacred islands, accept these gifts." The firelight glows on Grandfather's helmet. It shows the mask's intricate carving and makes the old man's eyes gleam red behind the two black eyeholes. Grandfather begins to slap the smooth lava beside him with his right hand, thumping the hard rock with a particular rhythm. He nods at Songoree. Songoree lifts the staff and brings it down on the rock, again and again, copying the same rhythm Grandfather makes with his hand. Once the proper beat is established, Grandfather stops, but Songoree continues to pound out the cadence. This thumping, he knows, is Grandfather's notion of how to attract the island spirits. 17

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After twenty minutes, Grandfather signals him to stop then tilts his head towards the rain forest, straining to listen with every fiber of his being. Songoree studies the old man's degree of concentration with awe. Grandfather signals for him to continue, and he takes up the thumping once again. The vibration of the staff makes a weird moaning noise when it strikes the ground. With every beat, he feels a vibration run up his arm and dissipate into his chest. After an hour, Grandfather whispers across the fire, "Don't turn around. Power spirits have come. They're behind you at the edge of the forest." Songoree doesn't believe it, but he hears the eerie screech of a bird directly behind him. A shiver runs up his spine. It takes all his will power not to turn and look. He keeps his eyes focused on Grandfather. "This is it," Grandfather whispers. "Keep thumping. Be ready for anything." Grandfather lifts his arms over his helmet and begins to chant in an ancient dialect. His words come slow, relaxed, as if he's singing a love song. His baritone voice is vibrant for one so old. Songoree feels the mystical pull of the words. He understands most but not all of the phrases. He still has much to learn of the old language and ceremonies. He understands enough to follow along as Grandfather recounts the history of the island people, countless generations migrating from the heart of Asia across the Pacific to these islands. 18

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The chanting continues for hours. As Grandfather sings, his long, delicate fingers weave through the air, as if they exquisitely form the words out of wind and mist. Songoree, mesmerized by their movement, finally looks at his own hand holding the staff. His are the hands of a twenty-year-old— strong, yet awkward by comparison. He wonders if he will ever command such grace. The thought makes him realize that he is real, not merely consciousness witnessing the ceremony from the mist. He shakes his head to drive the thoughts away. He reminds himself to focus. I can't disappoint Grandfather, he thinks, not tonight. This means too much to him. Time bleeds by. The pile of firewood dwindles. Out over the eastern horizon, the stars fade before the growing light. As Grandfather chants, he pulls a bone-handled knife from beneath his cape and holds both hands over the fire—one held high, the other gripping the knife. The blade flashes in the firelight as Grandfather slides the razor edge across his left palm. Blood streams into the flames. Songoree hears a noise close behind him. It sounds like heavy claws scraping on rock. Whatever crouches behind him is drawn by the smell of blood. Fear overtakes him. He begins to beat the ground in a furious tempo. Grandfather signals him to slow down, but he feels an icy breath on the back of his neck. He drops the staff, and it clatters on the lava stone. Grandfather waves his bloody hand and hisses, "Pull yourself together." Songoree can't help but turn his head to see what's breathing on his neck. As he does, an immense shadow 19

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lunges over his left shoulder. It lands thirty feet away on a boulder. Songoree's body takes a tremendous jolt. He falls onto his back, shrieking. Frantically, Grandfather signals him to continue the thumping, but he can only stare in astonishment at the shadow. He is not altogether sure whether the shadow has leapt over him from behind or vaulted out of his body. His body certainly felt something leap. He stares intently with eyes wide open and sees a blackness that doesn't have any visible boundaries; but slowly, a silhouette crouching on the rock begins to emerge from the mass that is superimposed on the night sky. It seems to be taking the form of a big cat—huge, awesomely silent. The density of the shadow's darkness pales the night sky around it. Grandfather slaps the ground with his hand again, pounding out the same rhythm as before. Songoree manages to fight through his fear. He scrambles back to a sitting position, picks up the staff and resumes thumping the cadence. Grandfather begins to chant once again. As his voice rises in volume, Songoree joins in. The immensity is Kane, Root, rock, sand, and light, is he. Kane is within. He took hold of the Manaiakalani Hook And raised the blessed Islands of Hawaii From the ocean floor. He scattered Stars across the night sky, and 20

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Holds the sun by day. Kane is never still, all is moving. Kane compels the people, People press the earth. All is fluid, ever changing. We are the witnesses. It is the time of the Speaker. It is the time of the Speaker. Complete are the foundations. Complete are land, water, and heavens. Complete are bird, fish, and beast. Now comes the time of man. Bring forth the Speaker. Bring forth the Speaker. Their voices hush. The wind dies to a whisper. The dense shadow dissipates, leaving no trace. Songoree wonders whether he actually saw anything there at all, or did fear create some-thing from his imagination? He glares across the fire at Grandfather, silently pleading for help to understand what has happened. All he can see are eyes within the mask's gaping holes reflecting the red-yellow firelight. Everything is perfectly still, as if the entire universe is holding its breath. A bird calls from the nearby trees. In the distance, the sound of the surf rises in a steady pulse, like the slow beating of a heart. They wait. A breath of wind flutters the nearby palms. Songoree feels the growing breeze on his skin. Now the wind travels in a different direction, from the rain forest out over the sea. He 21

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smells the sweet odor of jungle frangipani mixed with the slight stench of rotting vegetation. Grandfather struggles to stand. Songoree hurries across the circle to help him to his feet. He hands the staff back to Grandfather. He pulls the red tapa cloth from his waist, rips away a long strip and wraps it around the old man's bleeding hand. Naked and exhausted, he loops one arm around his grandfather, supporting the old man's weight. They turn back toward the beach. "Fool! You almost killed us both. Never show fear in front of power." "Sorry, Grandfather. Will he come?" Grandfather removes his helmet. "We have performed the ceremony. It is done." "But will it work? Will he come?" Grandfather struggles to walk. "Your mind has too much future, not enough faith." They stagger back to the canoe as the red dawn paints their beloved island with sanguine light. [Back to Table of Contents]

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2. The house is a simple structure, built before the war. Its thick walls are fashioned from whitewashed stone to withstand the storms pounding ashore during the wet months. The foundation is chiseled into an ancient bed of lava; and the roof, made of corrugated tin, is covered with palm thatch dried brown from the tropical sun. A wide covered porch juts out from three sides and overlooks the bay and the reef beyond. That, Garrett thinks, is a man's house, weathered and sturdy. He stands at the window of the realtor's office that nestles in the town on the south side of Neue Bay. The tiny office seems a bit stuffy, but everything is neat and clean and bright. Sunlight pours through the front windows, keeping the room uncomfortably warm even though the overhead fan keeps the air circulating. He adjusts the dial on his binoculars to bring the house into sharp focus. It seems to be a natural part of the landscape, built into the point at the northern tip of the bay, overlooking the reef where the bay meets the open sea. Well behind the house, the coconut palms, bent by the trade winds, begin sparingly and grow more numerous as his survey moves up the hills. Beyond the hills, the landscape becomes a dense tropical rain forest that stretches to the top of the far mountain.

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The lava below the house, naturally sculpted into irregular mounds that make him think of jet-black taffy, borders a white sand beach that runs the length of the bay. Garrett studies the secluded expanse of lava, and he is oddly fascinated by the house, drawn to its austerity. Perfect, he thinks, secluded and rustic as Thoreau's cabin. It's perfect. "I'll take it," he says, turning to face Audrey Snow, the Realtor. "As I said on the phone, I'll need the house for six months." He had not expected that his first acquaintance on the island would be a white woman from the mainland. Audrey has a trim, shapely body and is almost as tall as he is. Her pale face is pretty, and her blond hair is held high on the back of her head with pins, showing off her long, delicate neck. Her light-green print dress opens wide at the neck, and looks cool and comfortable. He guesses her age to be a few years younger than his—twenty-seven or eight—and notes that she does not wear a wedding ring. He turns back to gaze out the front window, examining this small out-of-the-way town. There are no tourists here. Newlyweds, Japanese men carrying golf clubs and retirees wearing floral print shirts do not frequent this place. It is miles off the tourist track. Garrett doesn't exactly fit in, but he is no tourist. He hasn't come to toast his skin brown amid the cigarette butts, soft drink cans, pineapple rinds and suntan lotion bottles that litter the popular beaches. He has come here to work. He is a man with a purpose. 24

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Audrey smiles patiently. "Mr. Davidson, you should at least see the interior before you decide. I can assure you it's rather primitive. No one has lived there in years. I'd even forgotten that our agency manages that place. I've done some research since you called, and I've found some bungalows on the Kona coast that may be more suitable. They're in better condition and closer to all the best beaches." And they'll bring in five times the commission, he thinks. "Thank you for your trouble, Ms. Snow. That was kind of you, but it wasn't necessary." Garrett looks out across the bay again. "That's the house I want. If you'll draw up the papers, I'll sign them and write you a check for the entire six months." "Will Mrs. Davidson be joining you? If so, I can assure you she won't like this place." She pauses before explaining, "I noticed you wear a wedding band." "I'm single." "I wish you would let me drive you to the Kona coast and show you what's available. I want very much to find you a place where you'll be happy." Garrett hears the warm tones in her voice and notes that her formal manner has relaxed. A current of annoyance runs between his temples. He turns to look out the window again. The town, the bay and the house are all calling to him. "I've already found the perfect place, thank you. The papers?" "As you wish, Mr. Davidson. I am curious about how you got the owners to rent it at just six hundred a month. I mean, yes, it's no-frills and secluded, but even so, that's quite a 25

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bargain. I'm shocked they would rent it so cheap. Do you know the family?" "Never met them. I heard about it through a friend of a friend sort of thing." Garrett smiles. "And please call me Garrett." "And I'm Audrey," she says, smiling back. "I do think you'll find that end of the bay rather desolate. The only people who wander that far down the beach are the local surfers." A '62 Chevy pickup with a faded battleship-gray cab, a green driver's door and a blue hood rattles up from the wharf and parks directly across the street. The sound of the engine's burnt-out rods and rusted muffler makes Garrett cringe. The engine finally stops, and the street goes quiet. Only now, in the silence, does he become fully aware of how obnoxious the commotion was. "Surfers? I was hoping to have the beach to myself." "Those swells beyond the point are the best waves on the island. The local boys are out there every afternoon. And by the way, they don't like haoles—mainlanders, that is. They'll call you haole, or sometimes FOJ, for fresh off the jet. Please don't take it personally. Only a few tourists make it this far north, and that's too many for the locals." He watches a white-haired man emerge from the pickup. The man wears only a pair of patched jeans and the rope belt that supports them. His dark-brown skin contrasts his shock of white beard and long hair, and his ample gut hangs well over his rope belt. The old timer appears to be as rusty as his pickup. 26

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He watches the man dance across the hot pavement on bare feet, race down a half-flight of steps and through an open door. Beside the door, in a large, shaded window, hangs a neon sign: The Blue Parrot. Audrey's manner becomes increasing warm. She leans towards him and tilts her head to one side. "Most people come here to escape. They run from their dreary lives or stressful jobs. Some run from their nagging wives or cheating husbands." "Are you sure it's not the other way around?" She chuckles. "They come here to forget themselves. They hang out at the beaches, go to luaus and party till the cows come home, but I've never come across anyone who wants to run as far away from civilization as you. You must be one of those corporate executives on the run from the law or a scientist experimenting on embryo stem cells." Garrett laughs. "Nothing so sinister." "Oh? What kind of work do you do?" He turns back to face her. "Until two weeks ago, I managed the futures department at a San Francisco brokerage firm. Basically, I looked at computer screens all day trying to guess which direction the world was turning." "Sounds like what my cousin Shar does with her crystal ball." "I suppose you're right that I'm running away from that. It's not that life in San Francisco wasn't interesting. It just suddenly seemed so very ... small, and not what I wanted." 27

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Her smile is genuine. It lights up every other feature of her face. "Well, if you'll just have a seat, it will only take me a minute to type up the agreement." Garrett eases into the seat across the desk and studies Audrey's efficient movements as she works. For the first time, he notices the soft music coming from a radio behind her desk. As he listens he recognizes the first few notes of the overture to Beethoven's Fidelio. Smiling, he closes his eyes and lets the music sedate him while his mind steps through the details of the last two weeks. In just fourteen days, Garrett quit his job, sold his car, furniture and books, and gave away everything else that isn't with him right now. His belongings, accumulated over thirtytwo years, have been reduced to the pile lying on the pavement outside the front door—a laptop computer, two boxes of books, his CD collection and CD player, one suitcase of clothes and an oil painting. Now there is nothing to go back to—no home, no family and no friends. Marc was the social butterfly, and Garrett lost touch with all their friends after the funeral. He knows he will miss that magical city—its clean narrow streets lined with Victorian houses, the neighborhood cafes, the jazz clubs, the world-class opera company and symphony and the hundreds of fabulous restaurants. Most of all, he will miss reading the Sunday paper in his favorite cafe in the Castro district, drinking café-au-lait and eating brioche while he watches the stream of interesting people pass by. 28

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The going-away party at his company had turned into a disaster. Garrett's staff had arranged an intimate get-together on his last day, but word of the party had spread to management and the gathering grew into a large gaggle of suits, all a little stunned and curious, like people watching a bright falling star in the clear night sky. Owen Lieberman, his senior trader, had gotten stumbling drunk on martinis and made a rather embarrassing scene. It still baffles Garrett, because to his knowledge, Owen never drank alcohol before that night. Owen had stood at the back of the crowd with his usual posture around people—head bowed and examining his sneakers. Garrett couldn't fathom why someone so brilliant and so good-looking, with his shaggy blond hair framing his delicate facial features, could be so shy. For years he has been attracted to Owen, and he believes Owen is interested in him as well, but of course, Garrett couldn't date an employee in his own department. But at the party, he was no longer Owen's boss, and the question had flashed into his head: Should I finally ask Owen out on a date? He toyed with the possibility as he calmly stared at Owen, his desire mounting. He imagined himself kissing those full lips, burying his face in that silky hair, drinking in Owen's kid-brother scent. He shook his head to chase away the thought. What's the point? A few nights of passion and then goodbye. That can't be right. Owen had passed out cold, falling directly into the center of the buffet table. Platters of pink shrimp, miniature wieners on toothpicks and globs of green guacamole flew across the 29

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room, splattering everybody. That abruptly ended the party. Garrett took Owen home, put him to bed and left a note promising to call. He had meant to call Owen before leaving but couldn't find the time, or at least didn't make the time. He had been too busy organizing the move. I'll write to him once I'm settled, he promised himself. All these memories cause the pain in Garrett's head to expand, creeping up the intensity-barometer from its usual thirty-percent level to well above sixty percent. This constant pain shadows his waking life. It became part of him when Marc died, and has stayed with him every waking moment since. Leaning forward, he holds his head with both hands and lets out a low-pitched moan. Spikes of excruciating throbbing wrack his head. Moving from the joy of seeing the perfect house to such agony in a few moments shocks his body into numbness. He tries to refocus his thoughts on the house but it's too late. This deep personal pain is Garrett's all-consuming adversary, and right now it is all there is. It has taken over, replacing the body that was once Garrett with unimagined dimensions of torment. He can only go through the physical acts of moving from one instant to the next until, slowly, the adversary retreats and he is able to take control once again. This adversary overshadows all beauty, suffocates all joy, and right now, it feels lethal. "Mr. Davidson," Audrey says, reaching over and touching his arm. "Are you all right?" 30

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He cuts through the pain enough to focus on her face, which allows him to fight back the adversary to a point where he can take control once again. "I'm sorry," he says, realizing she had been trying to get his attention while he was being taken over. She hands him the rental agreement. He glances over the document and writes a check. As he waits for Audrey to make out the receipt, he takes out his cell and a slip of paper. He presses the on button, but there is no signal. Audrey looks up and smiles. "I'm afraid those don't work on this corner of the island. I guess the signals don't make it over the craters. Things are more primitive here, and most of the locals prefer it that way." "I was given the number of a lady who could come out in the afternoons to cook and clean." He shows her a slip of paper with a name and phone number scribbled on it. "Could I use your phone?" Audrey's eyebrows lift. "I assumed you knew. The place comes with a housekeeper. It's covered in the rent." "You're kidding?" Garrett shakes his head. "Sweet." Audrey hands over the keys. "I don't think you'll need these. You'll be perfectly safe leaving the door wide open. I know some haoles ... I mean, mainlanders ... can be paranoid until they come to know us. Now, if you'll wait just a minute, I'll grab my car and drive you over." "Thanks," he says. He takes the keys and lifts his daypack off the floor, "I'd rather walk. It's such a beautiful day. Can you send my bags over this afternoon?" The corners of her mouth turn downward. 31

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"Of course," she replies. "I hope you have a wonderful stay. If there's anything else I can do for you, please let me know." She holds out her hand. "I'm always around town if you want company. You're going to find it pretty lonely out there." Garrett takes her hand, feels her warmth. "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind." He turns and ambles out the door, feeling impatient to get out of the office and start his new life on the island. [Back to Table of Contents]

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3 **** Garrett strides down the main boulevard that runs between a few dozen buildings. At one end of town, on a slight rise that overlooks the community, stands a white church. Its steeple climbs high above its roofline, and a round stained-glass window hovers above the front doors. At the other end of town are the beach and wharf. Most of the town's houses are built higher up in the hills where the temperature stays cooler. They are large, open dwellings, surrounded by lush gardens that give them a plantation feel. Garrett strolls towards the beach past an old theater playing two vintage Bruce Lee movies, a hardware store, a gas station, three bars, an open fruit market and a bait shop. The stores are small, and only one, a convenience store with a mustard yellow-colored awning, has customers inside. Most of the shops have open signs hanging in the windows, but the shutters are lowered and people sit around small tables eating, chatting and watching television. There are no people on the sidewalks during this hottest time of the day, which gives the town a peaceful feel. Up the side streets leading off the main boulevard are a few houses with lavish vegetable plots fenced off with bamboo stalks tied together. 33

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The last shop he passes before reaching the beach is a Chinese herbalist's shop. In the window hangs a poster that shows the outline of a man strewn with red dots, indicating the body's meridian points. A second-story apartment sits above the shop, and behind the fluttering curtains of the open window someone plays a piano. Garrett stops to listen, but there is a pause in the music. He hears nothing but wind. Suddenly a burst of Chopin, a polonaise, floats on the air. He smiles and continues on, whistling along with music. He's pleased with this low-key town, and with himself for finding this place, and yet a whisper of uneasiness presses on his ears. His anxiety increases as he takes a second look up and down the main boulevard, trying to determine what could be wrong. Gazing across the bay, he spots the house, miles away from everything else. Have I blundered, he wonders. Can I really manage alone for six months? The hot sun directly overhead casts no shadows. Here, on the south side of the bay, the reef comes in close to shore, and the shallows turn the water a pale green-blue color for a mile out. Beyond that, the sea is a vast deep indigo plain that stretches to infinity. Something catches his eye, a red sail marring the horizon. He pulls off his shoes and socks and stows them in his daypack. The sensations of hot sun on his face and wet sand beneath his feet are exhilarating. The fine sand feels silky, and the sound of the waves breaking onto the beach soothes the tension in his neck and shoulders. He drinks in the ocean's beauty and his anxiety fades, dropping his pain intensity-barometer below twenty percent. 34

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Garrett meanders past the pier that defines the northern boundary of the town. He waves at a gang of adolescent boys who fish from the pier. A dozen fishing boats at anchor dot the water beyond the dock, and several pleasure boats are anchored farther out. Up the beach, he sees activity. The Village Resort is obviously a posh establishment, with two dozen bungalows scattered along the beach, each shaded by drooping coconut palms. In the center of the complex is a community area with a swimming pool, outdoor bar and two large buildings that look like a formal dining room and a discotheque. He skirts a group of brown bodies lounging on beach chairs. The odor of tanning oil taints the air. Squeals from kids playing in the surf mixes with the slack key guitar rhythms of a band playing local tunes at the outdoor bar. Garrett thinks he should to stop for lunch, but he's too excited to eat. A cold brew, however, would sure make the heat more bearable. He decides to have a quick beer before pushing on to the house. Later, he'll come back here for dinner. He walks up the beach and sits on the end barstool, which allows him the best view of the bay. "Bartender," he calls down the bar. "Beer. Whatever's on tap." He opens his wallet, pulls out a ten and places it on the bar. Down the bar sits a redheaded lady about his own age, and on the other side of her is an army sergeant in full-dress uniform. They appear to be purposely ignoring one another, so they are probably not a couple. He can't help wondering 35

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why the army sergeant is dressed in his uniform on the beach. Garrett looks down at himself, wearing jeans and plaid shirt, his daypack on the stool beside him. He looks like a hick fresh off the jet. A wave of embarrassment flushes his face. A moment later, he shrugs and smiles, telling himself he's not there to impress anybody. Suddenly, the bartender's crewcut hair and brown face hover in front of Garrett's eyes. He places a glass filled with beer on the bar and says something that Garrett misses. "Sir, this is Kona Pacific Golden Ale, Hawaii's one and only. Would you like to see a menu?" he says again. The bartender so closely resembles Marc that for an instant Garrett begins to reach up to touch his face. The man pulls back before Garrett realizes he is a stranger, but now Garrett's mind is caught; it reaches back to fondle an image of Marc. He settles against the bar and stares out past the beach, recalling Marc propped against a tree on a sunny day in Golden Gate Park, licking a rocky road ice cream cone. He feels the sun on his face and tastes the sweet chocolate as he lazily kisses Marc. Marc looks into his eyes and tells him that he is the only thing that brings joy to his life. He hears Marc's deep voice so clearly he shivers. Water fills his eyes and his breathing becomes hard and painful. The bartender patiently stands behind the bar. He turns and smiles impersonally at the other patrons, as if apologizing for a retarded child. He leans over and retrieves the ten, walks to the register and makes change. Laying the change in 36

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front of Garrett, he says, "There you are. You're all set. Let me know if you change your mind about the menu." Garrett's image of Marc blurs, and he is left with a familiar emptiness. The dull ache in his head becomes vivid. He closes his eyes, thinking of Marc and their story. He unzips his daypack and pulls out the manuscript. Opening the binder, he begins to read from page one. As his eyes speed over the words, he slips into a dreamlike state. The Hawaiian music from the band is clear in his head, but what he hears is a military marching band. On the page, it is noon on a cold Sunday in San Diego. He and Marc wear dress blues with white leggings, as does the rest of their eighty-eight man company as they march onto the parade field. They follow the sixty-piece military marching band that plays "Anchors Aweigh" with a brassy twang. Colors wave bravely on staffs leading the company, the same as the other seven graduating companies behind them. After sixteen weeks of boot camp hell, they have officially become Navy SEALs. They strut to the music as the battalions pass in review— marching, wheeling, saluting, and more precision marching. Each company moves as a single unit, trooping smartly before the reviewing podium where the brass stands in their goldtrimmed hats and epaulets. Behind the podium are grandstand seats filled with spectators—parents, wives, sweethearts and hordes of children. As they pass the grandstands the spectators politely clap. They march completely around the field and come to parade rest before the podium. When the companies all stand 37

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in formation, lined up in front of the audience, they make a stirring show, hundreds of snappy-looking warriors, polished and proud. The base commandant addresses the ranks for thirty-five minutes. Speeches by brass from admirals to captains crawl on for the better part of the afternoon. A huge roar erupts from the company as hats fly in the air and men hug each other. Garrett mills through the crowd searching for Marc. He feels a tap on his shoulder and turns to see Marc's handsome face beaming at him. In an instant, he is wrapped in Marc's arms, swept off his feet and spun around in a wide circle. "We made it, buddy. We made it!" They come to a stop, and Marc's arm moves up to rest across Garrett's shoulder. "Okay," Marc says as he leads Garrett from the parade field. "We got to hit the road fast to make the cabin by midnight. Let's move it, sailor." Marc has an easy grace to him that's irresistible, and his short dark hair and soft brown eyes give him a wholesome look that Garrett envies. They had hit it off in the first week of boot camp and are now inseparable. Marc—only his mother still calls him Marcus—comes from a military family with money. They had expected him to attend Annapolis and marry a debutante. Garrett's family, on the other hand, is poor by comparison. His father is the minister of a small congregation in Lodi, California. Unlike Garrett, Marc had been a ladies' man throughout high school and has numerous conquest stories. Garrett 38

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would sit and listen for hours to Marc's stories of country club dances and reckless girls in party dresses. They have two weeks of liberty before they report to their first duty assignment in San Francisco. When Marc asked Garrett to join him and two girls for a week of skiing at the family cabin near Mammoth, Garrett was thrilled. Now that Marc makes it clear Sue Kellermen and her college roommate Janis are the type of girls they will surely have their way with, Garrett's excitement turns to nervousness. Sue and Janis, however, will not be there until Wednesday, leaving the young men alone for the first two days. Five hours later, Marc's Corvette turns off Highway 395 and speeds up a winding, mountain road. The sun has set, and the headlights flash on high banks of plowed snow before a dark wall of pines. Garrett grips the door handle with one hand and the bucket seat with his other. His eyes only leave the road for an instant to check the speedometer, then back to the road. He swallows. "This feels like riding in the cockpit of a fighter jet." "Yeah, she really flies," Marc says, leaning into a curve. "I'm in no hurry, ya know. Doesn't matter to me when we get there." "Gotta hurry. These roads ice up after dark. It's dangerous then." The intimacy of the car visibly relaxes Marc. He becomes more animated than Garrett has ever seen him. It's funny, he thinks, but in the fifteen weeks they have become so close, shared so much, this is the first time they have actually been 39

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alone together, the first time they have not been surrounded by eighty-six other men. They can finally let down their guard. Marc talks easily about himself. It's all so simple for him. He has grown to love the service already. The hell of boot camp was nothing more than the thrill of a challenge for him. The physical punishment, the camaraderie of the men, the close bond with Garrett, living a rugged life with other men, all these things are exactly what drove him to join the SEALs program in the first place. He says it's the perfect opportunity to prove himself among the best of the best. "Right now, I feel I can easily be happy with a thirty-year Navy career," Marc says, leaning into another curve. "I have no aspirations beyond military life, except that I'm a pretty good painter. I love to paint, but painting is too lonely to make a profession of. It's what I do when I need to get away from people. I prefer the service, where I'm surrounded by people like me—young, motivated and doing something important for our country." Marc glows as he talks. For him, life holds so much promise. He presses on the accelerator, racing even faster down the road. Garrett's jaw clinches as they fly through another snowlined curve. He feels sweat drip from his armpits and slide down his sides. He would love to tell Marc to slow down, but he is no coward and doesn't want Marc to think he is. He tells Marc he finds the Navy okay but doesn't look at it as a career. He joined the Navy to see the world, or at least to get him the hell out of Lodi. He explains that he has no 40

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money for college, and he hopes to use the Navy scholarship program to get an education. He'd like to be a writer—short stories, novels, perhaps writing for a magazine. "Something like National Geographic would be fantastic! I could travel the world writing about interesting tribes of people in backwater places." They speed through another curve. Garrett feels the car's rear-end spin forward, and suddenly they slide sideways. Electricity cracks behind his eyes. Everything happens in super-slow motion. His spine tingles, his eyes bulge, he holds his breath. Through the fear, he feels a morbid curiosity about how this all happens so slowly. Even the sounds are long and drawn-out. It's like studying a beautiful slow-motion film. He notices every detail: the lights on the dashboard, the tension contorting Marc's face, the way the headlights make the snowbank glimmer. The car spins completely around, bounces off the left snowbank, hurls across the road with fantastic force and bashes deep into the right bank. They jerk to a standstill, and the engine dies. Both sit silent in the cockpit, trembling. Fear turns to elation as they realize it's over and they are unharmed. "You okay?" Marc asks. "Yeah. That was awesome." Marc leans forward, switches off the lights and turns the key. The motor whines and whines but doesn't start. "Probably flooded." They wait in the darkness until the air coming out of the heater turns cold. He tries the key again. No luck. 41

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"You know anything about engines?" Marc asks. "Nope. You?" Elation turns back to fear. "Look, we're about ten miles from the cabin. We can walk that easy and call a towtruck in the morning." They crawl out of the passenger-side window and step onto the icy road. Cold slaps Garrett's face, and his breath stings his chest. They don ski parkas and double-time it up the road. The moonlight casts an eerie luminescence over the snowcovered landscape. The only sound is the crunch of snow under their feet. Garrett begins to shiver but only partially because of the cold that bites into his face and climbs up his legs. He looks around, hoping to see headlights of someone who could give them a ride, but there is only blackness. Mile after mile they walk in silence. Garrett can only think about what he should be doing by now: sitting in front of a fire with Marc, drinking warm brandy, maybe even soaking in a hot tub. He wants to talk, but all he can think to say is how cold he is, that his feet are numb, and that he can't feel his lips. He doesn't want to whine, so he says nothing. If Marc can stand the cold, he thinks, so can I. They come upon a break in the woods, a meadow covered with a blanket of snow. In the soft moonlight, it looks oddly like a white bone-china plate. Stitched across the clearing are two sets of animal tracks. Garrett tries to keep the shiver out of his voice when he asks, "What made those tracks, fox or weasel?" 42

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"Na, something bigger. Could be coyote, but it's probably wolves. Big ones." The cloud of mist made by Marc's breath hangs in the air for a moment. Silence again, only the soft crunch of ice under their feet. Garrett feels his throat tighten as he tries to peer into the dense wall of trees. "Are there really wolves around here?" he asks. "Oh, they're pretty harmless. It's the cougars that'll rip you a new asshole." Garrett looks over at his friend while he feels his worry tightening the skin across his brow. Marc can't hold back his laughter any longer; it sails over the glistening road. Garrett feels his face flush. He punches Marc's shoulder, playful but hard. In an instant, the two pounce on each other. They strain and pull until they lose their footing on the icy road and are wrestling on the pavement. Garrett feels the cold bite of snow on his neck and down his back, which makes him fight all the harder. They struggle until their strength dwindles and both lay panting. They laugh it off, help each other up, and continue walking with Marc's arm over Garrett's shoulder. Another hour passes before they come over a rise and peer over a meadow glistening in the moonlight. "This is it," Marc announces. The little cabin is set within the cover of pines on the far side of a river. All around, the mountains rise and rise, shimmering in the moon's glow. Marc leaves the road with Garrett in tow, angling directly across the snowfield. They 43

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plow through a knee-deep cloud of powdery cold. The soft powder pulls at their legs, threatening to drag them under. Garrett can't feel anything below his waist, and he can't move his fingers. He stumbles in Marc's tracks and falls into the frigid whiteness. Marc hauls him to his feet and pulls him the last twenty yards across a wooden cantilever bridge that spans an icy river tumbling over smooth granite boulders. On the porch they stamp their feet to get warmth back into their legs, but it does no good. Garrett hears the jingle of keys. The door creaks open, and the cabin erupts with light as Marc finds the wall switch. The cabin is just as cold inside as out. Marc rushes to the huge stone fireplace. He wads up some newspaper, piles kindling over it and strikes a match. A blaze grows, and he piles on a few logs. They crowd in front of the fire. Garrett feels the heat sting his face, but it doesn't stop his teeth from chattering or drive the numbness from his body. He is paralyzed, but he feels grateful for the warmth. He looks at Marc's face, and Marc steals a glance into his eyes. Silence hangs heavy between them. The only sound is the crackling fire. Something uncomfortable grows in the stillness. Garrett searches for something to say, some suggestion of what to do now that they are here, alone, but his mind is as numb as his body. Fear grows in his heart. He knows he has to hold back, has to be careful not to show what he feels for Marc. Marc says, "We should get out of these wet clothes and get under some blankets." Garrett nods. He tries, but his stiff fingers can't grip the zipper of his parka. Marc helps him pull it over his head, and 44

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proceeds to unbutton Garrett's flannel shirt. Garrett goes stiff as a statue while watching his friend undress him. It happens in slow motion, just like earlier in the car. Marc peels off Garrett's shirt and T-shirt, revealing his goose-bump-covered chest. He kneels and takes Garrett's boots and socks off, and reaches up to undo Garrett's pants. The pants bunch stiffly about his ankles, and Marc slides Garrett's Navy-issue boxer shorts down to his ankles as well. Garrett steps out of his pants and huddles naked in front of the fire while Marc drapes the wet garments around the hearth to dry. He peels off his own clothes and runs to the bedroom for a blanket. The next thing Garrett knows, the lights go off and the room shimmers with the glowing firelight. Marc comes up behind, wrapping his arms around Garrett, which envelops them both in a thick quilt. They sink to the floor in front of the fireplace, huddled together to get warm. When the shivering finally fades, Garrett leans into Marc's body while he studies his surroundings. The large room has a high vaulted ceiling. The walls are bare wood, birch or cedar. Firelight dances on the walls, creating a red-orange pulsation that makes the room seem alive, as if they are inside a beating heart. The stone fireplace covers the entire wall, and above it is a thick beam mantel lined with pictures. Over the mantel, a huge elk head looks down on them. Its twelve-point antlers reach out into the room like groping hands. Garrett now focuses on Marc's bare chest pressed against his back, the thighs locked against his hips, and the arms 45

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threaded across his chest. Garrett is bound by this tantalizing body, tender and comforting. He has never felt anything so utterly delicious. Marc's breath on his neck warms his whole body. The popping fire sends a spark flying through the heavy air. Marc's voice is tender. "Feel better? You turned into a Popsicle." "I feel great. You know, I'm glad we'll be stationed together. I've never had a friend like you. I didn't know it could be like this." "Yeah, we'll have great times. And we'll always be friends. I'm sure of it." Marc pulls away from Garrett. He lifts himself out from under the quilt and moves to the fire. He places more logs onto the glowing coals and adjusts the clothes laid out on the hearth. Garrett's eyes roam over his friend's body. He has seen Marc in the shower every day for sixteen weeks, but there is something about the firelight that makes Marc's muscles more defined, yet somehow softer. That marvelous skin glows red in the firelight. Garrett memorizes each feature—the slender neck, strong shoulders, slim waist, curved sex, the flash of white where tan ends and pubic hair begins. Garrett's member hardens as he drinks in each detail. His throat constricts in a spasm of desire that feels like an overpowering heat. His body aches with it, and his eyes fill with unshed tears from the knowledge of it. He tells Marc, "I wish my body was like yours. You're beautiful." 46

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Marc spins around and pounces on Garrett. They grapple, straining against one another, and get tangled in the quilt. A fierce playfulness has them both laughing and brutal at the same time, taking pleasure in the sheer physical bonding, like two lion cubs sparring. They wrestle until their strength wanes and they lay exhausted, laced in each other's arms and legs, at peace. Marc says, "Funny you should say that. I think you're the handsome one." From deep inside Garrett's heart comes a feeling of such force that he takes a huge gamble. He leans over Marc's face and kisses those soft lips, a gentle, searching kiss. Marc responds. Pulling away, they explore each others' eyes for some clue as to how to proceed. Both breathe heavily. The sweetness of Marc's breath is enthralling. Garrett hears the fire pop. He tries to say something but can't form a single thought. He glides a hand over Marc's chest and feels his heart pounding. It seems to match the violence of his heart. Marc shuts his eyes, and their lips touch again. This time, they cling to each other, fierce, primal. Two become one with such force that Garrett struggles for breath. The sensation of Marc overpowers him, and Garrett surrenders, letting his passion devour him. His lips roam down Marc's neck and chest to find nipples. The closeness, the taste of him whips up an excitement that Garrett has never even dreamed of. His head moves lower. He buries his face in taut stomach muscles. 47

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Marc pushes his head lower, further down until his mouth slips over Marc's hardness. Garrett wants to please, needs to. He is clumsy, but he joyfully brings them both to an explosive release. When they separate, sweat mingling and breathing in cadence, Garrett's thoughts come back to him. The room feels different. At least there is a difference in Marc, a pulling back. He senses Marc's confusion and shame. Marc drapes the quilt over their bodies and crosses his arms behind his head. "Wow, you're full of surprises. Never thought you'd do a thing like that." "Me, either, but it sure felt great. I thought your cum would taste as sweet as your breath, but it's bitter." Garrett shifts his body on the hard floor, trying to find a more comfortable position next to Marc. "I'm pretty sticky. Should we shower?" "I didn't turn on the hot water heater. I'll do it now." He starts to rise but stops, hovering over Garrett. "Look, I don't think we should do that anymore. I mean, it felt great, but we're not fags, ya know." "Yeah, I know." Garrett grabs Marc's wrist and pulls him back to the floor. He nuzzles his face into Marc's chest. Marc doesn't resist. Their excitement rises again, but this time their lovemaking is leisurely and generously tender, each awkwardly trying to give pleasure. They feed on their emotions in addition to their body's desires. This time it is Marc who takes Garrett in his mouth, catapulting him to a drenching eruption. 48

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Afterwards, they drift off to sleep, bound to each other in the cocoon-like quilt. **** When Garrett wakes, he sees that the orange-red glow of firelight has been replaced by a soft pink light bleeding through the windows. The room is shadowed in cold darkness, but the light grows, pushing the gloom back. He feels the crisp coldness of the room on his face, but under the quilt, snuggled to Marc, it's cozy. He lies on his side with Marc nailed to his back. Marc's right arm is under his neck and the left is draped over his chest. One of Marc's muscular legs rests between his, and Marc's stiff member nuzzles between Garrett's thighs, poking out under his balls. Garrett is amazed at how quickly he's become accustomed to the feel of Marc's sex, his body being so deliciously close and the smell of his skin. For the first time in his life, he admits to himself that he is, in fact, gay, and that his feelings aren't some phase he'll grow out of. He also realizes that what he's feeling for Marc is love. It's as if a golden light has turned on within his heart, making all things vivid and undeniable. A shiver rushes up his spine as he realizes how lonely life will be if they can't continue like this. He needs to be careful, go slow. The situation requires delicate handling. Marc stirs awake but continues to hold him close. Garrett keeps his eyes closed and his breathing deep, pretending to sleep. He doesn't want Marc to pull away. 49

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Marc's left hand begins to idly play with Garrett's nipple, his hips ever so slowly grind against Garrett's thighs, and his thick patch of pubic hair tickles Garrett's bum. The breath on Garrett's neck and the feel of Marc's member between his legs brings his own sex to life. He is about to turn around when Marc's fingers let go of his nipple and begin to trace letters across the back of his bare shoulder. Garrett can't make out the letters. He holds his breath, straining to understand what Marc is writing across his skin. A grateful smile creases his lips and he silently says a mantra of thanks. Marc's finger traces the words I love you ... I love you... [Back to Table of Contents]

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4. Sitting at the beach bar, Garrett lifts his hand to his face and rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, right where the corner of his eyes meet the bridge of his nose. He feels flushed, thinking about that morning at the cabin. Marc had called Sue Kellermen even before calling the towtruck. He told the girls the plans had changed, not to come. That week was the start of a love affair that burned as bright as a comet across a black void. Garrett leaves the bar with his beer untouched. He peels off his shirt, stuffs it along with his manuscript into his pack and ambles up the beach towards the house. He walks for miles without seeing another living creature except a few shorebirds. His legs begin to ache from trekking on sand—his muscles have grown soft from years of sitting in an office. He feels good about the leg pain, thinking that it's time to get back in shape, but the thought of walking to town for dinner then back to the house again is disheartening. He wonders if it's possible to call a cab. At the end of the beach, a hundred yards below the house, he finds a deserted campsite with blankets, a boom-box, a fire pit with sun-whitened driftwood piled high and a rather large monkey-brown dog with big floppy ears. The dog is old and fat, but when he notices Garrett approaching, he jumps to his feet with surprising speed and growls. Garrett guesses that the dog is part Labrador, but it's easily a hundred and ten pounds and, now that it's turned vicious, the hair on the 51

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top of its back stands straight up to make a ridge from head to tail. Garrett has heard about a breed of dog from Africa called a Rhodesian ridgeback. He wonders if this is one of them. Over the dog's barking and the roar of the waves, he hears spirited howls coming from over the sea. He scans the bay for a half-mile out. Beyond the point, past the white-headed combers, he sees a half-dozen boards and bodies lolling in a tight group. They seem to bob like a patch of driftwood, their direction a matter of current, wind and chance. He pulls the binoculars from his pack and focuses on two young men paddling like crazy in front of a swell that rises out of the purple-blue sea and rolls over the reef. A second later, they jump to their feet and ride the comber's churning crest. Spray fans off the cresting wave, surrounding them. Their arms are spread like wings as they fly landward, two fleeting darts on an ephemeral curl of spume. To Garrett's surprise, both surfers cut around the wave, performing trick maneuvers. They seem to be competing to see which one can do the flashiest ride. He holds his breath watching this ballet of speed and balance and athletic grace. It's as if he can feel the surge of the sea around him. As they are about to slam into the rocky point, they whirl their boards around and fly up over the top of the wave and, belly to board, paddle back out to sea. Garrett watches a few more rides. His pulse races, and sweat drips from his face onto his chest. He's not interested in surfing, but the idea of being immersed in the cold water seems glorious. He feels the strong urge to peel his pants off 52

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and plunge into the breakers, but the house keeps pulling at him. He turns back to the campsite and sees the dog lying down, but it eyes Garrett carefully as it worries a dilapidated tennis ball. Garrett sprints a wide half-circle around the camp and the last hundred yards up to the house. As he climbs the steps to the wide sea porch, the planks creak a welcome under his bare feet. He is struck by the contrast between the dull white walls and the faded, jade-colored shutters that hang at the windows on either side of the door. Against the wall and to one side of the front door sit two chairs, heavy and solid. They are shaped like Adirondack chairs but are made from thick bamboo. The seats and backrests are woven bamboo fibers. He turns to gaze out at the bay and the surrounding tropical landscape. "Eat your heart out, Thoreau," he whispers. He turns the doorknob to test the latch, which is unlocked, and steps inside. The cool interior is light and smells of mold and rotting plaster. A thick coat of dust covers every flat surface, rodent droppings litter the floor and lime-green geckos scurry across the walls. A ceiling fan high in the center of the living room will insure plenty of ventilation during the hot months of August and September, and the front windows are tall and wide to let in the trade winds as well as the view. How strange, he thinks as he studies the living room. Why build a fireplace in this climate? The hearth stones are the 53

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same white color as the plaster walls. A thick mantel beam supports two hurricane lanterns and an old ship's clock that ticks out a measured rhythm. Garrett compares the clock setting with his wristwatch and makes a mental note to set the clock to the proper time. Beside the fireplace is a rattan armchair and next to that a reading lamp. He imagines generations of fishermen sitting through stormy nights engrossed in the likes of Dickens, Melville and Twain, with only the roar of the sea and the rain on the roof to keep them company. The rest of the furniture is as worn and solid as the house. A low bamboo table sits in front a sofa that faces the fireplace. Lying on the dark wood-plank floor are three tattered oriental rugs to soften the creaking. A potted palm tree sits near the front window, brown and drooping, its life nearly exhausted. Garrett scans the rest of the room—no phone, no television and no radio to disturb the serenity. He is struck by the banality of the house. It feels humble in its sparseness. A stillness pervades him. He unconsciously lets his tension ease. His shoulders drop, and a feeling of comfort infiltrates his being. He stands motionless for five minutes, listening. Through the quiet, he hears the pounding waves—the rhythm feels like a beating heart—and the ship's clock announces the passage from one moment to the next. But there is something else, something he can't quite grasp. It makes him feel as if he's come home from a long, arduous journey. 54

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The walls are bare except for a framed antique poster hanging next to the entrance to the bedroom. The poster depicts the 1914 Mid-Pacific Carnival, being held in Honolulu. The center of the poster sports a black-and-white picture of Duke Kahanamoku, the champion swimmer and surfer, riding a surfboard. Garrett looks closely at the picture and gives a long, soft whistle. "What a babe," he says. Normally he would have said, "What a stud," considering the Duke's muscular body, but the face is so boyishly pretty babe seemed the more appropriate term. He pokes his head into the bedroom. The bed is large and sturdy. A chest of drawers stands against the far wall with a mirror hanging above it. Next to the bed is a nightstand supporting a low lamp. The rest of the room is bare. Something about the simplicity of the room makes him feel uplifted. He finds a study off the living room. It must be a converted second bedroom, he thinks. Venturing in, he takes deep breaths to calm his sudden excitement. A solid oak desk majestically spreads out in front of a wall of bookshelves. The desk has personality: strong, substantial yet elegant. Garrett wipes away a swath of dust with his arm and caresses the smooth varnished finish. The grain weaves shadowy lines across the surface. This room, he muses, is suitable for Hemingway. It's too perfect. From the desk, he has a clear view of the bay out the front window. He proceeds to the kitchen and the bathroom. He shakes his head at his good fortune. The house has everything from 55

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dishes and linen to toilet paper. Now all he needs is his computer so he can get down to business. At the bathroom mirror, he stares at the image in the glass. The mirror is covered with dust, and he can't see his features, only a blurred shape. He lifts his left arm and wipes a wide swath of dust. Now he sees the familiar face gaping back at him. His delicate, rather snub-nosed face is not as handsome as he would like, but attractive nonetheless. The combination of his short dark hair and blue-green eyes still turns heads, but pain and drinking have accelerated aging. Before Marc died, his face was the same as the one he'd had at twenty. In just two years, it has lost its youthful quality. The effects of drink have spread over it one feature at a time, making fine lines appear around the mouth. His cheeks are flush and more pronounced, his eyelids sag, and furrows are etched across his forehead. At thirty-two, he has a forty-year-old face, but with a slight drooping across all his features, giving the impression of profound grief. He and the image trade smiles. Garrett winks, and the image winks back. The smile widens. He thinks that he still has a charming smile, but he sees the lines around his mouth and, somehow, the smile turns into an image of contempt. When he leans forward, the smile turns into a betrayal of intense loneliness, with shadows of terror darkened by shades of acute sadness. The likeness in the mirror transforms into something slightly different with each blink of his eyes. The closer he 56

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looks at the now-unfamiliar face, the more obvious the transformations become. He steps back to get a different view, turns sideways to study his profile. He has an athletic physique, though the muscles on his six-foot-one frame have softened from too many hours in the office, and his waistline has spread a few inches from late-night dinners. He leans closer, looks deeper, tries to see the man under the mask. He peers directly into the eyes, which are bloodshot and distant. He explores behind the pupils, but he only sees a dull void, which is startling. He searches for something within the void, a spark of vitality or some sense of self. The frustrating thing is, he's not sure what he's looking for. Finding nothing, he hears a faint laugh in his head again. He spins around, away from the mirror, listening hard but hearing nothing. He does notice a slight trembling in his hands. The tranquility of the house is suddenly shattered by a noise from down the beach. He charges through the living room and steps onto the porch. The surfers are now at the campsite. Hip-hop music quakes from a boom-box in the center of several twitching bodies. His first impulse is to yell at them to turn down the volume, but he squelches the idea. Let it go for today, he thinks. He pulls his binoculars from his daypack, sits on a deck chair, leans into its backrest and brings the lenses to his eyes, studying the surfers. Their tawny bodies sprawl about the campsite like lazy lions lolling on the sand. One has a 57

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stocky body and the combination of a prominent nose and weak chin that makes him look like a shark. He, as do almost all the others, has numerous tattoos decorating each area of his body. He studies one young man with long jet-black hair, amber skin covering a lean frame, who has no visible tattoos. He throws a ball into the surf. The old dog gallops through the water until an incoming wave bowls him over. He swims out to retrieve the ball and returns to the beach. Garrett grins as the dog hauls himself from the foam, rivers of water running off his back and, with feet spread, shakes himself duck-fashion. His undulating coat sprays water in all directions while his long ears flop back and forth. The sun glistens through the spray of water and makes it look like a rainbow has enveloped the dog. The old dog trots up the beach, and the surfer throws the ball again. The dog reminds Garrett how wonderful a swim would feel, but his swimsuit is packed in his bags, which are still in town. But he laughs. "What the fuck." He jumps off the chair and dashes to the beach. He stops, not wanting a confrontation with the surfers. He scans the beach and the rocky point, looking for a place to swim that's away from their campsite. Near the end of the point, the rocks jut out of the sea for sixty feet straight up. Garrett takes off at a gallop, heading for the cliff. As he runs he begins to peel off his pants and, bouncing on one leg then the other, manages to get both pants and underwear off while still running across the sunwarmed rocks. He finally stands naked at the edge of the cliff. 58

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The water far below churns as it crashes against the sheer rock wall. The wet precipice gleams with sunrays. Mist rides the wind straight up to touch his cheek. He inches closer to the edge until his toes are suspended in space. Doubts about how shallow the water could be makes him consider climbing down to a safer diving position, but he shrugs it off. He swallows hard, bends his knees slightly and scrunches his shoulder blades together. The waves advance to the cliff like ranks of soldiers marching to battle, but the orderly movement dissolves in a riot of foam when the waves crash into the rock. At each moment of impact, the whole universe seems to freeze, as if stunned by the force of fluid motion thrusting against immovable stone. The chaotic swirling below mesmerizes him. He looks up to keep from getting dizzy, but the sky mirrors the relentless ocean with boiling clouds racing across a blue canvas. He feels suspended between two identical worlds. He knows that what lies ahead is more difficult than anything he's ever attempted, and he knows he should be back at the house, identifying the issues, figuring out the details, getting down to work. But he will not do any of that today. Work starts tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow, he thinks, and laughs from deep in his gut because there is no turning back. He has stepped onto a path, and there is nothing to do now but take the next step. He laughs again for the sheer pleasure of feeling the sun on his bare skin and the wind rushing up the cliff to make his hair blow wildly towards the sky. The wind also pushes from behind him, gently nudging the curve at the small of his back. 59

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He inches closer to the edge, wondering once again what will happen if the water is too shallow. His arms rise high over his head. He stands in that position for a long time, a statue carved out of the rock, enjoying his rising tension and the sweet anticipation until he can't stand it another moment. In one fluid motion, he leans forward as his legs thrust, and he plunges through mist-laden sky toward the sea. [Back to Table of Contents]

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5. All morning, under a boiling sky, an unusual tide rolls huge swells over the reef, making the surfing awesome. But by mid-afternoon the air temperature skyrockets and the waves dwindle. One by one the surfers retreat to the beach. Pops is the first in, followed by Songoree. Pops is always first because he likes to get the jump on the ice chest. Also, at thirty-five years old, he tires more quickly than the younger men. In his prime, he was a world-class rhino chaser—surfers who follow the big waves whenever they can—but that was a decade ago. He rides a wave through the churning foam until it spills him onto the sand. Songoree lies flat on his board, listening to the roar of the waves battling the rock cliff. He swivels his head around and sees a medium-sized wave building in strength. He intuitively knows this is his ride, his last of the day, and he wants to make the most of it. He paddles until the wave thrusts him forward. As he merges with the wave's momentum, he leaps to his feet, balances then curves parallel to the immaculate wall of water, sliding along the crest in front of the curl. With the roar of water in his ears, he loses that part of himself that has a name, becoming only the wave rushing to shore. This is the moment he lives for. Before Songoree can beach his board, Pops kneels before the cooler like a praying man, digging through the ice. 61

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Songoree jogs up the sand with his board under his arm and his wet hair strung about his shoulders. He drops his board, pulls off his Lycra rash guard, coils up his leash then sprawls on the sand beside his dog, Coolie. Pops tilts his head back under an open beer can, gulping down one cold mouthful after another. He comes up for air long enough to switch on the boom box, filling the air with LL Cool J before reaching for another can. The seabirds mewl and soar higher, unnerved by the music. Songoree lies heaving. The hot sand on his back harmonizes with the sun's rays on his chest, and together they begin to restore his energy. The blaring music seems to fuse with his fatigue. Eyes closed, he lets his mind swim in the delirious whirlpool of sensations. "Yo, Song-boy," Pops says, opening a beer. "This should bring you back." He places the icy can on Songoree's stomach. Songoree bolts two inches off the sand and spills beer all over himself. Coolie leaps to his feet and laps the spilt beer from Songoree's torso. "No, Coolie. No." Songoree laughs as he scrunches his body into a ball. The dog loves beer, and he keeps lapping, ignoring Songoree's pleas. In desperation, Songoree grabs the tennis ball and flings it into the surf. "Get it, Coolie." Pops erupts with laughter as Coolie hobbles to retrieve the ball. "Sorry, Song-boy. You want another?" He runs a hand across the black stubble on his dark chin. His wrinkled face 62

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looks leathery from too much sun, but his eyes still have the sparkle of youth and his trim body is strong. "No, thanks, Pops. There's a taste left in this," Songoree says as he holds up the can. "I just need enough to wash down the salt." "Smart kid. This shit doesn't do a damn thing for you unless you have a lot of pain eatin' your insides, but you're too young for that. Smart kid. Not like these other wave jockeys," he says, pointing his beer at Mako and Duke, who are both riding the same wave to shore. "Song," Pops says, "I need help at the Village, and you're just the kind of kid I'm looking for—smart, good-looking and good with people. How'd you like a job?" "Duke's job?" "He quit. Damn fool enlisted. He leaves for boot camp next week. Wants to get his ass shot off by terrorists. Don't mention it, though. He's keeping his cards close to his chest. Guess he's afraid you dudes will laugh at his stupidity." "What would I do?" "Not much. Most of time you're at the equipment shack checking towels in and out. You keep an eye out for drowning kids and any sharks that come over the reef. Other than that, repair beach equipment, teach haoles how to surf and keep the beach clean. Nothin' to it." "I was expecting my college education to land me something better paying than a beachboy, but nobody's lining up with other offers. I'll talk it over with Grandpa." "This job gets you in the door. Your education can take you into management if you got what it takes. Sure, it's minimum 63

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wage, but you're always on the beach and nobody hassles you. Best part are the babes. Those haoles are always hungry for a little island romance, even when they come with their husbands or boyfriends. With your looks, they'll be fighting over you." He smiles a big toothy smile. "You have to be cool about that shit. Management don't like fraternization, but I say, give the customers what they want." He downs some more beer and tosses the empty can aside. "All-in-all, it's not a bad way to earn some coin. The only hassle is putting up with the haoles that think they're Rockefeller. Those dudes have some serious attitude if they have a few bucks, and they all do." Coolie staggers out of the water with the tennis ball in his mouth. He shakes himself and sprints up the beach, dropping the tennis ball beside Songoree. Songoree picks up the ball and throws it back out into the surf. Coolie takes off again. "I could sure use the cash, but it can't interfere with my taking care of Grandpa." "No problem," Pops says. "We'll cover for each other. Here comes Duke. Let me know tomorrow." Two more boards and two more bodies hit the sand. Mako sprawls out beside Songoree. Pop throws each an icy can. Being this close to Mako makes Songoree's head tingle. "Check out PJ," says Mako, nodding his head towards the cliffs. "Gonna hotdog his way into the rocks." They all gaze out to sea, except for Songoree, who studies Mako's body. Dark and powerful, it glistens with beads of seawater, making his intricately patterned tattoos seem even more beautiful. Songoree traces Mako's angular muscles with 64

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his eyes, then the cotton board shorts plastered to Mako's hips all the way to his knees. There is something fascinating about Mako. He's ruggedly beautiful, with his strong jaw and high cheekbones, and he has a mean streak that runs bone deep. He's a genuine moke—a native thug—which makes him a good friend to have in a fight. More than anything, this half-Hawaiian, half-Filipino hates haoles. PJ and Buddy ride close together on a mid-sized wave that breaks to the right. It's their last ride of the afternoon, and PJ makes the most of it by performing three-sixties across the wave's crest. As they near the cliff, he cuts dangerously close to Buddy, sliding down in front of him. The maneuver forces Bud to swerve up and over the crest, ending his ride. PJ surfs right up to the cliff, much closer than any of the others have ever done. A split second before disaster, he cuts up the wave's concave face and soars over the top. He gets plenty of air before disappearing in the foam. Pops and Duke jump to their feet. "I see him, he's okay," Pops says. "Yeah, except that he's got shit for brains," Duke says as he drops to the sand. Songoree continues to secretly eye Mako's body. Why are men, he wonders, so afraid to show intimacy? Not sexual intimacy, but playful affection. When they were all young boys they had no problem hugging each other, and Songoree had spent many nights cuddled in the arms of each one of his friends during sleepovers. He feels a love-bond with these men that he's grown up with, and he has an inner desire to 65

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express it. He's heard that in Europe, men friends are intimate with no trace of sexual overtones—they hold hands, hug, and even kiss each other on the lips with no shame because there is nothing to be ashamed of. How would it feel to hold Mako close? Do the others feel this need and hide it, or is it only me? Mako downs his beer and tosses the can into the fire pit. "PJ's got a classic case of big balls and puny brains." He stretches his body on the sand like a cat in the sun. "God, what a kick-ass day. Can it get any better than this? The waves haven't been this big for months. I'm exhausted and happy and hungry as hell. We got anything to eat?" Pop reaches for another beer. "The wahines are bringing food. Here, suck on this." He throws Mako another can. Four bodies lay on the sand listening to the music coalesce with the sound of the pounding surf. A light breeze flows over them. Songoree closes his eyes and focuses on how the wind and sun coddle each part of his body. Now Coolie hovers over him, dripping seawater on his chest. Songoree takes the ball and throws it into the surf again. The dog trots into the water and is bowled over by a wave. "Dudes!" PJ's voice booms. "Did you see me take that comber? It was killer. Man, I pumped that smoker for everything it had. Did you count the three-sixties? I'd have done more if Buddy could keep his lard ass out of my way. This faggot almost had me tastin' salt. Hey, Mako, you see how close I came to the cliff? Man, I almost ate rock. Bet you never got that close." 66

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"That's right, PJ," Mako says. "I got nothing to prove." "Well, let me know when you finally grow some cojones," PJ sneers. Buddy, a beefy, good-natured Hawaiian, grabs two beers from the cooler and tosses one to PJ. "You tasted plenty of salt today, and not because of me. You're always lookin' to blame someone." PJ steps close to Buddy and grabs his crotch. Buddy gasps. He drops his beer and grabs PJ's arm with both hands. "The next time you get in my way," PJ says. "I'm gonna run my board up your fat ass." He squeezes extra-hard, and Buddy lets out a shrill cry. "You'll be shittin' fiberglass for a month, fatboy!" "Let him go, PJ," Songoree says; his voice is low-pitched and punctuated with meaning. "Just making sure he gets my point. You do get my point, don't you, fatboy?" Buddy nods, obviously trying to hold back the tears. "Can't hear you, fatboy." PJ squeezes harder. "Yeah," Buddy yells, "I get your point!" "Give it up, PJ. I mean it!" Songoree says. A grin cuts across PJ's face as he lets go. Buddy gasps and doubles over holding himself. PJ glances down at Songoree. "You want some of this, Song-boy?" A tingling sensation runs up Songoree's spine. Fear. Songoree despises himself for feeling it. He struggles to appear bored. 67

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"Don't trip, dude," Songoree says. He manages to keep his voice steady. "Nobody wants to fight and nobody wants to hear your shit." "Back off, Song-boy. I was only having some fun. Don't make it into something." Buddy drops to the sand and looks up at PJ. "Fun? Yeah, you're a laugh riot." "Don't bring that weak stuff onto the beach, Song-boy," Duke says. "Men play rough, that's our nature. Buddy's gotta stand up for himself. If you don't like that, get yourself some dollies and go play with the wahines. Leave us men to ourselves." "Is it our nature to run off to Iraq to kill women and children? Is that what being a man is about?" Silence falls over the entire group as Duke shoots Songoree a truculent glare. "What's up with that?" Mako asks. "Nobody here is that fuckin' twisted." "Check it out," Pops says, pointing up at the old fisherman's house. "Some fuckin' haole moved into the house." Everyone turns to see a man rush down the path to the beach. He stops, laughs and runs towards the cliffs. "That dude's missing something," PJ announces, pointing to his head. Buddy does a double-take. "He's peelin' off his jeans. That dude is seriously twisted." Songoree leans on his elbows to watch the man race up to the cliff's edge. 68

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"He's gonna jump," Mako says. "How cool is that?" "No way," PJ says with his usual air of confidence. "Not even haoles are that fuckin' dumb." They all stand to get a better view. PJ says, "Five says he backs down." Buddy can't resist a bet. "You're on." "He'll jump," Songoree says as he climbs to his feet. All his attention focuses on the lean frame standing tall at the cliff's edge. The body seems to grow right out the rock with long straight lines and angles. He stands rigid with his arms hanging at his side. It seems as though this drifting island is now anchored to the man's immovable feet. With the sun behind him and the surf below, he stands motionless until all the surfers except Songoree are sure he won't jump. With each passing minute, Songoree becomes more excited. Mako and Duke begin shouting gibes. "Do it, bitch ... Let it fly, faggot ... Grab your nuts and jump, you haole fuck." The others join in but soon give up and drop to the sand, relaxed and unconcerned once again. Songoree stays on his feet. He knows why the man hasn't jumped yet. It has nothing to do with courage. The man is exposing himself for as long as possible to the sun's rays, the wind's caress, the booming surf and the view of the island panorama. All these elements brought together in one exhilarating moment proves too much for any man to rush. When the strain of experiencing such perfection becomes intolerable, he'll lean forward and leap. 69

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Songoree knows this because he has made that very dive himself. It was one of the trials his grandfather instructed him to perform for his right of passage into manhood. He watches until the man crouches and leaps out over the water. Down he goes, fast. Song's stomach tightens as if he were making the plunge himself. The body cleaves the water and stays under a full two minutes. Did he keep his eyes open when he hit the water, Songoree wonders, to see the moment when one familiar universe instantly turns into an alien environment. He keeps his eyes on the spot under the cliff until a head appears and the man cuts a straight line for the beach. He's a strong swimmer, Songoree notes, and he has unusual courage. Could he be the one? Grandfather said he'd be drawn to the house, but an FOJ haole? He shakes his head. "PJ," Songoree says. "Need to borrow your ride." "Whatever, Song-boy," PJ replies. "Where to?" "Gotta tell Grandpa about the haole." "Not your problem, dude," Mako says. "If he's the big kahuna everyone claims, Ol' Kane is whisperin' in his ear right now." "Chill, the party's just startin'," yells PJ. "The wahines are coming. We gotta practice our dance for the luau." Songoree walks to where the road ends by the house and straddles PJ's motorcycle. He yells, "I'll be back before sunset." "Bring your guitar," Pop yells back. "The wahines love your singing." "Hey, Buddy," Songoree yells. "You won the fiver." 70

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He starts the engine and zooms off down the red dirt road. "Holy shit," Buddy exclaims, his eyes darting to the cliff. "He jumped!" Five men leap to their feet, and Mako points to the swimmer. "Why the fuck did he do that?" [Back to Table of Contents]

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6. Songoree is around the bay in minutes. He flies into town and picks up a few things for his grandfather, and rides to the outskirts of town again. He leaves the bike near a dirt path and hurries on foot towards the hills, following a trail that leads up from the road. The path cuts through dense algaroba, sandalwood and breadfruit trees, and coconut palms towering over thick leafy banana plants. Beneath the canopy of trees, the trail is cool with emerald-green light filtering down from above. Sweetsmelling ferns, dripping with dew, line each side of the path. As Songoree rushes towards his goal, he brushes against the ferns, wetting his legs and cooling his feet. He stoops to sweep his hand through the plants and then wipes his face. Its freshness reminds him of his grandfather's saying that dewdrops are the tears of happiness from his beloved island goddess, Pele. At the end of the trail, he passes under twelve pairs of royal palms, their thick trunks standing erect as marble pillars. He makes his way along a stone path that leads through delicate ferns and orchids to his grandfather's thatched-roof hut. On the lanai, he looks out over the garden and sees his grandfather sitting cross-legged by a small waterfall that flows into the wide pond that forms the garden's centerpiece. Grandfather sits as still as stone, like a winsome old man painted on a Chinese silk screen. Although he is full-blooded 72

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Hawaiian, he wears a somber gray kimono. It's the style of dressing he acquired from his late wife, Yoshi, who was Japanese. Grandfather sits smiling, and anyone looking at him would guess that he is dreaming of an old love, but Songoree knows better. It had taken his grandfather two months to arrange and rearrange the rocks at the bottom of the waterfall to get just the right pitch in the splashing sound, like tuning a Stradivarius. Now Grandfather spends most of his time beside it. His eyes are closed, and he is so still that Songoree watches until he sees the old man's chest dilate ever so slightly. Ducking his head, Songoree enters the hut through the open door. His eyes refocus in the dimness as he moves across the large, tidy room. The single-room dwelling has a double bed, simple bamboo furniture, and the hardwood floors are covered with soft pandanus matting. There is no electricity or running water. The stove is a Coleman gas stove commonly used by campers. He walks to the stove, pumps up the gas pressure and strikes a match to light the burner. He leans out the window and dips the coffeepot into a large earthen tub of rainwater, adds coffee grounds and places the pot on the flame. He pulls the items he purchased in town from his pack—today's local paper and fish for Grandfather's dinner. He cleans the fish, measures rice for two and places the rice and two cups of rainwater in the cooking pot. The room is sweet with incense, and as the coffee percolates the smell of it mixes with the incense to give the 73

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room a pungent aroma. He prepares the coffee in a large tin coffeepot, pours the dark liquid into a green glazed mug and adds lots of sweetened condensed milk. Songoree takes the mug through the garden and places it beside his grandfather. As he sits beside the old man, he sees a small hole in the sleeve of the old man's kimono. It doesn't look like a new hole, Songoree thinks. Why haven't I noticed this before? I am so thoughtless? I can easily sew a patch on it but now that we have money from renting the house, I can buy him a new one. He smiles at the idea and puts the thought away, knowing he will order a new kimono tomorrow. He closes his eyes and turns his attention to the sound of the waterfall. Over the splashing, he hears the breeze tugging at the bamboo beyond the pond, insects buzzing over his head. He focuses on the sensation of air filling his lungs and moving out again. Minutes bleed by. He becomes deeply relaxed, engulfed within a sphere of silence. Now he feels Grandfather's essence touch his own like a feathery caress. They become one. A quarter-hour passes before Grandfather clears his throat and speaks. "Monkey-boy, I feel your excitement. What have you witnessed?" The old man opens his eyes and takes the coffee mug in his left hand. He raises it to his lips and sips quietly. Songoree opens his mouth to speak but pauses for a halfminute, giving Grandfather time to enjoy his coffee. "Grandfather, a man has come to the house." 74

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"Yes, he has come." Grandfather laughs. The sparkling laughter causes Songoree to laugh as well. Grandfather reaches out with his right hand and gives Songoree's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "We have done well, young one. Very well." He falls silent for a minute, then says, "Now, tell me of the basketball. Are they in the playoffs yet?" "No, Grandfather, the playoffs are the week after next. I brought you a paper so you can read the sports page." "Will the Bulls of Chicago make the playoffs?" "Doubtful. They lost again last night. It's looking like the Lakers and the Jazz, or perhaps Boston can sneak in there." "A shame about the Bulls. They are not the same team since the great Michael Jordan retired. A true inspiration. He motivated excellence in others by tapping into his own personal power. We can all learn about greatness from this man." Songoree nods. Grandfather says, "We'll enjoy the playoffs on your mother's television. After the season comes baseball. I'm looking forward to wonderful things from the great Barry Bonds and the Giants of San Francisco. This may finally be their year." "We will see when we see. Right now, I'm ready to cook dinner. We have rice and steamed snapper, and I'll fry some bananas. Are you hungry?" The old man shakes his head. "You eat. I'll have some cold rice later. But first, tell me about the man."

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"Grandfather, this is probably not the one we're looking for. He is a haole. I mean a vanilla, yuppie, FOJ type. He's doesn't seem the kind of person who will help us." The old man studies his heir. "Too much judgment. Always with you it's assumptions about this and opinions about that. Assumptions and opinions are not truth. Truth is seeing things as they are, not as your mind would have them. What did you see?" Songoree begins to speak but stops. He lowers his head and thinks about what he will say until he knows it is true. "I saw the man leap off the cliff at the point." "You see much but make little of it." The old man reaches up and touches Songoree under the chin, lifting his head until they look eye to eye. He raises an eyebrow. "You presume to know the hearts of Kane, of Pele? Learn to curb your arrogance, young one." Songoree's face flushes. He drops his head again and studies his hands, deciding not to push his point. We'll soon find out who's right, he thinks, and then he'll have to acknowledge that I also know a thing or two. "You think you are my equal," Grandfather says. Songoree looks up. He knows the old man has knowledge of the old ways, but Songoree has learned much of this lore and he has attended the university. He's learned the modern culture and scientific knowledge. Although he's never voiced it before, he feels that his modern education gives him the superior intellect. Before Songoree can refute the allegation, the old man says, "We certainly are not! I am a kahuna anaana warrior, 76

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and I know the difference between knowledge and wisdom. You are a pimp, echoing other people's obscene ideas as your own truth. You want the world to reflect your warped assumptions, rather than you mirroring the truth around you. Your university knowledge paralyzes your will and discourages action and passion, and it robs your truth of all its dignity." Songoree's eyes widen, his mouth falls open. Grandfather has never made such a personal attack before. He is utterly stunned. A heartbeat later, he becomes furious. Grandfather gazes at him with calm dignity as he continues to talk. His words pour out with grace and deadlysmooth enunciation. He tells Songoree that acts, not ideas, hold power, and that his own actions are the acts of a warrior—deliberate, precise acts based on truth, and he takes total responsibility for each action. He talks for a long time, comparing his effective acts to Songoree's blundering assumptions. Grandfather speaks with power behind his words, without a trace of conceit or belligerence. Slowly, ever so slowly, Songoree's anger dissolves. He is caught up in that voice beneath the words. Grandfather finally goes silent and utterly motionless. Ten minutes go by before Songoree decides it's time to slip away to prepare dinner, but he can't move, not even an eyelash. Grandfather somehow holds him to that spot with his will. An hour goes by, darkness falls about them like a cloak, and still they sit like statues. Songoree stares at Grandfather 77

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until the old man's silhouette seems to merge with the blackness around him. In this motionlessness state, it feels to Songoree that he no longer exists, that neither of them is any more than a flame of consciousness. The constellations silently wheel overhead as another hour crawls by. Songoree continues to experience this seemingly bodiless state. It finally dawns on him that Grandfather can sit here forever if he wants, and that his life of precise acts, his impeccable will power and his ability to manipulate life beyond his body is by far superior to Songoree's limited knowledge. Grandfather turns his head and says, "I need to see him." He continues as if no time had elapsed since their last conversation. "And we will act as if he is the one until he proves otherwise. I must tell you, I'm feeling very confident." "Yes, Grandfather." It feels strange to use his voice again, to move his lips. "Go to him. Care for him. Let him know I am coming. Hap will drive me to the house tomorrow. Then we will see." The old man laughs again, laughter so deep and genuine that Songoree is swept up in the old man's happiness. Their laughter echoes throughout the garden. [Back to Table of Contents]

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7. Garrett sits on one of the Adirondack chairs watching the sun drift towards the horizon. Heat radiates from the lava surrounding the house, drenching his body with relaxing warmth. His mind empties as he scans the view. The protective ring of mountains that surrounds the bay and the vast Pacific beyond the reef seem magical in the afternoon light. Over the murmur of the surf, he hears a discordant sound that grows in volume. The dilapidated Chevy pickup he'd seen in town rattles down the dirt road and pulls up a dozen yards from the house. The same grizzled old man steps out of the truck and waves. "Aloha, I brought your stuff from town," he yells. "Great." Garrett eases to his feet and scurries across the warm lava to the truck. Up close, he sees the man's features clearly—the yellowish discoloration around his eyes, the broken veins across his cheeks, the wattle of fat under his chin, and his large red nose. His face, like his whole body, is soft and puffy; the firmness of youth is long forgotten. He has deep lines etched across his neck and dark-brown blotches on his face, neck and the backs of his hands, no doubt from too much time under the tropical sun. "Folks call me Hap," he says, holding out his hand. "Hap Halsy. Came over in fifty-nine fresh out of Navy boot camp and never left." 79

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Garrett sees the hand is badly scarred across the meaty part of the palm—old scars. "Garrett Davidson." He gives the man a firm handshake. The lava is so warm it starts to burn his bare feet, so he begins to shift from foot to foot. "Hap's an unusual name. Is it short for something?" Hap, also moving foot to foot, shakes his head. "I was an aircraft mechanic out at Hicum Field for my entire tour of duty. My buddy's called me Flap, but these natives have a little trouble with F's, and for a long time they dropped the F and called me Lap, but over the years it somehow turned into Hap. It's all a mystery to me. I guess it don't matter what they call me as long as it ain't Shithead or Faggot or something like that. "Not that I have anything against a man who is either, I just don't want people calling me those kind of names to my face." Garrett is slightly ruffled by the remark but decides to let it pass. He asks Hap how he got those scars on his hands. "I'm a fisherman by trade. These scars are line cuts from hauling in big fish, marlin mostly—seven, eight-hundred pounders. But it's been years since I've fought a really big one." "Well, glad to meet you, and thanks for bringing my stuff. Let's get the hell off this hot lava." "Good idea. This damned stuff soaks up the sun's heat all day then stays hot all night. That's why nobody lives out here. It's like an oven. If you're here in the hot months you'll be baked alive." 80

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"Have a seat on the porch while I take this stuff inside. Wish I could offer you a beer, but I haven't made it to the store yet." Garrett lifts a bag and the cardboard box holding his oil painting from the truckbed. "Audrey sent along a few bags of groceries to get you started. They're in the cab," Hap says as he scratches his head and carefully eyes Garrett. "I threw in some gin because Audrey thinks you might be a writer." Hap scrutinizes Garrett with a raised eyebrow, as if giving him an opportunity to deny the charge. "It used to be that writers were hard men—Hemingway, Conrad, London. They were whiskey drinkers. Writers today just don't have the same guts. They drink gin and merlot and shit like that." "What do you drink?" Garrett asks, trying to keep a smile on his face. "Anything with a kick to it." Garrett laughs. Without knowing why, he decides he likes this man. Maybe it's his amiable face or perhaps his outspoken demeanor. He carries his bag and the painting into the bedroom and lays them on the bed. Hap follows him into the house carrying two grocery sacks. By the time Garrett fetches a box of books, Hap is in the kitchen putting things on shelves and in the refrigerator. "I can get that," Garrett yells from the study. "Just makin' sure the booze gets put away proper," Hap says, bending down to store a six-pack of beer in the fridge and lay a bottle of Bombay Gin in the freezer next to a tray of 81

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ice cubes. "Always keep your gin and vodka in the freezer," he says, smacking his rubbery lips together. "Alcohol won't freeze, but it gets thick and so cold it makes your tonsils stand and salute. You'll appreciate that on a hot day." "Thanks. How much do I owe you?" Garrett asks, reaching for his wallet. "Not a goddamned thing. Audrey already paid me." Hap's eyes narrow to slits. "But if you'd like, I can drive you into town, show you around a bit, and you can buy me a beer at the Parrot." He smiles, showing two rows of dingy, crooked teeth. Garrett considers the unpacked bags and the desk waiting to be used. Screw it, he thinks. It can wait. Better to get to know at least one person on this island. "You're on." **** The old truck, which reeks of gasoline to the point that Garrett wonders if it might explode, rattles into town along the dirt road that skirts the beach on one side and dense vegetation on the other. He hears an earful all the way. Not about the town or the island, but about Hap. He owns the truck, an old fishing scow called the Royal Lady and a taste for the easy life. He works at odd jobs whenever he needs money, and he never works harder than what he needs to keep his belly full, his scow afloat and allow an occasional visit to Madam Chang's—the only honest whorehouse on the island. 82

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"Yes, sir," Hap chuckles, "I won't work a nine-to-five and I ain't no pack mule. They call me a rascal, a bum and a nogood, but I ain't never swiped nothin' and I don't cause nobody no harm. I might die of a bad ticker or I might go from drink, but the good Lord ain't goin' to take me down from no ulcers or jittery nerves." On the sidewalk in front of the Blue Parrot, Garrett and Hap step out of the path of a tall, gray-haired clergyman strolling arm-in-arm with a prim-looking lady. As they pass, the priest's long-nosed face takes on a stern expression, and he says, "A little early in the day for sinning, Hap, even for you." Hap winks at Garrett. "Reverend Bitton. He can't stand anyone that's not just as dried-up and miserable as he is." They both smile like schoolboys playing hooky. Garrett asks, "Is your issue with the reverend personal, or is it any religious figure you don't like?" "Not sure if you know about the early missionary families, but they ended up owning half the islands. They took everything they could grab. We have a saying here: The missionaries came out here to do good, and they did better than good, they did great!" Garrett's eyes sting as he follows Hap through the door and into a smoky room. The cavernous room is a sour contrast with the bright sky and fresh air outside. His eyes adjust to the dim. The only bright light is directly over the card and pool tables. He smells beer, cue-chalk, sweat and the faint stench of toilet disinfectant. 83

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The dozen or so patrons, all locals, hush into a dead silence. The only sound is the ivory click of a cue ball kissing the nine ball into a corner pocket. All eyes focus on the newcomers as they move through the wall of stale cigarette smoke to the two barstools nearest the door. "Max," Hap says, "two whiskeys with beer backs." The bartender, a heavy Samoan, wears a T-shirt that has a picture of a can of Spam across the chest with the words Hawaii's Prime Sirloin under it. His eyes are set wide apart, and his weak chin and pointy teeth make his face look like a shark's. He lazily mops the counter with a wet rag. He doesn't look up. "Fuck you! Take your haole mahu and go find a white bar." "What's a mahu?" Garrett asks, turning to Hap. "It's island slang for faggot." Hot blood spreads under the skin of Garrett's face. He starts to rise off his stool, but Hap grabs his arm, holding him down. "I said two whiskeys with backs." Max moseys over to Hap and leans into the bar. "Take his white ass outta here, or they're gonna carry you both out." The room seems to converge on Garrett as the locals form a semicircle around them. Garrett shakes off Hap's arm and stands. He backs away from the bar, spreads his feet apart, curls his hands into fists and waits for someone to make a move. The buzzing of a ceiling fans seems loud, as does the soft sound of his own breath going in and out. He is loose and ready, already knowing which one he'll drop first. 84

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Hap grins. "Hell, Max. My friend Garrett is a good guy. I only brought him here because he wants to buy the house a few rounds." The Samoan scans the room. "Two rounds for everyone, eighty-five bucks, in advance." Hap grins at Garrett. "Why don't you pay Max now, Garrett?" There is a shade of pleading in his voice. The tension eases the moment Garrett reaches for his wallet. The Samoan's teeth gleam as he smiles. He lines the bar with cold beers. Garrett is the last to be served. Customers grab their drinks and return to their poker games. One moves to the pool table, whistling abstractedly while he practices bank shots. "Not being Hawaiian is no crime," Hap tells Garrett as he sips his beer. "But not being a native islander warrants contempt by all. I've been on this island over forty years, and I don't have equal status." Garrett sips his beer. "You would think they'd be grateful for the boost to the economy instead of biting the hand that feeds them." "What you don't know about the islands could choke a whale," Hap says with a smirk. He lifts his whiskey to his lips, savoring the aroma, rolls his head back and downs the shot. He smacks his lips and says, "This bar and Madam Chang's are the only joints in town not owned by whites. These people have damn little of their own, most work at white-owned businesses serving dinners or cutting grass or cleaning toilets." 85

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Garrett looks down and watches the dim light flicker on the surface of his whiskey. He lifts the glass to his lips and sips. He sees the disgusted look on Hap's face and feels embarrassed. Knocking his head back, he swallows and feels it burn all the way down. He sips his beer to cool his throat while Hap gives him a friendly slap on the back. Max lines three saucers in front of Hap. One has green olives soaked in oil and garlic, another has anchovies and the third has bits of octopus and other chunks of seafood in a pickled, oily sauce. The food on the bar reminds Garrett of eating tapas in Spain. He thinks of that summer he and Marc hitchhiked through Spain—the El Greco paintings at the Prado in Madrid, the streets of Barcelona, swimming in the Mediterranean, eating fabulous food, drinking and dancing all night, and basking in the Spanish sun all day to recover. Money was tight that summer, and Spain was still relatively cheap for Europe. It occurs to him that he could have gone there to write. "Jesus H, I could have gone to Spain. The climate's warm, and the people welcome you with open arms instead of like here where locals despise you and you risk a brawl by simply ordering a drink." Hap slaps his back again. "Screw it," he says. "Happiness comes from inside. You have to make your own wherever you are. You're here now, so make it the best you can." A cop with a pink face, beer gut and sweat stains under both arms walks through the door and sits at the shadowy end of the bar. He orders a beer, a fried Spam sandwich and 86

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a piece of pineapple pie—his nightly tribute for letting the card room stay open. Garrett turns to Hap and says, "Who the hell eats fried Spam sandwiches?" Hap chuckles. "Hawaiians eat more Spam per capita than any other group in the country. Hormel even made a limited edition can with a hula girl on it, available only in the islands." More men come in and join the games. Max has to hustle, and a low rumble of conversation fills the room. Finally, Max finds time to pour himself a beer. Another customer walks in. He is tall, and his face is as white as a cue ball, topped with thick hair the color of copper. He glides past the pool tables as if trying to get to the bar without anyone noticing. His face has a prep-school freshness, and he seems oddly gentle within these surroundings. As he sits at the bar, Max slaps the bar with a rag and smiles. "Aloha, Micah. What'll it be?" Garrett is puzzled. He nudges Hap with his elbow and nods his head in Micah's direction. "Reverend Bitton's boy," Hap says in a low voice. "The reverend threw him out last year. Now he's the night clerk at Madam Chang's. Everybody that goes there treats him real special." "That must really gravel Bitton." Hap chuckles under his breath. "You don't know the half of how that boy gets old man Bitton's goat." Garrett watches one of the pool players walk over and slap Micah on the back. They exchange a few words, and Micah 87

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follows the man back to the table, where he joins some others in a game. Micah seems at ease hobnobbing with the islanders, and Garrett feels a spasm of envy run through him as he watches him chalk a cue. He turns back to face the bar, but his eyes catch Micah's refection in the mirror. Against his will, he watches Micah bend over the table, bridge his fingers on the expanse of green felt, line up the cue ball and draw the cue back and forth in a smooth motion. The cue ball shoots true across the table, angling the seven-ball cleanly into the side pocket. Garrett downs his second whiskey and says, "Let's go." They cross the room and emerge into the fading light of sunset. The sky is a brilliant red-orange color, but it's quickly turning to purple. A southeasterly wind gently blows off the mountains and over the town, which now has a few people strolling along the sidewalks. Again, Garrett scans the peaceful town and thinks that he is pleased with his new home. He surprises himself by thinking of it as home, having only been here one day. **** Back at the house, Garrett and Hap fetch the Bombay Gin from the freezer and continue drinking. Garrett pours a tall glass of cold gin for Hap and raises the bottle for a toast. "Here's to fucking haole mahus." He takes a deep swig from the bottle; his face scrunches as the icy alcohol hits his taste buds. 88

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Hap snorts and drinks a long pull from his glass. He turns and staggers into the living room. Garrett grabs hold of the kitchen table to steady himself. On the table, next to the halfempty grocery sack, is a note in elegant handwriting. Garrett squints to read in the fading light. My purpose in going to Walden Pond, like yours, was not to live cheaply or to live dearly there, but to transact some private business with the fewest obstacles. —H. D. Thoreau When you get settled, I'll come by and cook you my famous spaghetti and garlic toast dinner. Audrey S. So, he thinks, she's smart as well as pretty. He drops the note and staggers into the living room. Hap has fallen asleep on the hearth. His glass is empty, and his head rests in the cold ashes. Garrett continues out onto the porch. The clouds have turned gray, fading to black. Venus hangs in the northern sky. In the twilight, the only brightness comes from the bonfire now ablaze at the surfer's camp. Scattered around the fire, the group of surfers and several girls laugh, sing and dance while flames lick at the growing darkness. The group seems to be practicing some version of their native hula. Garrett leans on the porch railing and peers down at the bonfire. His eyes feel red, and the lines across his forehead seem tighter than normal, and although he has only been on the island a day, his cheeks burn from too much sun. A heavy snoring sound comes from the darkened house. The sawing noise blends perfectly with the pounding surf. He 89

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watches the dark silhouettes of the dancers for hours as they pass in front of the fire. He imagines they are naked savages performing some tribal rite of passage, perhaps even making human sacrifices to the island gods. The dancers' sensual movements combine with his thoughts of bare-ass natives, bringing a stiffness to his loins. That makes him think of Marc, and that reminds him of the manuscript. He raises the bottle to his lips and feels the sting of gin turn into a warm glow as it hits his gut. That's the last, he thinks. Tomorrow I start work. No more drink, no more pain, no more loneliness. Only work. Good clean work. He flings the near-empty bottle towards the water and staggers to the house where his new bed awaits. He reaches for the door and stops. He turns back to the bonfire. Floating above the sound of the snoring and pounding surf, he hears the rich tones of a guitar and the voice of one of the surfers singing a blues song. The effect is stirring. It draws him to the edge of the porch. He feels the melody vibrating from his head to the base of his spine. Lost in the sonority of that pure voice, he shudders. The bonfire's glow, waves beating the shore, cool air and the voice all coalesce to inflame him. He glares at the red shimmering firelight, seeing a longhaired surfer strumming a guitar and singing. He watches the music ripple through the surfer's body in airy gushes. The song's poignant quality brings a tightness to his chest. It is the sexiest thing he has ever witnessed. 90

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He has never before heard the melody, and he doesn't recognize the language of the lyrics. All he knows at this moment is the purity of the voice and the depth of his need. [Back to Table of Contents]

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8 **** Garrett sleeps through the hot night, undisturbed by dreams, until soft light bleeds through the open bedroom window. With the growing light, though, the dreams come. Within the universe surrounded by his skull, he relives an experience that he and Marc had several years earlier while scuba diving off the coast of Baja, Mexico. They swim in a silent blue-green world thirty feet below the surface in the Sea of Cortez. Garrett loves to swim facing up so he can watch their bubbles float away, mingling together as they race to the surface. It seems magical how they move. The freedom of weightlessness brings him a joy so intense it's agonizing. They dart around the rusted hull of a sunken freighter, like sea otters at play, until a giant manta ray glides up from beneath them, serene and graceful. The manta spans fifteen feet across, dark gray on top and virgin white on the underside. It flies right up to and around them, performing a slow-motion ballet. Caught in a vise of fear and awe, Garrett's hair prickles while an electric charge runs from his brain to his testicles. He has never been that close to any creature so large or so incredibly beautiful. 92

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Marc, the bold one, kicks his legs and glides to the back of the ray. He grabs hold with both hands near the eyes and begins to soar away, riding the ray like a magic carpet. Garrett struggles to catch them, and soon both divers ride the creature through the blue-green water, performing acrobatics unimaginable. The giant saucer wings its way right into a school of squid, thousands of glistening clear-white bodies with long flowing tails. The vision is electrifying. Garrett knows that he will never again experience such magnificence; and in the water, as on his bed, he smiles, grateful for this experience being given to him. Now he ascends, floating on the edge of consciousness. His hand reaches for his crotch, and he begins to rub. This part of the dream always reminds him of gliding in an ocean of semen, the squid looking so similar to sperm weaving their way to the one destination that will make them whole and fulfilled. The image never fails to excite him. Garrett wakes before sunrise. His head pounds. He heaves his body out of bed and stands in the middle of the room, trying to steady himself. Two choices come to mind—he can slip back into bed and nurse his hangover, or he can hit the bay and hope that a vigorous swim with drive away the pain. He grabs a towel from the bathroom and, naked as the morning, heads for the beach. In the living room, he notes that Hap is missing, and outside, the truck is gone. He hits the water at a run and dives into the breakers. The shock of cold stings his body, and he gasps a hoarse protest. He swims hard for thirty minutes, trying to warm himself and 93

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drive the pain from his head. The longer he swims the stronger he feels. As he makes his way back to the beach, the sun lifts above the horizon. The cold water combines with crisp air to invigorate the morning. Garrett feels deeply ravenous, but more importantly, he feels ready for work. He rushes back to the house, pulls on the shirt and pants he wore yesterday and unpacks his computer, the painting and a few personal items. He installs the computer on the desk and hangs the portrait on the study wall opposite the front window. He checks the groceries in the kitchen for anything to stave off his hunger, but the only thing that doesn't need some form of cooking is the fruit. He wolfs down four bananas and heads to the study. Through the window, the sun burns bright on the powdery white sand. The bay turns from gray to azure. Clouds drift north over the mountains, cross the bay and sail out over the ocean. Garrett turns on his computer, clicks on his manuscript and tentatively reads the last five pages. He pauses, takes a hesitant breath and begins to write. It comes slowly at first, clumsily. He fumbles for the right combination of words and changes his mind often—everything in this new environment is a distraction. But soon the story pulls him into his past. He hears nothing: no waves thrashing the beach, no ticking ship's clock, no mewling shorebirds. Even the hunger that grips his belly goes unnoticed. The words begin to roll along at an easy pace as the story details bloom in his head. The writing is good and he knows it. He wants to continue working as long as it lasts, but at the 94

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same time he worries that he might overdo it so the writing is no longer crisp. Garrett works past eleven o'clock. He hadn't intended to work so long, but the work feels good and he keeps going. He takes a moment to gaze out the window at the wide expanse of sea, still marveling that he's in Hawaii and doing what he loves. Staring at the sea, he realizes that it was right for him to come here. He loves the sea, and he needs this seclusion in order to work well, needed to escape from the demanding complexity of his life to gaze out upon the simple and the tremendous. To work in a cocoon of perfection is the desire of any man intent upon creating excellence, and what could be more perfect than staring out at the sea's immensity from the protection of this humble fisherman's house? As his gaze moves over the water, human shapes intersect the bay's undulating shoreline. When he pulls back from the fathomless immensity to focus on these figures, he sees a couple walking hand-in-hand, followed by the same dog he'd seen guarding the surfer camp yesterday. They leisurely make their way around the sliver-of-moon-shaped beach toward the house. He goes back to work. When he looks up again, they are close enough for him to recognize the longhaired surfer from yesterday, the one with no tattoos. He is barefoot, wears board shorts and carries a backpack. Garrett doesn't recognize the girl. She is small and pretty, and her black hair cascades to the middle of her back. She wears a white T-shirt that hangs below her hips and a pink orchid behind her ear, which seems to soften her intense, shadowy face. 95

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What an alluring couple, he thinks, so lissome and exotic. When they reach the surfer's campsite, they press against each other and their lips brush. They linger. Finally, she drops her head and walks back towards town while the young man and the dog continue on towards the house. Garrett studies his movement as he strides over the sand, light-footed and proud, as if walking barefoot was all he had ever known. Garrett begins to wonder what he could possibly want. He drops his eyes to the computer screen and tries to finish the paragraph before he is interrupted. He hears the whisper of footsteps on the porch. He waits for the knock, but the young man walks into the living room without knocking and calls, "Aloha." Garrett turns to face the intruder, who now stands at the study's doorway with the dog beside him. His faded board shorts loosely hug his slim waist and hang to his knees. The backpack is slung over his left shoulder. His blue-black hair sweeps across his forehead and falls over his ears and below the line of his shoulders, framing the amber skin of his smooth sun-kissed face. The young man's mysterious eyes momentarily mesmerize Garrett. The sunlight pouring through the front window causes flecks embedded within his dark pupils to glint a sapphire color, and there seems to be an imperceptible light glowing from deep within those eyes. Garrett feels the kind of numbing sensation, half-awe and half-alarm, one feels when encountering a wild creature in the forest. Something in his chest leaps into his throat, making it feel thick and constricted. He opens his mouth to speak, but he just sits there. He doesn't trust himself to say a word for 96

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fear his voice will sound funny through the constriction. He simply stares with his mouth open. "I'm Songoree, but everybody calls me Song. I'm your housekeeper. I brought some groceries with me," he says, pointing his thumb at his backpack. He looks up at the portrait of Garrett hanging on the wall. "Wow!" he says. "Whoever painted this has an awesome understanding of light." My God, Garrett thinks, he looks just like the guy in the poster, the one of Duke Kahanamoku. Okay, his eyes are too close together and his nose is flatter, but they could be brothers. "I ... I ... I was expecting someone older. Someone more experienced." The thickness in Garrett's throat alters the tone of his voice, and he reddens with embarrassment. Songoree gives him an unabashed look—fresh, straight and without a hit of evasion or challenge. A childlike curiosity reveals itself within his glance. "I see how it is. You're some bigshot from San Francisco who likes fancy restaurant food, and you're right, I don't do fancy. I only know how to cook a few simple dishes—soups and grilled fish and rice and eggs and raw vegetables and fruits. It'll be tasty, and if you like spicy, I do a kick-ass Thai curry that will burn the hair off your balls." He flashes a dazzling smile. "And as for cleaning, how hard can it be to clean up after one guy. I mean, you can't possibly be that big of a slob." "I'm sure you're capable, but I'm sorry, I'd rather have someone older and less obtrusive around the house while I'm 97

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working." Garrett is able to control his voice now, which for the moment helps him to relax. "I didn't just tumble out of the cradle. I mean, I'm twenty, and mature enough to stay out of your way and not bother you. You'll hardly know I'm here." Songoree stands with both hands on his hips, and his smile curls down into a frown then tightens into a pout that pulls his lips to one side and distorts his cheek, making him look even more enchanting. Garrett loses himself in those eyes. He can't seem to make his mind function. He smells the young man's aroma and imagines that Songoree has been wrestling among pink orchid plants with his lady friend. Something is happening inside Garrett's head, a feeling so bizarre he can't quite place it, can't put a name to it. Beads of sweat break out on his forehead, and he finds it hard to breathe. His confusion causes anger to swell up in his mind. "Look, the truth is you're just too damned beautiful. I don't want you around the house because you're distracting." He looks down, blushing. "I can't work with you here. You're just too..." He can't finish his thought, and he pauses to collect himself. "Thanks, but I'll find someone else." Songoree tosses his head back, throwing his long hair over his shoulder. His smile returns. "Sorry to tell you this, Mr. Davidson, but you're stuck with me, so deal with it. As for my being obtrusive, I'll stay out of your study and you stay out of my kitchen; that way we can both do our work. Now, I'll throw some lunch together." 98

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Songoree's smile strikes him as arrogant. His whole posture seems to belong to someone older and more experienced than Garrett himself. He lifts himself out of the chair and steps close to Songoree. So close he can reach up and touch that amber face. He feels his hand start to move, and he deliberately stops it. He tries to keep the rawness out of his voice. "I don't want you here. Thanks anyway." "Mr. Davidson, if I've learned anything it's that life is not about getting what you want, or even what you need. It's about accepting what's given to you." Songoree lifts one eyebrow. There is a moment of silence before Garrett begins to shake his head. "'But I, being poor, have only my dreams.'" There is just a hint of pleading in Songoree's voice. "'I spread my dreams under your feet; tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.'" "You quote Yeats?" "Three years at the University of Hawaii's literature program. I'll earn my degree as soon as I can pull together the tuition for my final year." "Impressive, but that doesn't solve my problem. Please, leave, so I can get back to work." "Okay, I'm going to explain this situation carefully, so please, listen. Nobody else will work for you. Not because you're gay or because you're rude, but because Grandfather says I'm the one to do the job. He's our spiritual leader, and what he says goes." 99

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"Your grandfather doesn't tell me what to do." "You're living in his house. He can rip up the check and throw you out at any time." "I have a signed rental agreement." "Read the freakin' fine print. You've broken that agreement by not allowing me to work here." They stand silent; one smiles while the other glares. The clock ticks, the waves pound the sand. Everything else is still. Even the shorebirds are silent. Garrett finds himself adrift in those mysterious eyes. He feels this young man's energy. From a distance of three feet, he can feel the intensity of him. He can't think. He can't form a single thought while those eyes stare at him. Songoree reaches up and lays his hand on Garrett's shoulder, and in a fragile voice says, "Mr. Davidson, please. It's not cool to make me beg like a dog. I need this job." Those eyes—something about those eyes. Garrett feels the warmth of Songoree's hand through his shirtsleeve. The tightness holding his abdomen lets go, and for the first time in two years there is no pain in his head, not a trace. A queer feeling of relief radiates from his core. "Okay, Song, but I don't want your dog in the house. You can call me Garrett." Songoree's smile returns. His hand moves to Coolie's head and ruffles his hair. "Coolie was born in this room. It's more his home than yours. If you want him out, you'll have to drag him out yourself, but I'd be careful if I were you—he doesn't take to haoles." "Coolie? That's a peculiar name for a dog." 100

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"I was going to call him Sable, because of his color. I saw a lady once on the beach at the Village Resort. Believe it or not, she wore a full-length fur coat on the beach. These damned haoles will go to any length to show how much money they have. "I'd never seen anything like it, so I walked up and ask her what kind of coat it was. She told me that if I didn't know what a sable coat was I must be some kind of ignorant peasant. Can you believe that? She wears a fur coat on a hot day at the beach, and she calls me ignorant? Anyway, everybody said Sable sounds girlish so I call him Coolie instead." Looking down at the dog beside Songoree, Garrett says, "Sable would have been fine name for such a handsome dog. I guess he stays." "Lunch in half an hour. You better be hungry." As Songoree leaves the room, Coolie inches over to Garrett, sniffs his hand and walks to the side of the desk. The dog paces in four tight circles and drops to the floor. He lays his head on his front paws and looks up at Garrett with sad eyes, as if he were embarrassed by how easily Garrett caved in under pressure. [Back to Table of Contents]

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9. With only thirty minutes before lunch, Garrett doesn't try to write any new material. His creative frame of mind has vanished. He sits at the desk staring at the small snapshot of Marc that he placed there this morning. It was the first thing he unpacked. It's a picture of Marc in his dress blues, and hanging over the picture frame are Marc's dog-tags and a simple gold ring hanging on a chain. The picture shows Marc at twenty. He is handsome. His eyes reveal a glint of playfulness, and his strong body is proud and confident. Staring at the photograph, Garrett can almost smell the odor of Marc's skin in the humid air. The emptiness in his chest begins to ache again, and his head begins to throb once more. His hunger grows enormous as he realizes that the odor he detects is coming from the kitchen. He tries to edit the work he had written earlier, but he finds it difficult to concentrate. He hears the melodic tones of Songoree humming in the kitchen, and Coolie, curled up at the edge of the desk, softly snores. At first it's distracting, but the story eventually pulls his attention back into his past; and the humming turns into some pleasant sound happening on the fringe of his consciousness, like waves hitting the beach or the rustling palm trees. The house fills with a spicy aroma, which magnifies Garrett's hunger. It reels him from his work like a fish on a line. He goes to the kitchen in time to help Songoree move 102

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the small table and chairs through the house and onto the porch. On his way he notices water dripping from the potted palm by the door. Songoree has watered the dying tree, but Garrett knows it's too far gone to survive. Outside, the bright noontime sun hammers down. He sits enjoying the heat as Songoree carries a tray with two large bowls of steaming soup, spoons and chopsticks onto the porch. "This smells fantastic. What is it?" "Seafood noodle soup. It's rice noodles, fish stock and bits of fish. Hope you like it, because it's what I do best." The rich blend of aromas permeates his whole head. He picks up the chopsticks, lifts some noodles to his mouth and slurps them down. Delicious! He pops a shrimp into his mouth, grabs another bunch of noodles and slurps. Songoree stares while Garrett bends his head close to his bowl and gobbles the noodles as fast as he can swallow. "This is my grandfather's favorite meal," Songoree says. "There's nothing better for the body than hot soup." Garrett doesn't look up. "The white bits are squid and the purple ones are octopus. Slow down. You're going to swallow a clamshell. It's the spices that make it so good. I simmer the stock for a day with fish heads, roasted red peppers, Japanese black pepper, dried seaweed and fresh ginger." "It's fantastic. The best I've ever had." Garrett finishes off the last of the noodles and lifts the bowl to his mouth to drink the broth. Songoree reaches out and stops him. 103

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"Don't drink. It's not about the broth. It's about the noodles and the fish. The broth only flavors the noodles." Garrett feels so disappointed that it must show on his face, because Songoree pushes his own bowl across the table. "Knock yourself out." Garrett polishes off the second bowl almost as fast as the first. Songoree starts to laugh and can't stop. "I've never seen anyone slurp noodles so fast or so loud. What's up with that? From now on, I'm calling you Noodles." Garrett smiles. He enjoys the feeling of his full stomach, the spicy taste lingering in his mouth and also Songoree's delight. "Sorry to be such a pig. I was starving, and the soup is so damn tasty I couldn't slow down." "No worries, Noodles. In Japan, they love to eat soup as hot as possible, so they slurp real loud to take in air with the soup. That helps to cool the noodles. Loud slurping is considered very polite in Japan. So, whenever I serve soup, we'll be Japanese." They both laugh from deep in their chests. Garrett notes that Songoree's laugh has a wonderful cheery ring. He surprises himself by realizing that what he's feeling is joy. It's unlike anything he's felt in years. "So, Audrey thinks you're a writer. Are you writing a novel?" "A biography." "Someone famous?" "Someone special you've never heard of." 104

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"Does it take place in Hawaii? Is that why you're here?" "No, I'm here for the solitude. I couldn't focus back home." "Got much done so far?" "About twenty thousand words." "That's not much. How long will it go?" "Wish I knew. Something longer than twenty thousand words and shorter than War and Peace." "Can I read what you've done?" "Sorry, no. I need to keep it to myself for the time being." "Have a title?" "Right now I'm calling it Rainy Marching." Garrett says the title slowly, and begins to explain. "It's from Shakespeare, Henry the Fifth." "I know the passage." Songoree's eyes widening. "Hold on," he says and holds up his hand while he thinks for a moment. "'We are but warriors for the working day; our gayness and our gilt are all besmirched with rainy marching in the painful field.'" Garrett stares in dumb silence. He wants to ask just how Songoree pulled that correct passage out of thin air, but his mind can't quite formulate the question through his cloud of surprise. "I wrote a paper on that play in college last year," Songoree explains. "It's one of my favorites." A brisk wind rushes up the beach and over the porch. Garrett looks down the road and sees Hap's old truck grinding towards them. "There's something I need to tell you," Songoree says. "My grandfather is coming to meet you. He'll be here soon." 105

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"I've already paid the rent, and I've agreed to let you work here. Are there any other surprises or is he just being social?" "My grandfather is searching for a particular person to help him. He thinks you may be that person. You see, my grandfather is a kahuna anaana. He has knowledge passed down through a hundred generations. Before the missionaries brought Christianity to the islands, the kahuna anaana were a cult of warrior shamans. They were—are—people who see reality different from us, much like the Buddhists' enlightenment. "But kahuna anaana can also manipulate physical reality with their minds, kind of like black magic. They cast spells, make prophecies, cure the sick, possess people or even animals. In the old days, they killed people by praying them to death." Songoree looks into Garrett's eyes, as if to see what effect his words have had. Garrett listens with a stone face. "My grandfather was heavily influenced by Buddhist teachings. His wife was Japanese. Together, they created the path he and I follow." "You believe that. I mean, about possessing animals and praying people to death?" "I don't waste time on beliefs. I only trust things I know, what I experience. This is not some kind of hocus-pocus. His knowledge is a way of life. The kahuna anaana practice is a mixture of the Buddhist path, Polynesian sorcery and even a little Christianity brought here by the missionaries. It sounds crazy but it's real. I've tasted it. He's been training me most of my life." 106

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"Okay, for the sake of argument, let's say it's real. So, why does he need me?" Songoree's demeanor turns more serious. His eyes shine with intensity, and his voice deepens. "My grandfather feels that humans need to shift to a new level of consciousness. The quest for corporate profits at any cost is destroying the planet, and that greed is causing tremendous hate and violence between the haves and the have-nots. After the World Trade Center buildings collapsed and America declared its war on terrorism, he became convinced that man is spiraling down into a black hole of greed, hate and brutality. "You see, violence can't be used to defeat violence. Hate feeds on itself and grows in power. The Middle East situation is only one example. Violence is escalating all over the world, and today's weapons can destroy all life. If humans don't shift to an enlightened mindset, our greed and our violent nature will annihilate this planet." "I can't argue with that, but you haven't answered my question. What's this got to do with me?" "In April of nineteen-forty-six, an earthquake occurred on the ocean floor off the coast of Alaska. An enormous shockwave traveled outward from the quake's epicenter. It sped across the Pacific at over five hundred miles an hour, but there was only a two-foot swell that swept across the surface because the true force of it was traveling so deep. "Boats on the surface didn't notice the small wave. In less than five hours, it had traveled thousands of miles and struck our Hawaiian islands. Moments before it hit, the coastal waters rushed out to sea, leaving boats and fish stranded on 107

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sand. The water reformulated into an immense tsunami that smashed into the islands with awesome force, changing the landscape forever." Garrett shakes his head. "I'm still not getting it. Can we move to the point?" "What my grandfather is trying to do is show mankind a different path. He intends to create an awareness quake that will radiate a tsunami-like change in how we humans interact with life and with each other—a shockwave of change that will travel over the entire globe. In order to accomplish this, he needs someone to learn the kahuna anaana way of knowledge. Someone who can understand his message and present it to the world in a compelling way." "No big deal. You're asking me to save the planet." Hap's truck pulls up at the end of the road. Grandfather opens the passenger-side door and slowly steps out. Hap waves from the driver's side but makes no move to get out. "Right, but don't trip. Grandfather's not sure you're the one. It's going to take someone special. The Buddha tried doing this and was successful, but only in Asia. Jesus wasn't successful at all. He died before he could document what he really meant. The early Christians didn't understand, and by the time the Bible was compiled, the message was distorted." "Have you considered the possibility that what your grandfather needs is psychiatric help?" "He's not crazy. He's just a man with an impossible dream. Have you ever wanted something so badly you'd do anything to have it?" 108

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"Once," Garrett says, knowing exactly what that feels like. "Look, I wish him luck, but I'm no savior and I'm certainly no Buddha. I came here to write my story and nothing's going to keep me from doing that and only that." He hears the breeze rush up the steps and pass through the house. Grandfather climbs the stairs to the porch. The wooden steps creak under the old man's feet. He wears his simple gray kimono, and his hair flows down his back. Around his neck hangs a necklace with a jade pendant flanked by several triangular shark's teeth. Songoree introduces his grandfather, and Garrett holds out his hand. Grandfather takes it, and his engaging smile radiates pleasure through Garrett's mind. His eyes are kind and clear and penetrating. "Aloha. Aloha, my young friend. Welcome to our beautiful island. I hope you have everything you need." He doesn't let go of Garrett's hand. "Monkey-boy, fetch me a glass of water." Songoree gathers the lunch dishes and enters the house. Grandfather finally lets go of Garrett's hand and steps back. "Let me look at you." Grandfather gazes directly at Garrett's chest. After a moment, his eyes move down to Garrett's stomach. His withered face has a formidable look—in no way menacing but his stare goes right though Garrett. Garrett feels an uneasiness creep into his gut, a pressure that numbs him into a state where he can't think coherently. Grandfather smiles again, and looking back to Garrett's eyes, he relaxes his gaze. 109

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Songoree comes through the door with a glass of water, and Grandfather takes it and drinks. Garrett turns to Songoree, "Monkey-boy?" A rosy color floods Songoree's face. "My grandfather calls me that because I have so little control over my thoughts. I can't stay focused. My mind jumps from thought to thought like a monkey swinging from branch to branch." Garrett chuckles. "Noodles and Monkey-boy. Don't we make a fine pair?" "Noodles?" Grandfather asks. Songoree reddens even more. "I call him Noodles because he slurps noodles faster than Mother's breeding hog." Grandfather laughs so hard his body shakes. Garrett reaches out to steady the old man, half-afraid he will fall over. The deep timbre of Grandfather's laugh is delightful, and makes both Garrett and Songoree smile. "Perfect," Grandfather says. "A wonderful name." He has tears trapped in his eyelashes. Garrett's smile fades as he finds Grandfather's laughter strangely unsettling, as if Grandfather is laughing at something only he knows about. Grandfather hands the glass back to Songoree and turns to Garrett. The laughter is now gone, and his mood turns serious. "My young friend, you have not escaped anything." "I beg your pardon?" Grandfather nods. The breeze tugs at his long gray hair, blowing it this way and that. "You came here to start anew, to 110

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escape your pain. But you are still very much a prisoner. Your mistake was that you brought your prison with you." "I have no idea what you're taking about, and I'm not so sure you do, either. At any rate, that would be my business." "I'm talking about your history," Grandfather continues. "Pain is not in your surroundings, not caused by outside influences. Pain comes from inside. You create it. You didn't bring much with you, but you brought all your history, which is what causes your pain." Garrett's mind gropes for some clever response but finds none. He stands silent as a familiar sadness grips his chest. "You need to face your pain, feel it in your marrow. You must become your pain, experience every nuance of it, and let it go. That means letting go of all your personal history. It's the only way to conquer your kind of pain." Garrett shakes his head. "That's impossible. Everyone has a personal history, and you can't simply drop it. It's who you are." "I have no history," Grandfather says. "Many years ago I realized that I could live without it, that it was not necessary to drag it around everywhere I went, retelling it to anyone who would listen. I realized that it was a prison keeping me from who I am, so I quit my history cold turkey, like giving up smoking. Now, nobody knows my history, not even me for, once free of it, I became all this." He sweeps his arm around to indicate all the surroundings. "And how can anyone know all this?" Garrett nods as if he understands, which is not the case at all; but he takes a little pride in the surprised look that 111

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Songoree gives him. Then, his curiosity gets the better of him and he asks, "How do you quit your history?" "You take it all and put it in a box and shove it into a dresser drawer or the back of a closet, and never look back— never." "I mean no disrespect, but trust me, I'm not feeling any pain just now. Song told me you intend to use me to help you document your voodoo. I have my own project and don't have time to get involved with anything else." Grandfather chuckles, and his withered face kindles. "Of course," he says, "Self-importance is the bedfellow of personal history. They are always making love with each other, giving validity to the other." He reaches with his bony hand and takes hold of Garrett's arm. "Your pain is caused from too much past. Your mind is always reaching back and clinging to a dream. It's a heavy stone you carry, pressing on your chest with every breath. It's all you have, all you are. What will happen if you face your pain and let it go? Who will you be then, I wonder? "Monkey-boy is always too much future and you are too much past. What will happen if you two should someday meet in the now?" The old man's words act as a catalyst, causing Garrett to feel a wave of helplessness wash through him. The old man pauses for a long time, then says, "A Japanese poet named Ryokan once wrote: Maple leaf Falling down Showing front 112

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Showing back. Grandfather falls silent again. A moment later his voice drops to a dramatic whisper. "Your mind clutches at illusions. The more you tighten your grasp, the farther away from reality and the deeper into your pain you tumble. But I see you. Your essence is a leaf at the mercy of the wind, falling to the ground. It turns this way and that, shows one side and then the other. I will return when you touch the ground." He lifts his other hand and pats Garrett lightly on the shoulder then turns to leave. At the bottom of the steps he stops. "Monkey-boy, take excellent care of our brother." He trundles to Hap's truck and climbs into the passenger seat. Garrett glares at Songoree, "Well, I'll say one thing, he's an eccentric old bugger. Does he think I'm the one?" The truck drives down the dusty road towards town. Songoree shakes his head. "I can't tell." [Back to Table of Contents]

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10. Weeks meld into months. Garrett loses all sense of time. He never knows which day it is because each day looks identical to the previous one. Most of the time he's not even sure which month it is because there are no changing seasons. The colors never vary—no winter and no spring, no hibernation and no renewal. There is only the monotonous heat with an occasional downpour. The only indication that time passes is the constant progress he makes on his manuscript. Songoree calls it the Polynesian Time Warp, and Garrett has come to know exactly what that means. Here people don't scurry around trying to wring every drop of living out of each minute as it hurls by at breakneck speeds. Island time moves slowly, and the locals know how to take life in stride. No one wears wristwatches because they measure time by the slant of the sun. He has fallen in love with his new life. Like falling into a dream, he tumbles down through layers of consciousness until the blackness is replaced by magical green mountains, sunrises over the purple sea and the unbearable clarity of the air after a rain shower. What he loves most is the simplicity of his life—the humble furniture, the unadorned walls, the fact that the house is built of stones drawn from the nearby hills. Whether at home, on the beach or in town, he is always surrounded by nature. He doesn't leave civilization and drive to nature like he did in San 114

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Francisco. He is never without it. Everything manmade seems to blend with the landscape. Nothing jars. He has lost all touch with the outside world, and he doesn't miss it at all. He has no idea what Middle East car-bombing or African famine or schoolyard massacre is being turned into thirty-second news clips. His only concern is how to make his writing the best it can be, a constant striving for perfection in his chosen craft. Garrett's writing is beginning to reflect his new lifestyle, and he finds that satisfying. As the story unfolds, he forges a daily routine that keeps him at peace with himself. He wakes as morning light comes slanting through the open window, but no matter how anxious he is to start the day's activities he makes himself loll in bed for another thirty minutes, watching the light change the room's colors. He luxuriates in the crisp sheets, the cool morning breeze on his skin and the sounds of rolling surf and squawking shorebirds. Rising from bed, he drapes a towel over his shoulder, grabs his swimming goggles and walks naked to the beach for his daybreak swim. Each morning is fresh. The northeast trade winds blow stiff in his face. He drops the towel on the sand and hits the water at a run, plowing through the breakers. The water's cool bite turns to bliss by the time he reaches the edge of the reef, where he makes numerous dives. He stays down for two to three minutes on each dive while he inspects the extraordinary coral and the flamboyantly colored fish. When fatigue finally sets in, he hauls himself back to the beach. 115

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After a quick shower to wash off the sea salt, he pulls on a pair of shorts and sits down to work by seven. The story now encompasses the first five years of the lovers' relationship, when they were forced out of the Navy with medical discharges and began a civilian life together. Garrett found a job with a brokerage firm in San Francisco, and Marc attended the Academy of Arts school. Families on both sides were mortified, and the lovers found themselves outcasts while their families scrambled to overcome the embarrassing scandal. Shortly after nine, Songoree, his girl and Coolie arrive with a backpack full of supplies for the day's meals. Garrett uses his binoculars to watch Songoree and his girl go through the same ritual of strolling hand-in-hand up the beach then kissing. They always show a note of sadness when they part, as if the idea of spending even a hour away from each other is unbearable. Garrett watches their kiss and their reluctant parting with embarrassed fascination. Songoree and the dog come to the house, and the girl meanders back to town. Shortly after their arrival, Garrett breaks away from work to relax on the porch, where he plays with Coolie until breakfast is served. Coolie always brings his lime-green tennis ball. He is never without it. He sleeps with it, eats with it, plays with it, analyzes it and chews it with a tender, satisfied expression that reminds Garrett of good sex. Breakfast never varies: two beautiful poached eggs over fried rice, hot from the wok, and accompanied by lightly buttered sourdough toast, sliced pineapple, melon and 116

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passion fruit. Coarse ground pepper and sea salt sit in separate little bowls to sprinkle over the eggs. There is also orange juice and a mug of coffee that is strong and heavy with sweetened condensed milk to smooth the bitterness. Garrett has given up asking for bacon or sausage or even Spam. Fish is the only meat that Songoree prepares. With breakfast comes the morning edition of the New York Times, which Songoree brings from town. Garrett enjoys both paper and meal with Coolie on the opposite side of the paper giving him the sad-eye treatment until the last grain of rice disappears. Garrett goes back to his desk by ten. Coolie follows him into the office and lies on the rug at the corner of the desk. Coolie is content to sleep while Garrett works steadily into the afternoon. It took weeks for him to get used to the dog's light snoring, which occasionally becomes loud and sometimes turns into fierce growling. But now the regular rhythm of the dog's wheezing blends with the sound of waves and calling shorebirds. It is only when the dog's body begins to jerk, as if he's chasing something in his dreams, that Garrett notices him at all. While Garrett works, Songoree sweeps, dusts, exchanges clean clothes for dirty, waters the potted palm—which has two new shoots—and prepares lunch. The two have established a distance and seldom converse more than "aloha," "mahalo," and "Anything else before I go?" But there is something there, a growing cognition of each other. It's a feeling Garrett can't put into words. 117

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Now, as he works, he once again feels Songoree's eyes on him. It feels like a strange tingling on the back of his neck, accompanied by a tightness in his midsection. He looks up at the window but does not look out at the bay. He sees a reflection in the glass and uses it as a mirror. It shows a view through the open door and across the living room to the kitchen door. Songoree leaning against the kitchen door frame, staring at him, engrossed. This is not the first time Garrett has noticed him secretly watching. He scrutinizes Garrett like he would study a lab rat. Garrett considers closing the door, but he is more curious than annoyed. What could be so interesting? The funny thing is, he is convinced that Songoree knows when he is looking back, as if Songoree wants him looking back. This time Garrett turns to look across the house, directly into Songoree's eyes. Songoree doesn't turn away. He simply grins. That grin. Those eyes. That unabashed, childlike expression. It's as if Marc were standing there. Garrett blinks and swallows through a thickness expanding in his throat, amazed at the likeness, not so much in looks but in posture—that same quiet self-assurance. He turns back to his work, but his concentration is shattered. He finally turns back to Songoree and says, "Why do you keep staring at me?" Songoree glides across the living room and leans against the study doorway with his eyes down. "I didn't mean to break your concentration," he says. still looking down. "It's just that I can't help watching. When you work you're in a different dimension. I find that intriguing. It's like your mind 118

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is totally absorbed with the impossible business of expressing life through words. Your body relaxes as your imagination takes over, and you do this kind of dance with your mind. It reminds me of my grandfather's hands." Songoree looks up, and their eyes meet. "For you, there's power in writing. I've been tempted to read your manuscript. I'm sure there is power in the words, too." Garrett is too fascinated to be embarrassed. He's begun to understand that this kid has tremendous depth for someone so young, and the fact that Songoree doesn't hold back anything is very engaging. It is he who feels inferior because he doesn't have a clue about how to respond to such a confession. He stands and heads for the beach, mumbling something about wanting Songoree to stop staring as he goes. He swims before lunch every day, but today he's an hour early—he normally quits work when the ship's clock strikes two. Exploring the reef is his second passion. He grabs the mask, snorkel, fins and spear Songoree keeps on the porch, and he runs to the surf with Coolie in pursuit. He spends the extra hour diving within the silent world of brilliantly colored fish and the exotic panorama of coral formations. He knows little about coral, other than that his favorite type is the elkhorn coral because of the lovely veins of purple extending out into a translucent fan of living tissue. He is also fond of the black spiny sea urchins and the purple sea fans. Songoree once told him that the reef is one living organism. Tiny marine animals called polyps create it. When they die, they leave behind deposits of calcium carbonate 119

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upon which the new polyps live—one generation living on the skeletons of their creators, as human generations live on the myths and accomplishments of their ancestors. Today is lucky. He spears fish for the next day's lunch. His favorite is the delicate white meat of the mahimahi, although he thinks the tiger-striped angel fish is the prettiest. He sees the big head of an hohi padas—moray eel—extending from a hole in the coral, long and beautiful with black and white spots on brown skin and a huge mouth crammed with needlesharp teeth. Two gray reef sharks swim by, hunting the jagged shelf. He freezes with fear, but they pass by without seeming to notice him. The reef, fresh and ever-changing, always brings a new experience. Garrett stays out until hunger and fatigue drive him back to the beach. Lunch is usually seafood noodle soup or seafood gumbo, which suits Garrett. Occasionally, Songoree prepares fish, grilled or steamed or raw, over rice with steamed vegetables. Today, it's a simple seafood salad blending octopus, mahimahi, large pink shrimp and island greens. Garrett eats three bowls. Although he likes coffee with every meal, lunch is served with tea. Coffee, Songoree scolds, is bad for the stomach and should only be tolerated in the mornings. Garrett eats lunch on the porch while he is still dripping seawater and dazzled by what the reef had revealed. Coolie sits at attention by the table. His droopy eyes silently beg for the occasional handout. 120

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As soon as lunch is served, Songoree grabs his surfboard from the side of the house and joins his buddies in the swells. After lunch, Garrett stacks the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink and edits his morning's work until hunger drives away his concentration. He walks for two hours to the Village Resort's outdoor bar for a tall beer, a bloody burger and fries dripping with catsup. It's his only indulgence. He savors every bite. Mike Kapule, the bartender most evenings, has one of those personalities that make a place. He is a good bartender, always pleasant and marvelously efficient; and his cheerfulness is not faked or put on, which is rare these days. He knows his business and he runs a good bar, which is to say that he is generous with the shots and knows when you want company and when you don't. Besides the well-to-do clientele at the resort, which Garrett seldom likes the look of, there are always a number of locals who come out to hear the music and enjoy the sunset with a beer and good conversation. Their talk is never about politics. It is always about who is in town and who isn't, and where the fish are running, and what next day's weather will be. It is all very pleasant, and Mike Kapule makes it more so. Not too surprisingly, Hap happens to pass though the resort bar area just as Garrett sits down to eat. Garrett feels a slap on the back and hears a raspy, "Aloha, partner." He automatically flags Mike Kapule for another brew. Hap nurses his beer and spews stories about the good old days before the tourist industry invaded the islands. Garrett eats in silence. He never begrudges the beers—it's a cheap price for the steady flow of island information, and he likes 121

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the company. The best part is, Hap usually offers him a ride back to the house, which saves him a two-hour hike. Songoree and Coolie are gone by the time Garrett returns. He puts an opera selection on the disc player and sits in the armchair under the lamp, reading a Steinbeck novel—East of Eden. The surfers are gathered at their campsite, and after a while, Garrett turns off the disc player and listens to rich guitar cords and the surfers' singing while he reads. He puts the book down and simply listens. His mind begins to drift. He looks down at his bare chest. He is pleased that this scant diet coupled with his daily swim has toned his body. The sun has toasted his skin to a golden blush. He grows stronger every day, and although he occasionally craves a martini while reading, he doesn't drink at the house. He disciplines himself to only his nightly beer with dinner. He feels mostly satisfied with his island lifestyle. His only concern is Songoree. The young man continually creeps into his thoughts, and he often finds it impossible to concentrate. They have achieved a distance in their relationship, and Garrett feels that he must maintain that distance in order to keep from being seduced by Songoree's beguiling charm. Even so, having Songoree so close, his mind lingers for long periods of time on the young man. His writing has begun to suffer. The problem grows worse by the day. This relationship needs to change, he thinks, and soon. As he sits thinking, the rolling surf lulls his eyelids shut, and he shakes himself awake. He feels too tired to continue reading, so to take his mind off Songoree, he builds a fire in the fireplace with the driftwood he keeps stacked at the edge 122

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of the porch. He turns off all the lights and lies on the couch, watching the fire and listening to the surfer's singing. When the driftwood burns, the salt in the wood gives the flames a strange bluish-rust hue. The colors give the whole room a warm, comfortable feel that, like everything else in this island life, Garrett loves. [Back to Table of Contents]

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11. On Garrett's sixteenth Saturday at the house, his safe routine is violated. The morning starts with good writing. Creativity flows freely, and he keeps focused on the story until breakfast. As usual, he relishes his morning paper and breakfast on the porch, then continues writing until the clock strikes two. His afternoon diving is cut short when he sees something mysterious and beautiful floating on the surface—the purple gelatinous bladder of a Portuguese man-of-war. Trailing down from the body are numerous purple filaments, each coated in a poisonous gel. Garrett drifts in awe of this creature, and he moves in close for a detailed inspection. Tiny yellow fish swim within the curtain of hanging tentacles, impervious to their poison. As he swims in a tight circle around the creature, his eyes on the tiny fish, a wave thrusts him into the filaments. A sharp sting, like the burn of a branding iron, cuts across his leg and raises an ugly red welt. Crushing pain drives him back to shore, and he limps up the beach to the house. As he nears the house, he hears his stereo blasting out the "Triumphal March" from Verdi's Aida. Amazing, he thinks. Opera is the last thing Songoree would play. Although everything looks in order, he becomes suspicious, and as he approaches the porch, he creeps up the side of the steps instead of the middle so they don't creak. 124

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On the porch, Coolie lies curled on the threadbare rug, tennis ball near his mouth. His tail keeps time with the music like an offbeat metronome. The dog patiently waits for playtime, and when he sees Garrett, he lifts his head in anticipation. Garrett slides to the side of the front window and peeks into the living room. He is stunned at first, confused, but he slowly begins to understand. All the living room furniture is shoved to the walls to create a sizable open space. In the center of the room, dressed in a white tapa loincloth wrapped around his waist and under his crotch then fanning out in front to form a soft white pouch, Songoree gracefully pirouettes as best he can to the opera music. In the bronze light that filters in through the windows, Garrett sees him, tanned and lean and hard, leap and spin and glide across the empty floor, paying particular attention to the positions of his arms and his hand gestures. Sometimes, standing still, he meticulously weaves his arms over his head and across his chest, fingers extended in elegant poses. Garrett is reminded of the Hindu god Vishnu with his many arms shaping the world. Absorbed in the power and flexibility of Songoree's body, he gets his first glimpse of Songoree's naked thighs, which are usually covered to the knees with board shorts. The toned muscles ripple under that satin skin. He unconsciously runs his tongue over his dry lips as he watches beads of sweat flow over the smooth, muscular curves of Songoree's chest, down the length of those thighs 125

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and over the diamond-hard calves, before dripping to the floor. Songoree occasionally stops his dance long enough to walk over to a large picture book lying open on the armchair. After minutes of intense study, he returns to his practice. He pretends to dance with a partner, lifting an imagined princess above his head and embraces her like someone cherished as he bends her down for a final pose. Although captivated by Songoree's sensual dexterity, Garrett is amused at his lack of talent. He is clearly an amateur, but if he has learned all his movements from a book, then he must have a good deal of natural ability. As the music comes to the end of Act Two, Songoree takes his bows to an illusory audience. Garrett creeps back down to the water's edge. He waits, stretched out on the sand. The pain in his leg has diminished, but the welt is still a scalded red. He is able to ignore it as he closes his eyes and envisions Songoree, hands held overhead, toes pointed, leaping like an antelope. The sheer excitement of the image brings Garrett's breathing to a hard staccato. He rolls onto his stomach, feeling the hot sand under his bare skin. The silky feel allows him to imagine that he is holding that body close. His fingers grope at the sand, and the sensation makes his head spin. Thirty minutes pass before he lifts himself from the sand and walks back to the house. Coolie comes running as he climbs the steps. Opening the screen door, he peers into the living room. Everything is back to normal. Songoree, now 126

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dressed in board shorts and a tank top, strolls into the living room from the kitchen. "Song," he says, "as I swam back I thought I heard music. I'm not sure if you like opera, but feel free to listen to any of my CDs." Songoree's eyes widen slightly and his mouth tightens. "Where did that come from? As if I would listen to ancient history? Get real. I only listen to hip-hop." "Just thought you might like to listen to something while I'm out swimming. You know, you might like ballet music. Some of it sounds quite modern." Songoree stands dead still while Garrett walks to the shelf that holds his CD collection. He shuffles through the discs but doesn't find what he's looking for. He walks to the bedroom closet and searches through the half-full packing box, coming back to the living room and handing Songoree two discs— Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake and Prokofiev's Romeo and Juliet. "You might try these. I've also got the Nutcracker in there somewhere. I can find it later, if you like." He turns and strolls out to the porch to wait for lunch. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Songoree through the window. Songoree carefully reads the credits on one, then the other disc cover. He closes his eyes and brings both discs up to his forehead, as if saying a silent prayer. Moving carefully, he places the discs onto the shelf. After a short time, he steps onto the veranda carrying a bowl of tea and a small plate of shallot pancakes coated with sesame seeds. The pancakes are piping hot, and their aroma draws all of Garrett's attention to the plate. Songoree places 127

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plate and bowl on the table and picks up a pancake and tosses it to Coolie. With lightning quickness, the dog snatches the tidbit from the air. "Lunch will be a few more minutes. Would you like me to rub your shoulders while you drink your tea?" "Great. Thanks," Garrett says, trying to keep his surprise out of his voice. The tea is hot and spicy. The shallots explode with flavor in his mouth while Songoree kneads his neck and shoulders. Songoree's hands are remarkably warm. He stands so close his breath tickles the back of Garrett neck. This nearness intoxicates him. The sounds of the sea, the wind and their separate breathing all merge into one rhythm. Songoree whispers, "How did you know?" Garrett smiles and picks up another shallot pancake. "Hell, even a blind hog will root up an acorn every now and then." He pops the pancake in his mouth and almost laughs out loud at this wonderful moment of taste and touch and pulling one over on Songoree. This, he realizes, is the only time they have touched since the first day Songoree came to the house. The sensation of Songoree's body energy fusing with his own is sensuous. Something indefinable is forming between them. Songoree's hands move to the ends of Garrett's shoulder blades. He feels the young man's breath on the back of his neck again.

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Songoree leans his head down, and his brow touches the back of Garrett's head. Lips kiss the tender spot below Garrett's left ear. He lingers there. Garrett can smell the fresh essence of the sea. Songoree nuzzles his face into Garrett's hair while his hands still caress Garrett's shoulders. "Thank you," he whispers. Garrett reaches behind him and gently pulls Songoree's head forward as he turns to kiss his lips. Songoree leans closer until his face is next to Garrett's. Their breaths merge and their lips brush so lightly that neither is sure if they actually kiss. Garrett feels like a predator. A flash of shame hits him between the eyes. He begins to mumble an apology, but Songoree has noticed the welt on his leg and is pulling away. "I'll get something for your leg." A shadow out by the road catches Garrett's eye as he watches him disappear into the house. He comes back a minute later and kneels before Garrett. He looks up into Garrett's face and rubs his hands together as if praying. He gently grinds dried herbs into a coarse powder. Over his shoulder is the same length of tapa cloth he had worn earlier while dancing. "This will sting." He coats the injury with the herbs. Garrett gnashes his teeth and wills himself not to flinch. When Songoree begins wrapping the wound with the cloth that an hour ago was wrapped around his genitals, Garrett no longer notices the 129

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pain. Instead, he feels himself getting excited. His breathing becomes heavy. Songoree says, "Look over by the end of the road, behind the third palm tree. What do you see?" Garrett scans the area but sees only shadows, until something moves. "What is that?" "Reverend Bitton, and it's not the first time." "Why would he do that?" "To see what we just did. I've caused you some trouble. Bitton is not only a snoop, he's a gossip. I'm really sorry." Songoree secures the bandage and rests his hands on Garrett's injured leg. "Sorry? That was the nicest thing anyone's done for me in years, and I don't care who knows about it." Garrett caresses the veins on the back of Songoree's hand. "But I don't understand. Are you gay?" "I'm not gay, or straight, or anything else you can label. I don't exactly know why I did that, except that you were kind to me and I wanted to do something in return." "Does it feel strange to kiss another man?" "Yes." His face reddens. "But I'm okay with it. I mean, I liked the way it felt." They grin at each other, uncomfortable grins that show neither one knows what to do now. Songoree pauses, then moves away. "Lunch should be ready. I'll bring it out." Garrett listens to the surf while he watches the shadow move from tree to tree, making its way back down the road. 130

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Songoree brings out a tray with a large bowl of soup and beside it is a lavender envelope. He picks up the envelope and hands it to Garrett. "Audrey asked me to, like, deliver this." Garrett opens the envelope and pulls out the note. The handwriting is a fine script. Garrett, You've played the hermit long enough. The Village Resort is throwing a luau Saturday night in celebration of King Kamehameha's birthday. I have two passes. It's the best show of its kind, and it's time you got to see some Polynesian culture, not to mention some island hospitality. Meet me there at 7:30 and please don't make me come looking for you. Audrey S. Songoree reads the note over Garrett's shoulder. "I was going to ask you to come as my guest, but hey, she's totally hot for you. No kidding. You should go with her." Garrett starts to shake his head no. "You've got to come," Songoree says, "to see me perform." "Ballet?" Songoree pauses, blushing. "You'll have come see for yourself." [Back to Table of Contents]

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12. Preparations for the luau start before dawn. Fishing boats slip out of the bay to hunt for dorado, mahimahi and marlin. As the sun rises out of the eastern Pacific, the furious shrieking of fattened hogs is heard throughout the town. Two imus, six feet long and four feet deep, are dug for roasting the hogs. By ten, a fire is started and tended by two men while two others drive back into the rain forest to a translucent stream to gather stones from the streambed. The stones are placed within the fire, where they absorb the flame's red-orange heat. While workers prepare the imus, dozens of others select fresh herbs and spices, edible ferns, cabbages, papayas, avocados, guavas and coconuts. They slaughter the plumpest chickens and dogs and goats. Dishes are prepared from recipes as old as the people of Hawaii. During the seven-hour roasting time, grandmothers and granddaughters string garlands of carnations, marigolds, ti leaves, ohai ali'i, ilima and orchid blossoms together, making brilliant red, white, orange and pink leis with which to welcome guests. By late afternoon, the delicate fragrance of the flowers harmonizes with the rich aroma of the roasting meat, causing excitement to rise as laughter and teasing banter float on the air, blending with the savory scents. The luau is held beside a lagoon that is a short walk down a footpath winding through a palm grove behind the Village Resort compound. On one side of the lagoon is a large stage 132

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with overhead lighting, colorful backdrops and a lifesize statue of King Kamehameha. A brilliant yellow cape drapes over the statue's shoulder, and he sports an old-style gourd helmet. A small bridge connects the stage with a banquet area. As guests arrive, they cross the bridge and drape sweet-scented leis at the statue's feet. Five long tables spread out from the stage like fingers on an open hand. The tables crouch low to the ground so the feasters can sit on pillows. Dark-green banana leaves are used as tablecloths beneath numerous bowls of poi, raw and cooked fish, steamed crab, piles of breadfruit and roasted kukui nuts, platters of roasted pork and baked dog, and what seems like a hundred other dishes. Surrounding the tables are two dozen torches that cast a mysterious light over the jungle scene. Decked out in white trousers and a teal-blue Hawaiian print shirt, Garrett hurries down the footpath alone. He stops short as the jungle setting comes into view, suddenly feeling like he's stepped back in time a thousand years. Audrey appears out of nowhere and hangs a pile of colorful leis around his neck. Her blond hair falls in soft curls about her shoulders. She looks into Garrett's eyes and says "Aloha," then leans forward to kiss him on the cheek. As she moves away, he notices the intricate floral print native wrap that hugs her pale breasts and the curves of her body down to her knees. "Wow! You're stunning." 133

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"Come, I have a surprise. We're feasting at Mother Kamamalu's table." She beams with pride. Garrett tries to remember where he has heard that name. He knows it must be something that Hap mentioned. "Mother Kamamalu—isn't she the owner of Madam Chang's, the local brothel?" Audrey brings her finger to her lips, making a shushing sound. "Mother Kamamalu is matriarch of one of the oldest and most respected families on the island. She is a direct descendant of King Kamehameha the Great, which means royal blood flows in her veins. She is respected by all." She giggles and leans close, "And yes, it is rumored that she does own several local businesses." They make their way to the table amid a celebration that sounds like a gaggle of honking geese. Reverend Bitton sits at the far end of a table. His stiff back is shrouded in a heavy black coat and his eyes peer down the length of his nose, scrutinizing the festivities. "Evening, Reverend," Audrey says. She bows as they pass by. "Hello, Miss Snow. I'm delighted to see you here. I don't believe I've met your..." That is as far as Bitton gets before Audrey squeezes Garrett's arm and pushes on past the preacher as fast as etiquette allows. Garrett turns to see him look to his grayhaired lady companion, who sits to his left. She raises her eyebrows and covers her mouth with one hand. Mother Kamamalu sits at the very end of the center table, back in the shadows, which seems to shroud her great bulk. 134

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Her silver hair, parted neatly at her crown, flows down both sides of her ample cheeks to her large round shoulders and gathers at the back of her neck. Perched on her enormous stomach and enveloped in a richly patterned pink muumuu are the largest and most majestic breasts Garrett has ever seen. Around her neck hangs a lei-palaoa—many finely braided strands of human hair supporting what looks like a large curved hook carved from a whale's tooth. It's a talisman reserved for the royal family. Her eyes are dark and set wide apart, and the gap between her front teeth makes her look even more jolly. Her legs and arms are elegantly tattooed, like an enormous canvas. She picks delicately at a small plate of food. The graceful movements of her massive forearms and fingers make her seem petite. "Mother Kamamalu," Audrey says. "This is Garrett Davidson, the writer who's living in the old point house." "Aloha, handsome man." She daintily extends a hand that is twice the size of Garrett's. "Welcome to my ohana. Ohana means family." She looks out over the table to include everyone sitting there, for, indeed, they all have Mother Kamamalu's stout build and lovely facial features. An infant crawls at Mother Kamamalu's feet. She leans over and grabs the baby in both hands, lifting the boy up to her ample breasts. The child snuggles into those enormous mounds of flesh, and everyone at the table leans back and smiles. Some laugh out loud. Garrett suspects that many at the table have had the opportunity to cuddle Mother 135

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Kamamalu's big heart, and many had probably loved her before any other person. "Oh, my pretty, pretty baby. Which one are you?" She rocks the gurgling infant. "Twelve grandbabies. Maybe I should live in a shoe." Her unconcerned smile spreads even wider across her enormous face. Some people laugh with her, but most act as though they have heard this remark a hundred times. She dips one finger into a honey bowl and pops it into the child's mouth. "Oh, sweet child, you know what is good for you. You know I'm the one that's good for you. Huh, pretty brown sugar?" She jiggles the boy as he sucks at her finger. "What's you going to do, what's all you going to do when there's no more Mother Kamamalu to love you?" A hush descends over that end of the table, as if each family member were trying to imagine a world without her big loving heart and gentle gap-toothed smile. She turns back to Audrey. "Please, sit with us. Eat and be happy." Garrett and Audrey file down a line of feasters to two empty cushions. He is amazed at how much food covers the table. They feast on baked pig so succulent that it literally melts in their mouths. He has never experienced anything so palatable. There is baked goat, breadfruit, steamed and raw fish and great calabashes of poi as purple as the octopus salad. He chews each mouthful of pork until the meat expels every minute bit of flavor then licks the burnt fat from his fingers. Occasionally, Audrey lifts her napkin to wipe away a 136

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drib of fat from the corners of his smile. They raise their coconut shell goblets, clunk the rims together and wash down the strong flavor of pork with fruity mai-tai. "So, what brought you to the islands?" he asks. "Several reasons, some less interesting than others. The best reason is that I'm an anthropology student at the University of Colorado. I'm doing my dissertation on Polynesian culture. The plan was a fact-gathering trip that would start in Hawaii, proceed to Tahiti, the Cook Islands, Fiji, and end up in New Zealand." "Sounds like a dream trip. How long will it take?" "It was supposed to take a year, but I came here and never left. The people here are so amiable and the culture so fascinating that I don't want to leave. I've narrowed the scope of my thesis to focus on a particular aspect of Hawaiian culture." Garrett picks up his mai-tai and stares at the pink-yellow mixture. "Sounds like a smart move. What aspects most interest you?" "There is an ancient cult of warrior shamans. They had a strict code of living and were supposed to be able to perform healings and cast spells and see prophetic visions. There is no documentation on their history or beliefs. It was all passed down from father to son. But I've heard rumors that there are men living now that have the knowledge. If I can get one to open up, it could be really important." Garrett takes hold of her hand. "Are you talking about the kahuna anaana?" 137

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Her eyes widen. "You're full of surprises. How do you know about the anaana cult?" "Songoree and his grandfather belong to that cult. It seems they want me to help them document some aspects of their beliefs. Sounds like they should be asking you instead of me." She sits silent, staring. Her mouth drifts open, and she closes it again. He squeezes her hand. "Are you all right?" "My God, this is fantastic. I know the old man they call Grandfather is supposed to be a kahuna, but he won't talk to me. I've never even seen him. Believe me, I've tried every way I can think of to get to him. So, if he'll talk to you then we'll work on it together. Oh, my, I'm so excited." She moves his hand to her chest, and he feels her heart racing. Tears form in her eyes. "You don't understand. I turned them down. I have my own project. I can't be distracted, not now." "When? When can you be distracted from your romance novel, or your guidebook of Egypt, or whatever the hell you're writing, to do something important for humanity?" "Please don't be mad. My project's as important to me as your thesis is to you. I think we should talk about this later so we don't spoil the feast." He can see the wheels turning behind her face. She dips two fingers into a bowl of purple paste and brings it to his lips. "Try some poi. People either love it or hate it." He sucks the starchy paste from her fingers and his face scrunches up like a prune. "Yuk." 138

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"Okay, if you want to avoid that subject let's try another. You remember the day you stood at my office window and looked at the point house with binoculars? Remember how clearly you could see the house?" "Yes, I knew it was the house for me." She clears her throat. "Well, if you saw the house plainly from town, so can others. In this small town, everybody knows everybody else's business." "Meaning?" "Boy, you don't make it easy on a girl. Okay, there's a rumor floating around that you were seen on the porch with Song, and you two were, well ... intimate." His heart falters. Heat rises to his head. The babble of the other feasters suddenly seems too loud. He scans the table with an accusing glare, imagining himself the target of a thousand whispered asides. Oh, yes, he comes here all alone from San Francisco, a man his age and no wife—that certainly tells the story clearly enough. And young Songoree, a boy really, and so innocent, being drawn in by that older man. Does Grandfather know? Surely the boy's mother has no clue. Why would Songoree let himself be seduced by this man? What's the attraction? It has to be money, what else could it be with so fine a boy. The man must have some big money stashed away on the mainland. How else could he afford not to do any real work? Garrett takes a deep breath. It doesn't matter, he thinks, I won't let it be a problem. The air explodes with the frenzied clap of a small hollow log being beaten with lengths of wood. Two men stand on 139

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each side of the stage sounding conch shells. The shrill blast of the conch sends the birds within the nearby hua trees fluttering through the night sky. The deep throb of bigger sharkskin drums fills the air while the lights on the stage brighten. A gravel-voiced announcer appears on the stage and welcomes the feasters as two lines of beautiful girls in ti-leaf skirts materialize from the shadows. Behind them come the male dancers, strong and masculine, their nearly naked bodies showcasing intricate tattoos chiseled on brown marble. "Hey." Garrett points to the stage. "There's Song!" Songoree dances his way on stage with the others. He wears the same style loincloth, called a malo, he had wrapped Garrett's injured leg with. Except now his malo is blood-red. He also wears a band of red cloth around his head and maile fern rings around his wrists and ankles. "Sure, all those surfers that hang out around the point dance in the show. Didn't Song tell you?" "I guess I was expecting something different." The announcer narrates the migration of the Polynesian people from Asia through the southern islands as they pushed their way across the Pacific. At each island he mentions—Fiji, Samoa, Havaiki, Tahiti, Bora-Bora—a set of dancers emerges from the shadows and displays the provocative hula style of that particular island. He goes on to explain that because the Polynesians had no written language their history and literature were passed to each generation through dance and song. Each separate movement represents something about island life. They dance a different hula for birth and for death, 140

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for kings and for the common people, for celebration and for sorrow. The traditional Polynesian hula is all about participation rather than performance. The wild gyrations of scantily clad girls and acrobatic men mesmerize Garrett. He begins to suspect that the erotic movement of the hula was created for mainly one purpose: to drive dancers into a lustful frenzy. The tempo races faster and faster. No wonder, he thinks, the missionaries outlawed the hula as lewd and wicked. The more he watches, the more he is reminded of modern break-dancing, and he thinks that perhaps Songoree is correct, that everything modern is simply echoing some past behavior. **** The audience roars its approval as performers finish the vivacious dance of Bora Bora. No one notices the old man in his dark-gray robe as he makes his way down the footpath. He pauses to scrutinize the entire scene, and his attention focuses on Garrett. He watches each gesture, the flush on his face, the shimmer of his aura. The old man glides to the head of the table where Mother Kamamalu sits with the child still nuzzling her breasts. "Grandfather!" She slides the infant to her side. "You honor us." She has the attention of every person at the table as she bends and kisses the hem of his robe. "I am pleased to celebrate this day with you, Alii Nui." Grandfather uses the title of the leader of all Hawaiian people. Alii nui means "from where our bounty flows." 141

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The Reverend Bitton rises and stalks to Mother Kamamalu. "Mrs. Kamamalu, to kiss this man's garment is not Christian. Only our lord Jesus deserves such humble glorification." Grandfather ignores the criticism. He takes Mother Kamamalu's massive hand in his and, in their native language, asks if he can join her table. She smiles, nods her head and bends and kisses his hand. The veins in the preacher's neck stand out. "Mrs. Kamamalu!" Reverend Bitton struggles to keep his voice low. "I am Christian," Mother Kamamalu cuts him off. "I also respect my island gods, my people and the ancient ways." "There is only one God and there should be no room in our hearts for any other." "Perhaps that is your problem—your heart is too small. My heart is enormous and has much room for Jesus, and Buddha, and Pele, and Kane, and many others." She waves her hand as if shooing a fly. "You are dismissed." These last words are said with such intensity that several men at that end of the table stand, ready to remove the intruder, if necessary. Reverend Bitton visibly shrinks, unsure of how to proceed. He turns and strides down the path away from the feast while the party erupts into a clamor of chatter. Grandfather makes his way down the long table to sit across from Garrett. He closes his eyes and drifts into a deep level of concentration. His mind, clear of thoughts and feelings, becomes completely receptive. 142

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He focuses his will on Garrett, reaching across the table with his attention, experiencing Garrett's mood, feelings, mana—his spiritual energy. He tastes the man's essence, and is pleased with Garrett's abundance of raw power. A single thought worms its way into his mind: He very well may be the one. **** The announcer and performers make their way though a thousand years of Polynesian history, until they have danced the diary of Hawaii—how the feudal islands were constantly at war with each other until the great chief Kamehameha rose up to conquer and unify the islands. Bare feet stamp to the rhythm of the drums, hair flies high and ti-leaf skirts whirl as the dancers act out a massive battle scene. At the height of activity, Songoree leaps into the center of the dancers carrying a four-foot pole. In a flash, the ends of the pole ignite and red-yellow flames fly in a circle, causing a ring of fire around Songoree as he twirls the burning baton. His garland-clad feet stomp, his body sways smoothly, in perfect balance as he passes the fiery wand powerfully from hand to hand with a sound like wind. Garrett holds his breath as Songoree deftly sends the shaft spinning high over his head, only to catch it once again and whirl the fire even faster. The audience thunders its approval, and Garrett's voice is the loudest. The women dancers file back on stage to perform the traditional hula pa ipu—the gourd dance. They move in a circle, raising and lowering and shaking their gourds in front 143

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of them in graceful, lulling movements as they sing. Garrett feels a tickling in his head, and he unconsciously reaches up and scratches his ear. His eyes, however, never leave Songoree as he dances behind the line of gourd dancers. Songoree dances perfect, precise movements, not at all like his amateurish attempts at ballet. He moves with poise and clarity, confident and composed. Dancing his native hula, he transforms, lit from within by an unearthly energy. Audrey says, "Song is a pretty good dancer." "He's fantastic. Clearly the best." Garrett becomes aware of Songoree's unwavering eye contact as he moves his torso in slow, seductive gyrations. His smile and his eyes speak an intoxicating poetry that paralyzes Garrett. Drums burst into frantic rhythms, and the performers are swept into a mad hula. The women float above their gyrating ti-leaf skirts and the men slap their chests and thighs, leaping in acrobatic whirlwinds to a crescendo of movement and sound. Garrett's pulse races when Audrey leans against his side and tells him that this dance represents the famous Death Leap, when Kamehameha invaded Oahu and chased thousands of chiefs and warriors over the cliffs above Nuuanu Valley. The dancers act out their fall of death that climaxed the bloody thirteen-year war and allowed Kamehameha to unite the islands under one rule. In the center of the stage, Songoree seems to bend the laws of physics with the way he spins, defies gravity with his 144

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leaps. The now-raging drums drive him to perform even more extraordinary feats of dexterity. Garrett's heart races. After an exciting crescendo, all the music stops. The show is over. The dancers bow, and the audience thunders its tribute. People are shouting, laughing, wiping the sweat from their foreheads. Songoree holds Garrett frozen with his gaze. Garrett knows enough about martial arts to realize that Songoree has purposely given him a lesson so subtle he is shaken to the soles of his feet. A lesson in balance—moving beyond one's protective boundaries, exposing one's self to the universe and merging with it in such a way as to remain in perfect balance with it, thereby allowing the body to do the unbelievable. Garrett flounders in confusion, yet his respect for Songoree deepens. For two years, he has convinced himself he will never want anyone other than Marc, and although Songoree is physically beautiful, he had dismissed the boy because he saw little under the pleasing facade. But now he has learned that Songoree is a talented dancer and has a remarkable depth of understanding in martial arts for someone so young. Songoree now seems more complicated and interesting, which makes him more desirable. In Garrett's confusion, the memory of that kiss— the intimacy, his fresh scent, the soft brush of lips—all come rushing back to him. The crowd hushes as Mother Kamamalu heaves her bulk from the cushions and maneuvers over the bridge and onto 145

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the stage. She approaches the statue of Kamehameha and lays a garland of red ohi'a lehua tree blossoms at its feet. "Great king and father, accept these tokens of love from us, your children. Teach us how to unite once again and live in harmony." She bows low and kisses the statue's feet. Rising, she crossses the stage to where Songoree stands with the other dancers. In the shafts of torchlight, he stands almost naked, his muscles pumped and flushed, skin gleaming. Heat steams off his bare chest, shoulders and arms. He takes off his red headband and shakes out his inkblack hair. Garrett stares, mesmerized. Mother Kamamalu holds out a lei of yellow feathers of the nearly extinct 'o'o bird, and drapes it around Songoree's neck. She kisses him on each cheek, hugs him for a long time as she whispers into his ear. When she lets go and moves away, she bows to the entire assemblage of performers. She says, "Many thanks to you, young people of Hawaii, who keep the traditions of our ancestors alive in dance and song, as we old people keep them alive in our hearts." The party ends. People hug and say their goodbyes before moving down the tree-canopied path to their homes. The crowd thins and the chattering noise fades, leaving a peaceful quiet. Audrey asks if Garrett is ready to leave, but he has no sense of hearing her voice. He sighs deeply as he watches her rise then follows her. His senses returning, he asks, "Do they have a big presentation like this at the tomb of King Kamehameha?" 146

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"There is no tomb or gravesite," Audrey says. "No one knows where Kamehameha is buried." Garrett shakes his head in disbelief, "How can that be? He was their most important ruler. There must have been some kind of procession and funeral." "The king died at age sixty-six, here on the Big Island. His son, Kamehameha II, hid the body so people couldn't steal the bones, which were supposed to hold very powerful magic. When the chiefs asked him where the body was he said, 'Only the stars of the heavens know the resting place of Kamehameha the Great.' He never revealed where he hid the body." "What an amazing story." They meander down the path and back to the beach. She asks if he will buy her a drink at the Village's outdoor bar, and even though he is already pleasantly drunk on mai tai's, he can't refuse. A light wind rustles the palms as they step to the bar and order Blue Hawaiians, which go down fast and have a kick. "I had a delightful time. The show was fantastic," he says. "And most of all, I've enjoyed spending time with you. You're very charming." "Look, about what I said earlier. About the gossip floating around." "I, ah—" She cuts him off. "I don't know if it's true, and I don't care. I told you because, if there is something between you two, you shouldn't show it openly, not even on your porch. This is not 147

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San Francisco. It's a small, devoutly religious town, and it's Song's home. You'll be leaving here in a few months, but he has to stay. Please don't spoil things for him. He's very special, and it would be a shame if..." She stops. "I have no intentions of spoiling anything for Song." She reaches out and takes his hand. "I wish I could be the type of man you're looking for," he says. "But I'm not." Something in her eyes dies; that sparkle that had been there all night suddenly extinguishes, giving her eyes the dull sheen of a blind person. She manages a sad little smile and says, "I know. But I still want to come over and cook that spaghetti-and-garlic toast dinner I promised." They part at the bar after a long, warm hug. She ambles towards town, and he towards the house. The night grows cool and dark. He gazes at the sea and up at the night sky. The wind is stronger now. It sweeps dark clouds across the moon, shrouding its brilliance. There are no stars and no light to reflect off the water. From a long way off, he can see a gigantic bonfire in the usual place down from the house. When he draws near, he sees the whole troupe of dancers still in costume. They dance and drink and sing their way around the huge fire. Although the walk has helped to sober him, he is still drunk enough to want to join the dancers and let himself be carried away in the frenzy; but he knows they don't want an outsider crashing their festivities. He walks a wide circle around the group. 148

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As he passes, a loud voice comes from the direction of the fire that stops him cold. "Yo, faggot! I hear you tried putting moves on Song-boy." Four men lead by Mako strut across the sand. In their native costumes, the dark silhouettes resembled black demons marching from the sea. "You are so fuckin' busted, man." "I don't know what you heard, friend, but you're wrong." Garrett feels the familiar tingle of danger run up his spine. He wishes Marc were here. In the Navy, Marc loved to fight, loved the thrill of combat. "Don't call me friend, you fucking haole mahu," sneers Mako, the biggest and most truculent of the four. "You lay another hand on Song, and you die." Garrett has already sized up his adversaries, and he is confident he can drop the two smallest men on the left before anyone knows he's jumped. That only leaves the two larger ones, assuming the others still gathered around the fire don't join in. He steps back into the martial arts stance he learned in SEALs special training, feet spread apart, knees bent, arms raised to waist level. "You got something to prove," he says. "Let it fly." The four aggressors stare at him. The fire licks at the black sky behind them and the burning wood pops, sending sparks flying through the air. Garrett calmly stands his ground, waiting.

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"Whatever, Tinkerbell. This time is a warning. You touch Songoree, and you're gonna be fish bait." With that boast made, all four men turn and swagger back to the fire. Garrett backs away, not taking his eyes off the four. Before he turns to walk to the house, he sees Songoree sitting on a log on the far side of the fire, away from the others. He feels a stabbing pain in his chest. Audrey is right, he thinks. He's got to get away from me before I hurt him any more. [Back to Table of Contents]

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13. Clouds skirt across the spotlight of moon. The changing light turns the landscape this way and that, one minute familiar and the next something alien. Garrett sits on the porch feeling the breeze caress his face. The wind builds in strength, and for the first time on the island he feels a chill. He studies the dancers at the bonfire, and he tries not to envy them, but he does. Their playful banter pulls at him. He aches to sit close to Songoree and lay a consoling arm across Songoree's shoulder. But mostly he feels the need for another drink. He craves something strong to soothe the throbbing that has moved from his chest to his head. The wind blows in gusts. Trees behind the house croon. The bonfire whirls columns of sparks high into the sky. Garrett's nostrils flare as he smells the burning driftwood. He tries to not think of anything, but his mind repeatedly yields to images of Songoree dancing, awed by the poise and dexterity of Songoree performing his art. He shakes his head to relinquish the image. His mind empties, but he is still consumed with the need for another drink. He heaves himself from the chair and lumbers through the dark living room. The wind slams the screen door behind him. In the bedroom, he pulls a quilt from the closet shelf, tosses off his shoes and curls on the bed. He draws the quilt around him and listens to the wind and sea and young people's singing. Only his eyes and nose peek out from under 151

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the thick cover, but he cannot get warm. His body sweats while trapped under the quilt, but his teeth chatter and waves of chills keep his body shivering. Hours pass. His mind is a riot of vivid thoughts, switching from Songoree to Marc and back to Songoree. He eventually sleeps, but only in short bouts of light dozing. The pounding of wind and surf keep him from submerging very deep. The sounds play off each other in a duet of wild percussion. An hour before sunrise he abandons his useless attempts at sleep. The throbbing in his head has abated, but he feels weak. He wraps the quilt around him and shuffles to the living room. Moonlight filters though the front windows. In the semidarkness, the room seems cavernous, dark and empty. The ticking of the ship's clock joins the sounds of the wind and waves. Only these sounds interrupt the stillness. Garrett thinks that a vigorous swim is what he needs, but he remembers Songoree's warning—sharks come over the reef in the darkness to feed, never go swimming at night. He draws the quilt snugly about him and fumbles to the study. He moves as awkward as a mummy. He can't see much in the semi-darkness, but he feels his way to the desk and turns on the computer. Green lights on the side of the laptop flicker. A whirling sound seems loud. He presses the mouse, and his story flashes on the screen, black on white, giving the room a mysterious glow. Garrett reads the last few pages he wrote yesterday morning. He closes his eyes. His thoughts reach back in time 152

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until he hears someone calling his name. Anger boils up inside him. He stands in a crowded, brightly lit gallery. Noise from the chortling spectators is a constant buzz, and yes, over the clamor he hears his name again. Marc has just arrived and calls to him from across the room. Even from that distance, he sees that Marc is flushed, glowing as only Marc does. Now that he's arrived, the whole room becomes more vibrant. Marc jostles through the crowd, and Garrett is caught up in his arms. They press together in an intimate hug with Garrett's face nestled in the curve of Marc's neck. Marc's excitement ignites the same emotion in Garrett. He feels his anger turn to something resembling joy. "You're so damned sexy when you're angry," Marc whispers in his ear. "Forgive me?" "Two hours late for your first gallery opening!" Marc takes Garrett's earlobe in his teeth and gently bites down. "Okay, I'm a bad boy again. You get to take me over your knee when we get home." "Don't think I won't." Garrett is intoxicated by the scent of him and the joyful energy he radiates. Just to be this close to this man makes him feel complete. He relaxes, even surprises himself by smiling. After five years of spending every night with this beautiful man, he is astonished that Marc still generates these feelings of fresh, adolescent-like love within his heart. "So, where were you this time?" 153

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Marc pulls away just enough to look in his eyes. After a long moment he leans close again and they brush lips. "Have I ever told you how stunning you look in a tux?" Marc's eyes sparkle but Garrett feels a screen lowering between them. Garrett's smile fades. "You're hiding something." "No. I stopped in to see the gang at Max's. I couldn't help showing off a little." "For two hours?" "One drink and I lose all sense of time, you know that." Marc pulls him close again. Garrett feels hot breath on his neck. "Speaking of a drink," Marc says. "I'm dying for one. Let's have this conversation at the bar." Marc takes Garrett's hand and leads him through the crowd. As they cross the room they pass the pianist, who is playing a Gershwin tune from Porgy and Bess. Marc's head turns as he notices the blond-haired performer. The bartender has broad shoulders and short dark hair. His eyes are a little too far apart, but his face has a pleasing youthfulness. Marc looks directly in his eyes for a long moment. His smile widens. Marc orders two martinis, dry, up, and with olives. A pale rose color travels up the bartender's neck to his cheeks as he prepares the glasses and mixes the drinks. Marc studies his movements until the bartender places the two glasses on the bar in front of him. They exchange another glance. The bartender winks. 154

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Marc takes a glass in each hand and passes one to Garrett. He asks, "What do you think of it?" Garrett knows he's talking about the portrait he painted of him. Very modern, Picasso-like, done in blues and reds on a small canvas. It has crude lines, and the hard, pure colors boast of masculine savagery. It conveys a primitive force deeply felt. Tonight is the first time Garrett has seen it, and the raw emotion of it stunned him. Marc clearly has talent, but this portrait is his first glimpse of Marc's genius. "What do I think? I think all your work is brilliant, but my portrait is on another level. There are six bids on it already." "It is good, isn't it? The difference between that portrait and my other work is the way I crafted the light. When I painted you, I realized something extraordinary—that what I see is light, not objects. Objects are only something that light bounces off of, and that give light its color and texture, but what I really see, what passes into my eyes, what I paint, is light. "You can see it in the paintings of Caravaggio and Vermeer. Now that I understand that, my work is going in a different direction, thanks to you. And I don't care how high the bids go, it's not for sale. That one belongs to you." Garrett flushes. Speechless. They raise their glasses and drink. Marc says, "You'll always have the best of me." He nods his head and looks down. "I love you." "Back at you, lover man."

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Garrett doesn't look up. He says, "If you really love me, why do you flirt with the bartender? And it's not just this bartender, it's every bartender, waiter, sales clerk..." "Look." Marc reaches up and touches him under the chin, lifting his face until they look eye to eye, "I wasn't flirting. Now, I've got to go mingle with these wealthy art lovers and you've got to get over whatever bug is up your ass. Okay?" He raises his glass and finishes off his martini. He turns and plunges into the crowd. Once again, Garrett has stepped over the line. There's a mysterious gray area that needs to be avoided, a place that can't be talked about, a place where emotions are too strong for mere words, emotions like guilt, shame, and desire. This mystery is one of the things that entices him and binds them together, but at the same time it feels like being stabbed with a hot knife. He finishes his drink and orders another. He watches Marc glide through the room, shaking hands, mingling, shimmering. The night is Marc's, and everybody orbits him like lesser moons caught in his gravitational pull. There are only a few people in the crowd they know socially. Most of them are gray, wrinkled and wealthy enough to gamble on a new talent. Marc charms everyone who falls within his orbit. Garrett watches from the fringe while he listens to the gathering, as if he were enjoying a grand opera from box seats. The opening is a success: four oil paintings and several sketches sell. Late in the evening, standing on the cold and foggy street, they wave goodbye to the last of the hangers-on 156

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before hailing a cab. All the way home they laugh at the various comments overheard about Marc's work. Their exchanges are light and playful, almost musical. Marc asks, "Just how many drinks did you have tonight?" "Too many, you'll have to carry me up the stairs." Marc holds him close, and Garrett cradles the portrait Marc has given him. "I'm going to hang this in my office facing my desk," he says. "That way, I'll have you with me when I work." They kiss and stay silent for the rest of the ride home. At the apartment, they move directly to the bedroom. As soon as the lights come on they are in each other's arms. Their kisses are sensual and leisurely. Their breathing deepens. Marc reaches up to untie Garrett's tie. "Have I told you how sexy you look in a tux?" "You've mentioned it three times tonight. It's a shame we have to take them back." Garrett reaches up and begins unbuttoning Marc's shirt. "Wouldn't you rather see me without the tux?" They undress each other. Bit by bit, the clothes fall away to reveal more skin. Garrett feels the hunger inside grow large as Marc's lips move over his bare chest. When they are both down to just boxer shorts, Garrett shoves Marc on the bed, turns him face down and straddles his legs, pinning him. He yanks Marc's shorts down to expose the milky white skin covering those beautiful mounds of flesh. "I seem to remember something about owing you a spanking for being late." Garrett raises a hand and smacks a 157

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cheek. The sound is sharp. Marc utters a deep-throated moan into the pillow. Garrett admires the pink handprint on the white skin. He raises his hand to slap the other cheek but freezes with his hand held high. Looking down at the target, he sees something he's not noticed before. Three purple lesions in the shape of a triangle are embedded on the side of Marc's thigh. At first they look like a rose tattoo, but they are clearly lesions. An alarm goes off in Garrett's head. He struggles to breathe as he bends down to inspect the lesions more closely. There is no doubt what they are. His eyes widen, his mouth drops open. He feels goose pimples over his entire body. The urge to vomit becomes overpowering. Garrett has had unprotected sex with Marc for five years, believing they were monogamous. Marc moans, "Slap me hard, Daddy." Garrett's gaze goes to the back of Marc's head. He spots two more small lesions at the base of his neck. He tries to breathe, but he can't inhale. "Please, Daddy, slap me." Something inside Garrett explodes. He grabs a handful of hair and pulls him from the pillow. He turns Marc's face around just enough to take a good swing with his upraised hand, which is now balled into a fist. He hits with all his strength. "You fucking whore!" he screams. He punches Marc again. "You've poisoned me, you cheating bastard." 158

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Marc fights for his life as Garrett lands another blow, spraying blood across the white pillowcase. "You've killed us both!" They grapple on the bed and fall to the floor. Garrett swings his fists wildly while Marc gets a grip on his throat. The vise-like pressure is tremendous. He feels his eyes bug out as he strains with every ounce of his strength. There is total silence now. Garrett swings again and again until he's about to pass out from lack of oxygen. Collapsing, he goes limp. He can't breathe. Marc screams at him, but he can't hear. He lies on the floor with his knees drawn to his chest. It is well past sunrise when he finally pulls himself up from the floor. Calm now, but exhausted and hung over, the pain at his throat inflates to something monstrous each time he inhales. In the bathroom mirror he sees that one eye is blackened and swollen shut. The bruises about his neck are a vibrant purple. He searches the apartment. Marc is gone, and the front door stands wide open. **** Garrett's eyes burn. He breathes in short gasps. He lifts his hand to his face and rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. The sun is full up and strong. Out the window, he sees Songoree walking up the beach with his girl and Coolie. The breeze blows, and he sees their long hair whipping about and tangling together as they walk. They stop 159

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at the same place as they do every morning, kiss, linger for a moment, and she walks back to town. Garrett slams the laptop's lid shut and tosses the quilt aside, then charges out of the house for his morning swim. [Back to Table of Contents]

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14. The morning swim does little to relieve Garrett's hangover or restore his strength. He sits on the porch, bent forward, holding his head in his hands. His face feels hot while the rest of his body shivers. Coolie curls at his feet with his head down and a sad expression on his face, as if he feels Garrett's pain. Garrett remembers what Grandfather told him about conquering pain, to feel it to the point where you become the pain. Where to begin? Which pain to start with? How can you focus on anything when everything hurts? Songoree slides out the door and places a tray on the table. Beside the usual poached eggs on rice and tall glass of orange juice are six aspirin. He strokes the back of Garrett's neck. "Noodles, if you feel as bad as you look then you better start with the aspirin. If you need more I brought a whole bottle." He downs the pills while Songoree lays both hands on his shoulders and slowly massages the muscles. He feels so much better just having Songoree this close. It is amazing how therapeutic human touch can be, he thinks, truly a marvel. Garrett closes his eyes and focuses all his attention on the feel of fingers soothing his neck. "Song, don't do that." "Do what, massage your neck? Don't you like it?" "It's wonderful. But half the town is watching, and they're gossiping to the other half, just like last time. This kind of 161

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thing will hurt you. And there's your friends who threatened me. They could turn on you as well. In fact, I don't think you should come here anymore. Much as I like you here, it's best if you stay away." Songoree's hands work their way up the back of Garrett's neck, and Garrett lets out a low moan. "Stay away? Who would take care of you? It's pretty obvious you can't take care of yourself." Songoree's fingers gently knead the soft spots just below Garrett's ears. "Don't worry about gossip. Let life dictate how you act, not people's narrow-minded opinions. And don't worry about my friends. You and I are protected from that sort of violence." "Protected? I came that close to a fight last night. Those guys mean business." "Grandfather protects me, and now he protects you as well. They fear him. We're safe with him here. You'll just have to trust me on this." He kneads his way back down to Garrett's shoulders as Garrett eats his breakfast. For the first time since coming to the island, he doesn't feel ravenous to the point of wolfing down his food. Songoree says, "You were impressed with me. I mean, you enjoyed my dancing?" "I was captivated. Everyone was." Garrett feels a surge of warmth coming from him. "You should join a professional dance company. If you get proper coaching, you could be as great with your ballet as you are with your hula." "If there were a company on this island I'd be there in a heartbeat," Songoree says. "But for that I'd have to leave the island, and I can't do that. But I'm glad you liked my dancing. 162

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You've given me so much that it's nice to give you something in return." "What have I given you?" "Remind me to explain it some time. Right now you need to finish your breakfast because I hear Hap's truck, and I'll bet he's bringing your friend out from town." "Who, Audrey?" Garrett scans the road, and sure enough, far around the bay Hap's truck rambles toward the house. Song's hearing must be better than Coolie's. "Some haole wandering around town, asking everyone how to find you." Songoree reaches up and ruffles Garrett's hair, then walks to the screen door. "I'll be in the kitchen cleaning up. Let me know if he's hungry. There's more rice, and I can poach some eggs." Curiosity draws Garrett from his chair and down the steps. Coolie lifts his head to see what's going on but decides to stay curled up on the porch. By the time the truck rattles up to the end of the road and parks, Garrett is standing there to meet it. The passenger door flies open, and Owen Lieberman steps out of the cab with a smile as wide as the Golden Gate Bridge. "Surprise!" "My God, what are you doing here? The last time I saw you, you were wearing a bowl of guacamole." Garrett holds out his arm to shake hands but Owen brushes past it and leans into his body. He wraps his arms around Garrett to give him a fierce hug, and holds him a little too long for mere 163

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friendship. Garrett sees Hap eyeing the scene as he steps from the driver side of the truck. Owen finally loosens his grip and steps back. "I hope it's okay to hug you now that you're not my boss. Christ, how I've missed you. You have no idea how bad work's been without you." Owen's shaggy blond hair and sensitive face haven't changed, but he is dressed in a rather loud Hawaiian shirt, lavender board shorts and flip-flops. He seems an altogether different person. "I hope you're not here to try and drag me back," Garrett says with a smile. Memories of work and his old life begin to flood his mind. His hangover begins to diminish, somehow getting lost in the excitement. "No, I just had to get myself out of there. They had me reporting to Kitty Woods after you left. Kitty—what a joke. They should have named her Alley Cat or Leopard Woman. Anyway, I decided to take a six-month leave of absence and travel the world in search of love." Garrett is somewhat shocked by such a revealing remark, but he remembers that Owen has little regard for subtlety. Owen gazes into his eyes with a pleading look on his face that reminds him of Coolie at dinnertime. He knows what Owen wants and is uncomfortable with it, but then again... Hap laughs as he heads for the house. "If it's love you're lookin' for you've come to the best spot on earth. Here the wahines are second to none. Each one is as radiant as a queen!" 164

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They smile at each other. Garrett throws his arm over Owen's shoulder and leads him towards the house. "Have you eaten yet?" They climb the steps together while Hap seats himself at the table. "Hap, you like a drink, or maybe some coffee?" "A drink, this early in the morning? Hell, no. What kind of rummy do you take me for? I've had my coffee, thanks, but if you've got a cold beer in the fridge, that would sure hit the spot." At that moment, Songoree comes through the doorway carrying a tray crowned with two mugs of coffee and one frosty bottle of Kona Pacific Golden Ale. Hap smacks his lips as he takes the bottle off the tray before Songoree has time to put it on the table. "Song-boy, you always know what a man needs. You're a wonder." Owen's eyes flare and his smile fades as Songoree sets the coffee on the table. "Yes," he says. "A real wonder." "Song," Garrett says. "This is Owen. Looks like he'll be our guest for a while." Owen shakes his head. "No, that would disrupt your work routine. I've already checked into the Village Resort. It's close enough that we can see each other when you're not working." "That's very considerate," Songoree says, closing the subject before Garrett has time to protest. Songoree and Owen stare at each other for a silent moment. "And this is 165

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Coolie." He points to the dog, who lifts himself to his feet and leans against Garrett's leg. "Song? That's an unusual name. You live here with Garrett?" "Hardly, I'm the domestic help. Coolie and I come here in the morning, give Noodles everything he needs and leave in the afternoon." Garrett notices that Owen's shoulders relax a bit, but he feels himself getting tight. "Sit down and have some coffee," Songoree says. "I'll bring out another chair. Hap, you ready for another Kona Pacific?" "I shouldn't, but I hate to drink and run. Just one more to be sociable." Owen looks at Garrett, "Noodles?" Garrett shakes his head, "Don't go there, okay?" The sun warms the crisp air, promising a perfect day. The calm bay has a strange molten-lead color. They take their seats at the table and sip their coffee. Hap nurses his second beer and, thinking out loud, says, "There's nothing like being tipsy in the morning. It somehow puts the rest of the day in clear perspective. Lets you focus on what's right here under your nose." His glance wanders over the bay. The swells roll across the reef and through the channel. "A good day to be on the water," he adds. Garrett announces that he's taking the rest of the day off and asks Owen if he wants to tour the island or be a lump on the beach. 166

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"Say," Songoree interrupts, "since you're taking the day off, how about we take the Lady out and drop some lines?" Hap beams. "I could have her ready by noon. I'll get bait, Song-boy can rustle up some grub, and we're all set. By God, wouldn't it be great to land a really big marlin or an ahi tuna? You ever had just-killed rare tuna steaks before? Man-ohman, I can taste it already." Garrett turns to Owen. "You like to fish?" "I've never even been on a boat, but it sounds like fun." "It's settled," Songoree says. "I'll catch a ride into town with Hap to get supplies. You two can walk in. That should give you plenty of time to catch up on old times." Garrett and Owen smile at each other. Why the hell not, Garrett thinks. This could be the start of something, and just the something I need. [Back to Table of Contents]

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15. Her name is Royal Lady. She is thirty-five feet long, stout and sits low in the water. She's not built for speed, nor does she have the sleek lines of pleasure boats. Her blue-gray wood-and-steel hull is built sturdy and is able to ride a heavy sea. Her twin diesel engines, buried deep in her bowels, are so powerful that when they are running every inch of her trembles. She was built for the sole purpose of delivering her men to the fishing grounds and returning them safely with her belly full of fish. Her one distinctly feminine feature is her bow. It leans high over the water, with graceful curves coming to a sharp point, arrogant in the way it juts and points the way forward. She looks peaceful as she bobs at the end of the pier. The water about her is a calm blue-green and high with the incoming tide. Garrett and Owen stroll shoulder to shoulder down the pier, their hands almost touching. Coolie lopes behind them with his nose at their heels. Their eyes rivet on the ship. Old truck tires, tied to her side for fenders, make a row of black rings along her length, which draws one's attention away from her rust stains and peeling paint. Garrett swallows hard as he tries to find some confidence in her. They approach the ship as if she were alive and wounded, and try to discover a way to board her without injuring her further. She greets them with the stench of rotting fish mixed with diesel fuel. Closer up, they scrutinize her dilapidated 168

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condition: oil-streaked decks, rust holes in her bulkhead, dry rot. Coolie moves between them and the ship, as if to protect them. Hap's voice comes floating up from below deck. They can hear him singing in the cabin below the bridge as he stows the gear: "I want to go back to Owhyhee, Where the sea sings a soulful song, Where the gals is kind and gentle, And they don't know right from wrong." Owen and Garrett scrutinize each other. Owen has a nervous grin. "Are you sure this is safe in open water?" he stammers. "I mean, it doesn't have a dingy, and I don't see any life vests." Garrett shrugs. "I'm not sure of anything. It's not too late to back out. We can spend the day on the beach." Owen leans against him while considering. "Ahoy there, mates," comes a call from down the pier. They whirl to see Songoree marching down the dock with Micah Bitton in tow. Songoree wears his usual tank top and board shorts, and a knapsack full of groceries is slung over his shoulder. Micah wears a loud, flowery-print shirt, jeans and flip-flops. As they draw near, Songoree introduces Micah. Garrett shakes his hand. But when Micah turns to Owen, there is a silent pause. They both seem overtaken with shyness. Owen finally holds out his hand, and Micah shakes it.

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"Welcome to our island," he says. A rosy color moves from his collar to his coppery hair. "Hey, we have on the same shirt." Owen looks down and blushes. Micah says, "You must have gotten it at the Village Resort gift shop. It's the only place I've seen this pattern." "Yes, I bought it this morning." "We must have the same taste in clothes," Micah says. They both retreat into a pleased silence as they slowly let go of each other's hand. Garrett glares into Songoree's eyes, which are sparkling. Songoree lifts both eyebrows and shrugs. He turns and jumps on board the Lady. Coolie jumps after him. Hap emerges from the cockpit carrying two long fishing poles with reels the size of soccer balls. He places them in supports, one on each side of the stern. "Song-boy, stow that grub in the galley. There's a bag of ice in the sink. You be sure and ice down the beer real good." "Good God, Hap," Garrett says. "I didn't know we were going after whale. Look at the size of those poles." Hap barks a hardy laugh. He saunters through the cockpit and ducks into the cabin again. He emerges a minute later with a single-shot Springfield bolt-action rifle slung over his shoulder by the leather strap, and he carries a box of shells in his hand. The rifle looks like a vintage World War I army issue. The stock is walnut-colored, and the gray barrel is saturated with fiend-oil. Hap keeps it well oiled to prevent rusting in the salt air. 170

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Garrett smells the pungent odor of the oil from fifteen feet away. As Hap climbs the ladder to the flying bridge, Garrett asks what the rifle is for. "That's for dangerous fish—sharks, mostly. If we hook a big one, I like to put a bullet or two right between the eyes before I bring it aboard. Between the eyes and just a little back, that's where the brain is. You can't be too careful with sharks. They can eat you in the boat same as in the water if you're not." He hangs the rifle on a hook by the ship's controls and reaches over to start the engines. Both roar to life. Plumes of dark smoke rise above the Lady's exhaust vents, and every inch of her shudders. Birds perched about the pier take to the air. Both Owen and Micah step back and closer to each other. Micah leans nearer to Owen's ear and, trying to be heard over the engines, asks if he thinks the boat is safe. Owen shrugs as a smile overtakes his face. Hap yells from the bridge, "Don't stand on the dock, come aboard. The Lady won't bite. She's as seaworthy as any ship her size. Just remember, a duck's ass ain't pretty, but it is watertight. Garrett, cast off the bow line. Micah, you let go the stern line." Once Garrett steps aboard, a constricting tightness grips his chest. He stares back at the safety of the pier and the whiteness of the beach leading up to town. He is reluctant to let go of the bow line, but a loud blast from the engines sends him into motion and he throws the line over the side.

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The Royal Lady's propellers begin to chew the water. The awful noise of her engines becomes deafening as she backs away from the pier and cuts through the harbor. The fishing boats are already out at sea, but there are several sleek pleasure boats and graceful, tall-masted schooners still moored in the bay. Garrett climbs the ladder to join Hap on the bridge while Micah and Owen sit together in the stern. Micah tells Owen details about the town, Songoree prepares lunch in the galley and Coolie curls up in the cockpit by the hatch leading below, panting as his tail moves back and forth over the rough wooden deck. Now that he's at the Lady's controls, Hap is a changed man. In his element, he clearly enjoys himself. "Ain't this grand," he tells Garrett. "Nothing like being on the open sea on a day like this. You wait till you have a marlin on your line. Man-oh-man, you'll think you're God himself." He shakes his head like he can't believe what's happening. "Nothing better in the world." Songoree climbs the ladder carrying a tall glass in one hand. "Thought you might like a drink, Hap." The glass is brimming with gin, shaved ice, a little tonic water and a slice of lime. "God bless you, Song-boy. Now everything is perfect. We should be ready to put the lines out in another fifteen minutes. How soon before lunch?" "Just a few more minutes. I just need to finish the sandwiches and make a salad. While you all eat, I'll get the tackle ready. You want something to drink, Noodles?" 172

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"I'll wait and have a beer with lunch, thanks." "Hap, you want something sweet to go with that drink? I've got some melon on ice. I could bring you a slice." "Maybe later, Song-boy. Thanks." Songoree goes below, and Hap turns to Garrett. "That boy sure loves to cook. Never seen anybody that likes to care for other people as much as he does." The water shades from blue-green to a deep purple as they leave the bay. The sky is a dazzling blue with feathery clouds drifting over from the south. Several seabirds fly lazy circles above the Lady, squawking as they search for bits of food. The swells in deep water grow large, and the Lady sways heavily as she moves from one swell to another. Hap cranks up the engines, and the boat gallops over the water. Her movement, mixed with the stench of her exhaust fumes, brings Garrett's nausea from his morning hangover back to the pit of his stomach. Hap yells over the sound of the engines, "You're turning green. Better see if Song-boy has some aspirin." Garrett nods and descends the ladder. On the main deck, Owen and Micah have their heads together, almost touching, so they can hear each other over the engine noise. Micah points to something off the starboard beam. Garrett gazes to where he points and sees a school of flying fish burst out of the water, a dazzling flash of silver sails over the purple backdrop. His breath stops. He watches as they disappear and another flash appears further out, and another even further out. 173

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He watches for what seems only a short time, but when he turns towards land, he is surprised to find that he can't see the shoreline anymore. All he sees above the field of purple water are the glorious dark mountains reaching up into mounds of cumulus clouds. The clouds make the mountains look snowcapped. He walks through the cockpit and ducks his head as he goes into the cabin that leads to the galley. The cabin is shabby and worn but not cluttered, which doesn't surprise Garrett. The Navy taught him that on board ship everything has its place and everything should always be in its place. If nothing else, Hap seems a competent seaman. He looks around the cabin and sees two pictures hanging on the bulkhead, one on each side of the hatch leading to the galley. The picture on the port side is of a lovely Hawaiian woman. She has long flowing hair, bright eyes and the shy trace of a smile. The other picture is of a younger women Garrett recognizes. She is the girl Songoree brings to the house every morning. In the galley, Songoree spreads gray mustard on fresh sourdough bread to make thick salami sandwiches. There is also a large bowl of steamed shrimp and lobster and fish for making seafood salad, and he has the ingredients laid out for a fruit salad. He sings softly to himself as he works. His face beams. He turns to see Garrett standing at the hatch. "Hungry or seasick?" "Got any aspirin?" 174

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Songoree tilts his head to one side, frowns. He reaches for a bottle on the self. "I've got whatever you need." He tosses the pills to Garrett. "Bottled water's in the sink. Sorry, this was a bad idea if you're not feeling well." "I'll be fine. These will do the trick." He pops four pills into his mouth and reaches for the water. "You'll feel better after you eat. Wait until you taste my seafood salad. I've got plenty of sweet Maui onions, fresh seaweed and plenty of coarse black pepper." A sound echoes through the hull over the roar of the engines. It sounds like something between a French horn and a woman's low moan. Another moan ... and several more. Garrett stares at Songoree, wondering what part of the boat could make such bizarre noises. "Whales!" Songoree shouts. He rushes past Garrett to the main deck. Garrett downs his pills with at big gulp of water and follows. A pod of eight or nine blue whales roll along with the boat, breaking the surface nearby in twos and threes. Their long blue-gray bodies glide just under the surface, a graceful promenade of gigantic shadows. When they break the surface, huge spouts of spray burst high into the air. The mysterious sound, like muffled French horns, gives this underwater performance a mystical quality. Songoree's eyes bulge as his head darts from one side to another, drinking in every shred of movement under the water. 175

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"They're so freakin' awesome," he shouts. His voice quivers with emotion. All of the sudden, a huge spray of water billows up just behind the Lady's stern. A mammoth blue-gray body rolls across the surface. The excitement proves too much for Songoree. In a flash, he hurls himself over the stern railing, plunging into the water behind the boat. An instant later, he is lost under the boat's wash. Alarm screams in Garrett's head as he watches him disappears beneath the surface. "Man overboard. Hap, stop the boat!" Hap cuts both engines. The Lady glides to a halt and starts to drift as Hap grabs the Springfield from beside the wheel. "God damn that boy," he screams. "This will ruin my digestion for sure." He opens the box of cartridges and picks up one of the rocket-shaped, metal-cased bullets. He pulls back the bolt on the rifle, slides the cartridge into the breech and drives the bolt home. He pulls the walnut butt up to his shoulder and scans the sea. Garrett searches the water. He sees nothing, and even before Hap finishes loading his rifle, he leaps over the stern after Songoree. Water roars in his ears; then, there is dead silence. Scanning the clear water, he sees only the massive shadowy shapes of whales circling the boat. He turns his body downward and kicks his strong legs to thrust his body deeper. He levels off at twenty feet and, struggling against positive buoyancy and the protests of his lungs, scans the water around and above. 176

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He spots Songoree above him, swimming beside a seventon monster, performing an acrobatic dance that captivates him. With outstretched limbs and his long hair billowing outward from his head, Songoree moves through shafts of purple light filtering down from above. Awed, Garrett slowly ascends while enjoying the performance. Songoree is truly a creature of the sea. He seems as delicate as a seahorse and as graceful as a manta ray. More moans erupt from the whales, and the pace of their dance speeds up. Their sublime movements increase in acrobatic skill. Songoree moves faster as well. He seems as fluid as the water. He breaks away from the beast and swims all out for the boat. The whales move away with remarkable speed. Garrett's lungs begin to burn, and he is still fifteen feet from the surface. Now he feels it... In a flash, the universe transforms. It comes straight up from the dark water below at horrifying speed. An immense shadow slides just below him. Goosebumps spread over his body. It feels like someone has a grip on his throat. His legs kick wildly now, his eyes on the surface ten feet above. Twelve hundred pounds of gray flesh and teeth and fin rocket directly in front of him. Even at that terrific speed it takes an ungodly amount of time for the shark to pass. It circles. It has eyes the size of baseballs and a mouth three feet wide with rows of serrated teeth, all pointing inwards. The mouth turns up at the ends and makes the shark look like it is 177

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grinning. It has no fear—rather, everything in the water fears it. My God, Garrett thinks, a great white. His mind shuts down, and reflexes take over his entire being. He opens his mouth and lets out a scream, which transforms under the water into a muffled wail. He claws at the water. His head breaks the surface thirty yards from the Lady. His lungs fill with air, and he screams again. He swims for the boat, the whole time feeling the horror closing in. **** Songoree stands on the main deck with Owen and Micah. All eyes are glued on Garrett. Owen and Micah are stunned into statues while Coolie barks rabidly. Songoree screams, "Swim, damn you. Swim for it!" On the flying bridge, Hap sees the two-foot high triangular dorsal fin knifing through the water fifty yards out. It turns towards the back of the boat and cuts unerringly towards Garrett. The fin wobbles from the powerful tail thrusts. The surface of the water bulges in front of the dorsal, and on each side of the huge bulk of body the pectoral fins spread out like wings. Hap's throat goes dry, his bowels shiver. He draws a bead on the spot just in front of the bulging water and squeezes the trigger. The rifle pops, and he sees a hunk of the dorsal fin rip way, but the fin keeps coming with the same wobbling motion. Hap focuses all his energy on staying calm and not letting the panic in his stomach take over his head. He rips the bolt 178

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back and fumbles with another cartridge, trying to get one into the breech. He slides it in and drives the bolt home. Raising the rifle to his shoulder, he presses the walnut stock to his cheek and scans the water. The fin is now thirty yards out, cutting a path directly for Garrett and coming fast. Hap aims, holds his breath and squeezes the trigger. Water spurts just beyond the fin. "Fuck!" Hap grabs another cartridge. This time he doesn't fumble. He glides a shell into the breech and flings the bolt forward. He raises the rifle to his cheek, aims and freezes. The dorsal fin is right where Garrett swims five yards behind the boat. If he shoots he'll most likely hit Garrett. A rush hits his head, and all he hears is Coolie's constant barking. He shakes helplessly as he watches Garrett disappear. There is a boiling in the water. "Oh, my God, my God," he mumbles. His insides seem to cave in. He feels a sick, hollow burning where his heart was a minute ago. Songoree wails, "Noooo!" He leaps high out over the water behind the boat with his arms and legs spread wide apart. He seems suspended in air for the longest time, like Icarus flying too close to the sun. His long wet hair soars out in all directions. Now falling fast, he hits the surface of the water with a belly flop right in the middle of the boiling. His body makes a loud smack as he hits the surface. Coolie, sensing trouble, leaps over the railing after him. ****

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Garrett is no longer in the world of men and sky and water, a place of light and darkness. There is only his mind and the terror that rips at him. He has always thought of evil as being a black shadowy form, but now he sees the obscene whiteness of the teeth ripping into his side, and he realizes that evil comes in many colors. He is beyond pain, and his mind no longer functions. There is only terror and the crushing grip of white teeth. It all happens in super-slow motion—no time and no pain, only teeth. Garrett surrenders to the terror. Locked together in this bizarre universe, he can't tell where he ends and the fish begins. He feels a pressure on his neck. Something has a firm grip on his throat, as if his head is locked in a vise. All at once he bursts into the world of sound again. He hears distant screams, and he feels the sweet relief of air rushing into his lungs. **** A crimson cloud expands in the water behind the Lady. Coolie dog-paddles in circles, barking, while Songoree is somewhere under the surface. Everything on the boat is still. Hap holds his breath. The pounding in his chest is loud in his ears. Goose pimples spread over his arms and shoulders. He stands with the rifle at the ready, waiting for a clear shot. Songoree's head bursts to the surface. He swims with one arm for the boat. The other arm has Garrett in a headlock. "Help me get him in," Hap screams. 180

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He drops the Springfield and jumps down the ladder in one leap. All three men on board rush to the side and seize Garrett's limbs. They lift him out of the water, but he slips out of their grasp and falls back into the sea. Song is on him in a heartbeat, dragging him back to the side. Once again the men on the boat take hold and haul him onto the deck. Songoree scurries aboard. Garrett coughs and pukes water. A deep gash crosses the right side of his torso. Another ugly laceration runs down his right leg. Songoree appears to be unharmed but shaken. He lies gasping for breath. His eyes are wide open, staring into a void. "Song-boy, get me the gin bottle, quick," Hap yells over his shoulder. Songoree shakes the numbness from his head. He jumps to his feet, stumbles through the cockpit to the galley and returns with the gin. Hap tells him to hold Garrett down, and he douses the wounds with the alcohol. The three younger men pin Garrett to the deck as he wrestles the pain with all his remaining strength. Hap pulls his T-shirt over his head and uses it to wrap Garrett's leg. "Micah, give me your belt." He makes a tourniquet for the leg and rips Owen's shirt from him, folds it twice and presses it to the wound on Garrett's chest. "Owen, hold this here. I've got to get us back home." Songoree struggles to his feet. He looks around, dazed. "Where's Coolie?"

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Hap grabs Songoree by the arm and swings him around to look into his face, "He's gone, Song-boy. The fish took him while you were bringing Garrett aboard." "No!" Songoree starts to move to the stern, but Hap holds him back. "It's too late for him. Let him go. That dog saved your life ... and his," pointing to Garrett. "The fish took Coolie instead of you. It was the bravest thing I've ever seen. Don't throw it away." "It's all my fault," Songoree wails. Hap shakes him. "It's not just you. I had a clear shot at that fish, and I missed him—twice. I got scared and I choked. I've never been afraid of anything in my life, and I goddamned choked!" **** The Lady gallops at full speed as she lumbers back into the blue-green bay. The wind blows hard now, and whitecaps spread across the open sea helping to push the boat faster into the bay. Garrett lies unconscious. His body occasionally jerks and struggles, much like Coolie did as he chased animals in his dreams. Owen and Micah hold him down and keep the makeshift bandages pressed to his wounds while Songoree sits crosslegged on the deck with his eyes closed and his mind empty. He reaches out to Garrett's mind, trying to calm the injured man. He tastes the fear consuming Garrett's being. He has never imagined that such terror could be generated by the 182

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mind. He becomes one with Garrett, feels those teeth puncture his flesh and rip at his heart. His eyes pop open, and he trembles. As they pass the cliffs at the point near the house, Songoree sees his grandfather standing above the cliffs, leaning heavily on his staff. His long gray hair and robes blow wildly about in the wind. [Back to Table of Contents]

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16. Freezing water. Garrett feels the cold turn his heart to ice. He looks through blue shafts of light falling like curtains from above to witnesses Songoree's underwater ballet with the whale, graceful movement in slow motion. Songoree flows with the water in effortless little bursts, like a scarf drifting on the breeze. Now he feels it. A bullet-fast shadow closing in on him, twelve hundred pounds of horror. He claws to the surface, screams. The sound chills the depths of his mind. A hideous pressure grips his side; he feels gouging teeth. An eye-blink later, he feels himself ripped in two, severed, nothing below his waist. Now the monster grips his head in that yard-wide mouth. The crushing pressure is unbearable. Garrett can only manage one last agonizing scream while he flings his arms about in a desperate attempt to free his head. Songoree's voice drifts from somewhere above. "I'm here. I'm here. It's okay, you're safe." Garrett's eyes flash open and finds himself cradled in Songoree's protective arms. He lies on the bed in his dimly lit bedroom. Songoree rocks him back and forth. "A dream, only a dream." Garrett flings his arms around Songoree's waist and squeezes hard. He buries his face in the soft curve of that amber neck, and his tears come freely. His body trembles. 184

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Pain shoots through his side, and he feels himself losing consciousness. The room goes dark, but the steady burn in his side remains vivid. The wind howls over the house. Rain rages against the roof in sheets. Songoree lays him back down, resting his head against the rough wooden headboard. Garrett feels a warm cheek touching his, smells Songoree's hair. A drop of water falls on his face and runs down his neck. He opens his eyes again. "How did I get here?" Songoree's face is very close. He whispers, "You're safe. Hap radioed ashore, and Doctor Wong met the boat. He bandaged you up at the pier, and we brought you here. You're going to be fine, really." "Am I okay? Do I still have everything?" "Ten fingers, ten toes, and everything important in between. I know, I've been giving you sponge baths for four days." Garrett's teeth begin to chatter. The sheets suddenly feel ice-cold. "Four days? Shouldn't I be in a hospital?" Songoree runs his hand through Garrett's hair, "I'll get you another blanket." He slips off the bed and kneels in front of the chest of drawers, pulls out the bottom drawer and removes a thick quilt. "You've been in and out of consciousness for the last four days, and you've had a pretty high fever." He stands and spreads the quilt across the bed. "Doc Wong suggested that we take you to the medical unit in Hilo, but he said you'd be okay at home as long as someone is here to care for you. We 185

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weren't sure you could afford a thousand dollar-a-day hospital stay, so we brought you here. Doc Wong comes by twice a day to feed you with the IV. He showed me how to change your dressings and administer your medications." Songoree tucks the quilt's edges under the mattress. "I've been here since the attack. This is the first time you've talked. You must be feeling better." "Better? My head's bursting, my side's on fire, the room is spinning, and I'm freezing to death. Hard to believe this is better." Songoree pulls the blanket all the way up to Garrett's chin. "Now that you're conscious we won't need the IV. I've got some spicy seafood broth on the stove. It's been simmering all day. It's just what you need to put some sap back in your muscles and grow hair on your balls." "I need a stiff drink and a bottle of painkillers." "Soup first," Songoree says as he tramps out of the room. Wind and rain batter the house. The sea's violent tempo underscores the sound of Garrett's chattering teeth. He rests his head against the headboard, scanning the austere room. A blue glass vase stands on the chest of drawers in front of the mirror. The vase holds a half-dozen bird-of-paradise stems and other exotically shaped flowers arranged in a Japanese style. A cream-colored card with handwriting on it leans against the vase. He squints, trying to read the small print, but it is too far away. "Those are from Audrey. The card says 'Get well soon.' She's obviously a woman of few words." 186

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Songoree carries a bowl with both hands and holds a napkin under one arm. Steam rises from the bowl, and a savory aroma infiltrates the room. The smell causes Garrett to realize that under his pain there rages a ravenous hunger. "She's been here every day," Songoree says as he drapes the napkin over Garrett's chest and sits on the edge of the bed with the bowl in one hand and a large spoon in the other. "That lady has special feelings for you. She's been giving me hell every visit." He dips the spoon into the rust-colored liquid and blows on it to cool the broth. The pain in Garrett's side ignites as he tries to sit up at a better angle. He rests his head against the cool headboard. "Thanks, but I think I can feed myself." "Look, damn you, I got you into this condition and I'm going help get you better. I need to do this." His eyes shine with determination as he holds the spoon close to Garrett's face. Garrett takes the spoon in his mouth and swallows. The heat feels glorious. "That's brilliant. Why was she giving you hell?" Songoree draws another spoonful, blows on it, feeds Garrett. "For jumping overboard in the first place. She's right. I can't believe I was so lame. I live here, I know the sea and I know better. I just got excited and I didn't think. I was safe as long as the whales were there, and when I felt them moving off I knew there was something dangerous in the water. That's why I beat feet back to the boat. I didn't know 187

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you were in the water until I got back aboard." He loads up the spoon and blows, holds it out for him. "Noodles, I'd have never come out of the water if I knew you were down there." As Songoree fills the spoon again, Garrett asks, "How did I get away from the shark?" Songoree holds the spoon out. "As soon as you went under, Coolie and I jumped right on top of you. I guess that caused a lot of confusion. Anyway, the fish let go of you, circled a few times and went for Coolie. I grabbed you and hauled you to the boat. Hap and the others did the rest." Lightning flashes over the house. The room goes brilliant white for an instant. Garrett swallows broth as a clap of thunder shivers the room. He looks into Songoree's eyes. "Coolie's gone?" Songoree nods as he dips the spoon and blows. "There's something else." He lifts the end of the napkin and wipes some soup dribbling from the corner of Garrett's mouth. "The night my friends threatened you, I just sat there because I was afraid they'd think I'm gay, too." He drops the spoon in the bowl and reaches over to hold Garrett's hand. "I'm such a coward." "Cowards don't jump onto the backs of man-eating sharks." "I should have jumped all over them, too. Not a day goes by I don't regret that. I hope you can forgive me. I swear I won't turn my back on you again. I'll fight anybody. He'll have to take me down before he can touch you again. I promise." "He? Who's he?" 188

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"Doesn't matter. I meant to say anybody." He squeezes Garrett's hand. His intimacy intoxicates Garrett, but the pain is still intensely present. "Can I have a drink now?" "Now you're talking," booms Hap's voice from the doorway. "I'm dry as a tick, so let's both have one to celebrate your recovery. I'll be right back with two tall ones." Songoree leans forward to whisper in Garrett's ear. "He's been here since the attack. He just paces the floor mumbling to himself. He hasn't had a drink the whole time, and he's got the shakes so bad he's cranky as an old rooster. Never thought I'd be glad to see him take a drink." He fills the spoon and holds it out for Garrett. They finish the soup as Hap returns with two mugs in his hands. "Here you go—hot sake. If this don't warm your cockles on a cold, wet night, nothing will." He grins as he passes him one of the mugs. "Well, almost nothing." Garrett takes the mug with both hands. It feels heavy. He's surprised at how little strength he has. Hap says, "A good Irish whiskey is what we need but damned if there's not a drop in the house. All I could find is the sake that Song-boy uses for cooking. It's Japanese sake, not the cheap stuff." Hap lifts his mug high. "Here's to being alive to tell about it, by God!" He takes a pull on the mug. Garrett lifts his mug and sips. The aroma opens up his head. The flavor is warm and satisfying. He sips again and says, "It's great. Thanks." 189

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Hap stares into his mug. His eyes are inflamed, and his face seems more ravaged than Garrett remembers. Hap's voice goes thick. "I lost one soul aboard the Lady, and by God I'll never lose another. Although you had me pretty damned worried these last few days." He shakes his head. "It'll take months before my digestion's back to normal, I can tell you that." Garrett brings the mug to his lips again but finds it empty. He stares at it with a puzzled expression. Songoree takes the mug. "Enough of that. You want more soup? I can bring another bowl, and we have crackers." He shakes his head. "That sake should put you right back to sleep. I'll take these to the kitchen." Songoree slides off the bed and carries the dishes out the door. As soon as he leaves the room, Garrett reaches out for Hap's mug, silently pleading with his eyes. "Sure thing," Hap says, handing him the drink. "You earned it, wrestling with that fish! I never saw such a fish. My God, he must have topped nine hundred pounds, maybe a thousand." He downs what is left in Hap's mug and hands it back. Hap winks at him. "God, it's good to see you awake. What did that damned fish look like up close? My God, you were right in that huge, wicked mouth. What was that like?" Garrett feels the rough wood on the back of his head. The cold continues to grip his insides, and his mind now feels dull. "I don't want to talk about it." 190

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"No, of course, you don't. That damned fish would put the fear of God into anybody. He had teeth as long as my fingers. Hell, I almost forgot." He digs a hand in his pocket and pulls out a long leather string tied into a loop with two long, triangular, shark's teeth hanging on it. "Doc Wong pulled these out of your side. I saved them 'cause I thought you would want them." He steps to the bed and slips the necklace over Garrett's head, and drapes the teeth onto his chest. Garrett picks up the teeth in one hand and stares at them. His fingers begin to tremble. "I tell you, there ain't never been such a fish seen in these waters. He must have come up from the depths of hell. The damned thing is, there ain't nobody that will believe it. It was all so wild and the fish so monstrous that nobody will ever believe a word. Hell, I wouldn't believe it myself if you weren't lying there with a hole in your side. It'll be better if we just never mention it to anybody. That way they won't call us liars behind our backs." "Hap," Garrett says as he feels the pain swell up in his head. "When I said I didn't want to talk about it, I meant I didn't want to hear about it, either. Can you just shut up about the God-damned fish and get me another drink?" Hap steps back. His gaze brushes the floor. "Of course you don't want to hear about it. I understand. I'll get you that drink, and next time I come I'll bring some good Irish whiskey. Something that will put you on your feet and knock you back on your ass." 191

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He grins his crooked grin and moves to the door. He stops and turns. "But when you get back on your feet and you feel better about the whole thing—I mean, when you realize that you've lived through something extraordinary, you should write it all down, you being a writer and all. Write it down true and simple. Just like it happened. I'd give anything to read about what you lived though under that water." [Back to Table of Contents]

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17. Garrett wakes in the night. He can tell that it is that blackest part of the night just before it starts to get lighter— he has become infinitely familiar with this hour of darkness. He listens, realizing that the storm has blown itself out. He hears the sea drum against the beach, the light tap of raindrops on the roof, and the now-familiar sound of light snoring coming from the next room. He doesn't remember how many days he's lain in bed, but this is the first night he hasn't awakened to the shriek of the wind. During these last few days of recuperation, he's noticed little difference in the way he feels. He still can't get warm. This coldness creeps all the way to his bones, and nothing curbs its icy grip. The only way to lessen the pain in his head is by dulling it with whiskey. Thankfully, Hap keeps a steady supply coming. The whiskey also helps him sleep for hours at a time without having his shark dream—or any other dream, for that matter. Enough whiskey sends him gratefully adrift in a black emptiness. He floats just below the level of consciousness until the alcohol wears off. What a comfort booze is, he thinks. He needs a drink now, but he won't wake Songoree for it, not yet. He'll tolerate the pain a little longer to let him sleep. It's a comfort to hear his breathing in the darkness, like the comfort when he comes to keep him company. 193

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Every afternoon Songoree brings his guitar and sits on the edge of the bed. He plays, and they sing old folk songs. Songs like Kris Kristofferson's "Me and Bobby Magee," The Beatles' "Yesterday," and Willie Nelson's "Blue Eyes Cryin' in the Rain." Songoree also knows all of the old Simon and Garfunkel songs, and Garrett loves to sing "The Boxer." Songoree also plays blues songs. Garrett adores his blues, and marvels at those splendid hands weaving over the guitar strings. Here in the dark, he feels the nearness of his old adversary, intense pain. It lurks in the shadows, stalking him, waiting for the opportunity to take over his body and consume him. This adversary is Marc's voice in his head, the emptiness of the night, the frustration of a failed career. Now this adversary has new features: the sorrow of Coolie's death, the frustration of not having Songoree's love, the image of triangular teeth ripping his flesh. All these things combine to form the specter of this adversary. It obscures all beauty, suffocates all joy and creates a fear in his heart that feels lethal. He needs a drink. A shot would ease his pain. Time heals all wounds, he thinks, but he is not convinced. It sounds like an empty cliché. Time dulls the pain by making you focus on other things. Death, he thinks, is the only true cure for deep pain. Death is the only long-term solution, but in the short-term, there's whiskey. He remembers what Grandfather said about becoming your pain and feeling it in your core, but he is 194

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convinced that the terror he has suffered is too monstrous. It would be easier to just die and end the pain, once and for all. "The hell with this," he says to himself. He eases up to a sitting position and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. As he stands his head begins to spin. He grabs hold of the headboard to keep from falling, digging his fingernails into the wood. Gaining his balance, he staggers to the bedroom window and ever so quietly opens the window and the shutters. Rain. The pure scent of it reaches in through the open window. He leans his head out the window and twists around so that the rain falls on his face. The tap, tap, tap of cold raindrops gently smacks his cheeks, chin and brow. Water gathers into bigger drops and run down the sides of his face and into his hair. The freshness lifts his heart. He gropes for a word to describe this feeling. Refreshing? Invigorating? No appropriate words come to mind. There is blackness above him, and he can only see the raindrops the instant before they touch his face. It seems somehow fitting that he can't see it coming until he feels it. He stays at the window with his face turned upward long enough to soak his hair. He shakes his head from side to side, sending a spray of water in all directions. He goes to the bathroom and grabs a towel to dry his head before going back to bed. He drifts in the darkness, fondling his thoughts while waiting for the time when Songoree will bring him a drink. He notices a noise in the room and realizes that he has fallen asleep and that it is now morning. He listens, hears Songoree 195

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put something on the nightstand. Judging by the smell that fills his nostrils, it's a mug of coffee. He opens his eyes to see Songoree lifting the window and throwing open the shutters. A flood of painful light pours into the room. Garrett winces and covers his eyes. "Hey, what's the big idea? Close those damn shutters." "Drink your coffee," Songoree says with an authoritative voice. "A hot shower and shave, breakfast, then you're gonna work today." "The hell I am. Get me a drink—my head is on fire." "There are painkillers beside your coffee." "I need a drink, not pills." Songoree plants his hands on his hips. Sadness shows in his eyes, but he clearly braces himself to take action. "You haven't drawn a sober breath in two weeks. That stops now. Sooner or later, you're going to stop feeling sorry for yourself and get on with your life. It might as well be sooner. In fact, it may as well be now!" "Fuck you. You have no idea what I'm going through. I've been in the mouth of a monster, and I can tell you it's terrifying. You have no idea. Now, I need a drink, and I need you to close those fucking shutters." "What I do know is that it takes the same amount of effort to wallow in self-pity as it does to pull your shit together." Songoree walks to the bed and sits next to him. He presses the back of his hand on Garrett's forehead to feel his temperature. A moment later, he runs his hand through Garrett's hair and lets it rest on his shoulder. 196

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In a softer voice he says, "Drink your coffee, then shower and shave while I fix breakfast. You're going to work for a few hours before Audrey and the boys get here. They're coming for lunch, a swim and to cheer you up. By the time they get here, I want you presentable and stone sober. I don't want you embarrassing yourself." "The boys? What boys?" "Owen and Micah." "I'm not getting out of bed without a drink." "If you drink you won't work worth a damn. Work first and drink with the others at lunch." Songoree's hand strokes the dark stubble on Garrett's cheek as it moves down to take hold of the edge of the covers. "Your beard makes you look intellectual, more like a writer. Maybe you should keep it." He stands and, with a swift movement of his arm and a twist of his torso, rips the covers off the bed and flings them into the corner. "What the fuck are you doing, you maniac?" Garrett tries to cover his nakedness with the only thing left on the bed, his pillow. Songoree sits beside him again and reaches to take hold of his waist. "Let me take your dressings off so you can shower." He gently pulls him closer, takes the pillow and places it under his head. His touch feels soothing. Garrett lets him undo the dressing on his thigh and his side. He washes down his embarrassment with coffee and the four pain pills. He's right, he thinks, why am I mad at him? I need to get back to work and back to my routine. I was happy with that 197

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routine. So much happier than laying here all boozed up. Okay, so today I work no matter how much I hurt. Tomorrow maybe I'll hurt less. In the bathroom, he turns the spray of hot water on his head, blasting his scalp with delicious heat, and it flows over his body. Steam fills the bathroom. For the first time in weeks, he feels warm inside. He soaps each part of his body, taking care to clean and inspect them as if he were seeing them for the first time. This is his first chance to examine his wounds, and he cleans them carefully. Neither is as deep or mangled as he imagined, considering the size of the fish that caused them. He touches the purplered areas where the stitches cross the wound and tests how much pressure he can tolerate before the pain becomes unbearable. He decides he can live with it. The pain will dissipate, and there will be the scars. Not too much to deal with, he thinks. Studying the gash on his thigh, he feels lucky. If that were just a few inches closer to my groin, I'd really have something to cry about. The water turns from hot to warm. He decides to get out before it gets any cooler so he'll have warm water to shave with. After toweling off, he wipes clear a large round area on the mirror. He leans forward through the mist to inspect his face. He stands frozen for several minutes, not believing. My God, he thinks. He doesn't know if it was the pain or the booze or both, but his face looks gnarled. Deep lines cut across his forehead, dark circles spread under his eyes, and a 198

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cadaverous gray color masks his face. The skin seems loose and lifeless. "What the hell...?" he says. He considers taking Songoree's advice to leave the beard just so he doesn't have to look at his face any longer, but he decides to confront the image. He lathers up and meticulously scrapes the hair away with careful sweeps of his arm. He hears Songoree's voice through the door. "You gonna stay in there all day? Remember, I need to rebandage your wounds before you dress." He scrapes away his stubbly hair to reveal the raw, animated contour of his naked face. The razor's scraping sound seems loud in the morning's hush. It seems to take an eternity for that shiny, newborn jaw to emerge. He finally returns to the bedroom with the towel wrapped around his waist. Songoree is right behind him with another mug of coffee in one hand and bandages in the other. He puts the coffee down on the nightstand as Garrett sits on the side of the bed. Songoree kneels and opens the towel to inspect the wounds. He begins to wrap a bandage around Garrett's thigh. Garrett is amazed at how quickly he has become comfortable being naked in front of him. Having him so close and touching his body causes him no embarrassment at all. "You're going to have beautiful scars," Songoree says. "Beautiful?" "Wasn't it Hemingway who said that scars on a man's body are marks of beauty because they show that he has experienced life? He's seen terror eye-to-eye and has lived to 199

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know what being a man is about. Anyway, it was something to that effect." Garrett smiles for the first time since the attack. "You think they make me look more manly?" "I'm not sure what manly looks like, but you're beautiful, and these scars add to your beauty." Songoree begins to dress the wound on Garrett's side. "You're like one of your Puccini operas, incredibly beautiful while being dreadfully tragic. Your anguish enhances your beauty." Garrett is struck silent. He leans forward and kisses Songoree's forehead. Songoree, smiling, lifts his hand to Garrett's damp hair and rubs. He leans over and opens the dresser's top drawer, takes out a pair of blue swim trunks and a gray sweatshirt. "Put these on. I'll have breakfast ready in a minute." **** Garrett settles into work by reading the last chapter he finished before the attack. He jots down notes as he reads. The story is vivid. He occasionally looks out the window past the reef to the darker water beyond. The fresh expanse of blue sky overhead is bordered with tidy white clouds, except for a gray smudge in the east, which looks like more rain. There's a brisk wind, but the sunlight shines bright and the water looks inviting. He forces himself not to think about swimming with Owen and Micah in the afternoon. He glances at the spot where Coolie would lay snoring while he worked. A fine layer of brown hair covers the throwrug. The room seems oddly empty without him. 200

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He forces himself to read a few more pages before his mind wanders again. He hears Songoree humming in the kitchen. He thinks of how he kissed him before breakfast, and Songoree's pleasant reaction to the kiss. Over the past few weeks, Garrett's feelings for him have soared far beyond lust, but what about the girlfriend, he wonders. Is he playing me to help his grandfather? He shakes his head, not sure of anything. Work, damn it, he tells himself. Focus on the story. Make the words come to life. Soon he hears nothing, not the sea or Songoree's humming—not even the wind blowing along the beach. Sounds of the night are what he hears now. It is night. The streetlights are bright, and he is searching. He passes a bar on a foggy San Francisco street. The hard beat of music pours over him. A man is passed out in a doorway with two empty twist-top wine bottles lying beside him. Light from storefront windows shine through the fog, illuminating the sidewalk. Garrett stops at each window to scrutinize the customers inside. He passes an Indian restaurant, brightly lit and with many customers who all seem to be shouting. He stands at the window and patiently scans each face. He walks on. He studies the faces of the couples who pass him on the sidewalk, men dressed from boots to studded caps in black leather, chains hang from different parts of their costumes. Most of the people he passes seem stray-dog mangy. In front of the drugstore at the street corner of Eighteenth and Castro, he sees three teenagers squatting on the 201

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ground—two boys and a girl. They all have bright green hair, pasty white skin and small metal spikes sticking out of their lips, eyebrows, ears and noses. They beg for spare change, and he drops some coins for them as he passes. He enters every bar, walks from one end of the room to the other, weaving through the crush of bodies. He now knows that hell is not the place of fire and brimstone his father preached about during Sunday morning services and Wednesday night bible studies. Hell is being abandoned and alone. Hell comes from knowing that the one thing in the world you love is out there somewhere, but you can't find him. Every time you spot him across a bar, or in a store, or at a sex club, you push your way to him with your heart pounding, only to find that the face belongs to someone else. So, late in the early hours, you trudge back to an empty apartment to face the rest of the night alone. He veers off Castro and heads down Market Street towards Civic Center. He looks through two more bars without success. At a popular sex club, he pays the gray-haired man behind the wire cage, and the man slides a key across the counter. The key opens the locker he will put his clothes into. Once naked, he walks to the back where the action is. The smell of sex nauseates him. It takes minutes for his eyes to adjust to the low light so he can see the bodies around him. Some stand, some kneel, and some lean against the black walls. A few bodies are entwined. In this pit of darkness, their bare skin seems to absorb the dim glow of fluorescent lighting overhead. 202

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When he first started coming here he was always afraid, although of what he was never sure. Now, he has no fear, no emotion at all. Only the search matters. During those first few months he saw these bodies as anguished human beings. Now, peering through the semidarkness, he only sees shadows. He moves close to each face, close enough to see it is not Marc. Each face has the large eyes of a nocturnal animal. In one corner, he sees a naked man kneeling on the floor with his hands tied behind his back and a woman's nylon stocking pulled over his head. He has holes cut in the stocking for each eye and his mouth. A man stands over him urinating on the back of his head. A thick stream of liquid splatters the man, running over every part of him. As Garrett roves though the rooms, hands reach out to pull him closer, but he pushes them away and moves on to the next face. The regulars know not to bother with him. He is only there to look. By the back wall there is a large man suspended in a sling with his arms and legs lifting towards the black ceiling. Several men around him watch as one man glides his fist back and forth inside the man's ass. Garrett moves close enough to view each face then fades into the shadows again. Beyond the sling, he sees a thin body leaning back against another man who has a tight hold on his waist. The skinny man in front has a long erection, and a bald man kneels in front of him, working his mouth back and forth on it. Garrett hears the slurping sounds as well as the thin man's moans. 203

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He steps closer to study the emaciated body; the skin is a sickly gray color in the dim light. The face is gray skin draped over cheekbones with deep-set eyes. Dark crescents hang below each eye. The colorless mouth is open, moaning. There is something strangely familiar about him. Garrett experiences a stunned instant when he realizes he is staring at the skeleton of the man he has been searching for all these months. He swallows, trying to deny it. He is at once fascinated and horrified at Marc's transformation. Now, slowly, he realizes there is a much deeper hell than the one he's been crawling through. "Marc?" The skeleton lifts an eyelid, peers at him. The eyelid closes again. The men continue to work on him. The one in front sounds like a pig at a trough while the one behind rocks back and forth. "Marc!" Garrett steps forward and pulls the bald man away from him. "What the fuck? Get your own, asshole!" Garrett balls his right hand into a fist and smashes the man's face, knocking him back on his ass. He follows through with a kick to the gut. A loud grunt echoes in the darkness as the man curls into a ball on the floor. The one behind gives Marc a shove and retreats into the shadows. Marc falls forward into Garrett's arms. "I'm taking you home." "No, baby. This is where I belong. You threw me way, and this is the trash heap." 204

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"You're coming home, and we're going to get you back to normal." He can't believe how light and terribly fragile Marc feels in his arms. "Baby, you can't help me. These new drugs don't work with me. They're killing me faster than the virus." "You're coming home, and I'm never letting go of you again." Marc shakes his head, but Garrett lifts him in his arms and carries him to the locker room. "Marc, please, I'm begging you. I'll do anything to have you back." **** Garrett's teeth chatter. "Noodles, are you okay?" Songoree comes through the door with a hot cup of tea. Garrett rubs the corners of his eyes where they meet the bridge of his nose. The pain behind his eyes is excruciating. "Have some tea. That's enough work." He looks into Garrett's face, and his eyes flare. "Take this tea out on the porch, I'll bring you a Bloody Mary," he whispers. [Back to Table of Contents]

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18. Garrett sits on a deck chair. The combination of the warm sunshine and a cool breeze pamper his face. The warmth slowly draws his mind away from the writing. He notices the shadows of swift-moving clouds racing across the choppy bay. The water is not so rough that he can't swim, but he's not sure he wants to brave the cold. It does feel good, he thinks, to sit in the sun and smell the sweet scents that ride the wind down from the mountains, and it is glorious to be outside again after lying in bed for weeks. Songoree comes through the doorway and sets a tall glass of red liquid on the table. "Sorry," he says. "No celery, but we have Worcestershire and Tabasco, and I mixed in lots of Japanese pepper." Garrett flinches at hearing Songoree use the word we. Years have passed since that word was used to include him. He smiles, then, deciding he likes the sound of it. The drink goes down smooth and thick. It's not strong, but the ache in his head begins to dull as soon as he takes two gulps. His mouth burns. Beads of perspiration form on his upper lip. Songoree lays a hand on his shoulder and gently squeezes, "If you need anything, I'll be in the kitchen making lunch." He turns and disappears through the doorway. "If I need anything," Garrett says to himself. "What I need is for you to hold me tight all through the night and not let 206

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me go." The words sound like some hollow love song or the message on a Hallmark card. The thought turns sour. He shakes the notion from his head and turns his thoughts to how comforting it's been to have Songoree stay at the house, sleeping in the next room, playing his guitar on the edge of the bed, their long conversations, his easy laughter. All that will end now that he's back on his feet. Could that be why he has resisted getting better, he wonders? "The hell with it," he mumbles. He has today. Audrey, Owen and Micah will come, and the five of us will have a great time. There will be no loneliness today. Enjoy today while it lasts. He reaches for the glass, but it's empty. He does a double-take, not realizing he had finished it. Tomorrow, he decides, you go back to work and push to finish the story. Once it's done, you go someplace where you don't have to think about Marc or Song, someplace where you can put everything behind you. It will be bad when I leave the island, when I leave Song, but I knew better than to fall in love with a straight boy. Having lost love once, he knows all too well what's to come when he's alone again. Already feeling his future loss, he admits to himself for the first time how deeply he loves Songoree. Yes, love, and that's what will make it bad. He could ask Songoree to go with him, but Songoree has his girlfriend, his family and his island life. Garrett has nothing to offer him. He sees what's coming as clearly as he sees the shadows sprinting across the bay. He is weeks away from finishing the story, but he grieves, already feeling his future heartache. 207

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He scrutinizes the sea—immense, gathering strength, raging at the cliffs, retreating to regroup and gather again. On the far side of the bay the breakers pound the beach. Movement catches his eye, and he spots red dust spiraling up from a dull yellow car coming along the dirt road. They're coming, he thinks. You still have today. Don't ruin today. When Audrey and the boys drive up, she surprises him by wearing a man's homburg hat, dark brown with a small yellow feather tucked into the side of the black silk band. Her hair sweeps straight back and is held in place behind her neck by a broad yellow ribbon. She also wears a one-piece black bathing suit and a flower-print red-and-blue wrap attached at the waist that drapes down over her knees. But it is the man's hat that attracts Garrett's attention. It completes the look and changes her into something unique. They kiss, and he steps back and takes an appraising look at her. No makeup—her face is springtime fresh and her outfit shows off her flawless figure. She is chic, and it is the hat that makes the transformation. "You look ravishing," he says. "That hat suits you, makes you seem daring." "Thank you. It belonged to my roommate in college. She was a lesbian, and she made me wear it when we went out so everyone would think I was her butch." Audrey laughs and covers her mouth with her hands. "God, she was wonderful. We had so much fun together. She gave it to me just before I came here." She wipes a laugh tear from her eye. "And look at you. You look better than I've seen you look in weeks. How do you feel?" 208

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"Better by the minute. You've lifted my spirits, and they needed lifting." She moves her hand to his chest and takes hold of the shark teeth hanging from his neck. "You've been souvenir hunting. These are an impressive find." They grin at each other. "You must feel especially lucky to be standing here." Owen and Micah stand together. Both have on the same Hawaiian print shirt they wore the first day they met, and both wear loose-fitting khaki shorts and flip-flops. He laughs at the two of them. "You two must be dressing each other." "Pretty good guess, Noodles," Owen says. "Don't start with me." A grin spreads under Garrett's nose. They chat easily at the table on the porch while Songoree serves lunch. Audrey doesn't bother to remove her hat for the meal, and no one seems to mind. A bottle of chilled California chardonnay stands on the table but no wineglasses. In place of glasses are pearl-white bone china bowls. Garrett explains. "We don't have wineglasses, so we're using rice bowls. Just pretend we're drinking sake." He pours a bowl for everyone, which empties the bottle. Lunch is light fare: meaty turtle soup with crusty French bread and a conch salad. Songoree sits beside Garrett and asks, "Does everybody have everything? Can I get you anything else?" A chorus of nos. He touches Garrett's hand. "How about you, need anything else?" 209

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They stare eye to eye. "I'm good." He turns to see Audrey studying them. Owen and Micah sit together with shoulders touching. Owen turns to Micah and says something so softly that only Micah hears. They both smile and lift their napkins. Songoree says, "Hope nobody minds such a light lunch. I planned this so we don't have to wait to go swimming. There's some sliced fruit and coconut ice cream for dessert if anybody's still hungry." "Don't apologize," Micah says as he lifts his spoon. "This looks fabulous. You must have been cooking since yesterday." "I went turtling this morning. This is as fresh as it gets." Audrey lifts her wine bowl. "I'd like to propose a toast." Songoree notices that Garrett's bowl is nearly empty. He moves his own towards him and takes Garrett's in its place. They all raise their bowls. "Here's to having Garrett healthy, and also to our chef, who treats us to a feast." She sips her wine and nods her head. "This wine is superlative." "Something Song picked out," Garrett says. "I don't know how he does it on what little grocery money I give him." Smiles and nods of heads and moans of pleasure replace conversation. The soup is thick and meaty, quite different from Songoree's usual soups of noodles in fish broth. Between mouthfuls, Owen asks Garrett if he has started working again. "I started back this morning." "How's it coming?" Audrey asks. 210

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"God, I wish I knew. I mean, I've made fantastic progress. All I've done for months is write, eat, swim and sleep. I've written four hundred pages, and it's coming together. I'm writing as well as I can, but I have no idea if it's good or if it's crap. Some days I think its Pulitzer material, and the next day it reads like sentimental hogwash. I can't tell which it is. I guess I'm too close to it." "If you'd like a second opinion," Audrey says, "I'd love to read it. I'm no expert, of course, but I am a competent proofreader. I'd be happy to point out any awkward areas, if you're interested." "I appreciate your offer, but I don't think I'm ready to let anybody see it. Perhaps you can help me before I send it to a publisher." She nods. "I don't want to embarrass you, but I get the impression you're afraid of me, that you want to keep a distance between us. Why is that?" He feels himself blushing as an uncomfortable silence descends on the table. "I suppose you're right," he says. "But it's not because of fear." "What, then?" "You quote Thoreau, and use words like superlative to describe the wine, and you're bold enough to wear a man's hat, which all smells like money to me. You're beautiful, wellbred, intelligent, and probably come from a wealthy family. I was once married to a man who came from a money family. They were manipulative and would do absolutely anything to get what they wanted." 211

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Her eyes narrow. "But you loved him, so he must have had some good qualities, even if the family didn't. So, perhaps a good apple can come from a bad barrel?" "Love him, no past tense. And I agree that there is no basis for my prejudice." "Well, if it's any consolation, I'm the family misfit. We're a family of statues. We pose in a certain way so people can admire us, but we don't speak. We never talk to each other. It's all done for show, to be admired. There is no love and no regard for each other. I couldn't stand the silence or the loneliness, so I ran away. I found that people are different here. They're caring, and that's why I stayed." Garrett reaches over and takes her hand in his. "Maybe that's why. You're so much like he was." "Now you use past tense. I'm terribly sorry." **** The meal is consumed, the ice cream turns into a pleasant memory. After the compliments are made, the party moves down to the sand. Owen and Micah each take an Adirondack chair from the porch and haul them down to the beach for Audrey and Garrett. They retrieve their snorkeling gear and a beach blanket from the trunk of the car, and run to the edge of the water. Moments later, they plunge into the surf, leaving the blanket and their clothes well up on the beach next to the chairs. Garrett admires Owen's body, pale and thin with nice definition. He smiles, thinking that Owen is so much more attractive without clothes. 212

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He and Audrey move leisurely. They gather a bottle of wine and a corkscrew along with two china bowls and stroll to where the chairs face the bay. They sit with their backs to the mountains. Songoree stays behind to wash the dishes. Audrey stays quiet the whole time it takes Garrett to open and pour the wine. She keeps her Homburg on but removes the floral-print wrap. She sits in the chair and sifts the white sand through her toes. He notices that her legs are just as slim and strong as the rest of her figure. The wine, a French bordeaux, is a shocking ruby-red against the pearl-white china. The sunlight filters through the wine and makes the bowls' insides glow red, a brilliant sunset within each rim. Raising their bowls in a silent toast with eyes locked on each other, they sip. Garrett scans the bay and spots two heads bobbing above the reef. They look like otters at play. "I wonder if they can see much in this rough water. If the wind dies down I'd like to swim, but I don't think it's worth snorkeling. The water will be too cloudy." Audrey nods. "Yes, let's swim, but not yet. Let's enjoy the sun and the wine for an hour or so." He tilts his head back until he looks straight up at the sky. The hot sun on his face compliments the pleasant feeling of a full stomach and the slight wooziness from the wine. "Yes, the sun feels glorious. Hard to believe I've been cooped up inside for so long." "Perhaps that's why you seem gloomy." "No, just thoughtful. Lying in bed gave me lots of time to think. It's become a bad habit." 213

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"So, tell me how things are going between you and Song." "Oh, we're fine. He takes wonderful care of me, and I enjoy his company." He sips his wine. "I see," Audrey says with a sigh. "We're going to have polite chit-chat, not real communication where you tell me what you're trying so desperately to hide. You're right. It's none of my business. I just thought you might need a sympathetic ear." "Okay." He looks down, liking her boldness. He runs his fingers through the sand, feeling the silky warmth. He takes his time, thinking hard about what Songoree really means to him. He finally says, "He has an unrestrained vitality. He's so wonderfully alive and engaged with the life around him, more so than anyone I've ever known. His sublime beauty comes from this vitality. It's not just physical, it's his whole being, and he doesn't have the slightest knowledge of it. "I've always felt that being really beautiful would be a burden, but it's not with him. He gives it no thought at all." He shakes his head. He sits silent for a moment giving careful thought to what he says next. "Being with him, seeing his imposing beauty, I'm consumed—spent with craving something I can't have. The more intimate he becomes, the more debilitated I become. My cravings are draining the life out of me. Sometimes I think that I have nothing left but the need for him." She takes his hand in hers. "Wow, when you open up you don't hold back." They look at each other. She smiles sadly. 214

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The wind plays with his hair as he turns his head to watch shore birds run along the beach. He continues. "I've experienced this kind of love once before. I never thought it could happen again. But I know how glorious it can be when it's returned. That's why it's so brutal when it's not." "Lucky you," she says, squeezing his hand. "To find that kind of love twice in one lifetime. My God, what I wouldn't give to have it just once." "There are times when he touches me that I feel he's illusory. That he can't be real. Real is too much. Other times I want to possess him, to devour him. Sorry. You must think I'm the biggest damned drama queen outside of San Francisco, and you're probably right, but you don't know how lonely I've been these last few years, and being with him makes me boil inside. I didn't even realize how badly I need him until just this morning when I started to think about leaving the island, about leaving him." "I understand everything there is to know about loneliness, believe me. What I don't understand is why you think you can't have him. From the way he looked at you at lunch, I assumed you two were already lovers. He has deep feelings for you. Anybody can see that." "I sometimes sense that, too, but his intimacy never crosses the line of caregiver—and there's his girlfriend." "I didn't know he has a girlfriend. Are you sure?" "She walks up the beach with him every morning. That is, until the accident. I don't know her name, but I saw a picture of her in Hap's boat." 215

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"You're talking about Little Liliha. I don't think you can consider them a couple. It's something quite different." "What do you mean? Every morning they walk up the beach and share an intimate kiss." "Look, I don't know the whole story, but I know this much—Song is Mother Kamamalu's son. Her sister was supposedly a real beauty. She married an older man she had known for several years. That man is Hap." Garrett winces. "Hap is Song's uncle?" "Hap used to be a well respected man, I'm told. He was a good fisherman, a good provider, strong and attractive. A real catch. He married Liliha, Mother Kamamalu's little sister. For many years they didn't have children, and everybody assumed it was because Hap was past his prime. "But Liliha finally became pregnant. Local gossip says that Hap and Liliha were too happy, too proud. He worshiped her even before the pregnancy, but during the pregnancy he beamed all the time. They say the gods become jealous if you're too happy. "She was in her eighth month when they were out fishing—he hated to leave her alone. A squall caught them out at sea. The heavy movement of the boat induced labor, and she bled to death giving birth before he could get her back to shore." Speechless, Garrett shakes his head. "Little Liliha is their child," Audrey continues, "and Mother Kamamalu took the baby as her own. Hap was crushed, of course. He's not even a shadow of the man he was. Anyway, Song is a few years older than Little Liliha, and by the time he 216

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was six, he assumed responsibility for her. Mother Kamamalu had too many people to care for, and she couldn't give the child enough attention, so Song did. He's been taking care of her all her life. He's been more like a mother to her than anyone." Garrett surveys the bay, sees the swimmers heading back into shore, swimming all out. Audrey squeezes his hand. "Most people think he's special, the way he unselfishly put Liliha's needs above his own. Not many boys would do that. It looks to me like he's caring for you in the same way. He obviously loves her. Perhaps he loves you as well." "You really think that's possible?" "What, loving a bum like you?" She laughs. "Yes. I think even that is possible." Her laughter mingles with the clamor of the crashing waves, like the sound of a flute floating high above the timbre of kettledrums. "Perhaps he doesn't realize what his feelings are. I think he's a delicate soul, so whatever happens, be gentle with him. Go slowly. Give him time to explore and trust his feelings." "How do you know all this?" "Sometimes it helps to be on the outside looking in. You see more clearly from a safe distance. It's obvious how Owen and Micah feel about each other, and I think it's even more clear what Song feels for you." "Owen and Micah? What do you mean?" "You don't see that they're lovers, that they're in love?" "You really think so?" 217

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She throws her head back and howls. This time her laughter is very unladylike. She shrieks, holding her stomach. Once she catches her breath she says, "Boy, for an intelligent guy you sure let a lot go right over your head." "I've been telling him that for months," Songoree says, strolling up behind them. He has only his board shorts on, and looks ready to swim. "In fact," he continues, "I think I told him that the day I met him." "Let's see," Garrett says. "That would be the voice of Mister Snoop, who has excellent hearing and doesn't mind eavesdropping on other peoples' conversations." "Ha!" Songoree shouts and leaps at Garrett, who is still in the chair. The force of his playful tackle bowls them both over, and they roll across the sand before coming to rest with Songoree on top of him. Songoree's face hovers just above his. He pins Garrett's arms to the sand. "Hey, I'm an injured man. You're hurting me." "Don't bring that weak stuff to the beach, tough guy. Your wimp days are over." "Let me up." Song grins down into Garrett's face. "Not until you say 'Song is not a snoop, and I can't do squat without him.'" "Song, I said get the hell off of me, now!" "You better say it." He repeats the words. Songoree rolls them both over so Garrett is now on top. He lets go and goes limp, gazing up into Garrett's eyes. "Are you two ready for a swim? I'll take your bandages off so we can go in." 218

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Garrett rolls off him and sits up. "Are you ready?" he asks Audrey. She looks over at Songoree stretched out on the sand, then back at Garrett. She raises one eyebrow until he blushes. "Yes, let's swim." She stands and takes off her hat, lays it on the bamboo chair and covers it with her wrap so it doesn't blow away. Songoree removes Garrett's bandages as Micah and Owen race out of the foamy surf. They carry their fins in their hands and their masks are pressed to their faces, held in place with a rubber strap around the back of their heads. The circle of glass over their eyes, nose and foreheads make them look deformed, like some X-Men comic book characters. Water flies off their bodies as they run up the sand. They are breathing so hard they can't catch their breaths. "Why the rush?" Songoree asks. "Owen swallows hard and manages to say, "We saw two sharks." Micah adds, "They were reef sharks. No sweat." "Scared the shit out of me after what happened," Owen says. Songoree turns to Garrett. "Like Micah says, no sweat. You still want to go in?" He only hesitates for a heartbeat. "Sure." They take to the water, fast, before thinking any more about what could be waiting for them. Owen and Micah stay behind, sprawled on the blanket. 219

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When Garrett's legs feel the cool water, a warning signal shrieks in his head. Sure enough, when the first wave hits his crotch a powerful shock racks his body and pain floods his mind. His body takes action by leaping forward and immersing itself so the shock is everywhere at once. He flounders in the surf for a minute and begins to swim. Slow and steady, so as not to traumatize Garrett's wounds, they cut through the blue-green water. Arms lift in wide halfcircles, grabbing handfuls of water and pulling; legs kick an easy rhythm, propelling them forward. Heads lift to the side— a quick breath, a glimpse of the graying sky above, then heads down again. Normally, the physical exertion is enough to warm Garrett, but he feels his temperature drop to the point of shivering throughout his body. All three are strong swimmers. They glide through the water with comfortable strokes, but it is obvious that Songoree is at home in this liquid environment. He swims beautifully. Like his dancing, his movements are economical and graceful. It's clear to Garrett that Songoree loves the sea, the exquisite freedom of movement in a realm of weightlessness. The boy's amber skin glows with energy, like a palomino colt racing across a spring meadow. Reaching the edge of the reef, they tread water in a tight circle. Their heads being all on the same level seems comical to Garrett. He tries to smile through his shivering. Audrey tells them she is swimming back in so she can shower and prepare dinner. She tells them to take their time coming in. 220

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She lies over in the water; her hand reaches forward, and she is gone. All they see of her is the back of her head and her brown arms lifting into the air and reaching forward, one at a time. Now alone with Songoree, Garrett considers the idea that Songoree doesn't have a girlfriend. He reaches for him under the water and grabs him around the waist, pulling him closer. They kiss. Garrett wraps arms and legs around him, like an octopus and his prey. Songoree pulls away with a playful laugh and disappears under the surface. Garrett dives after him. They frolic through mounds of purple, yellow and green coral formations. The flamboyant colors are beautiful even with the low visibility. Garrett loses sight of him and returns to the surface. He scans the water in all directions with no sign of Songoree. Suddenly, he is seized from behind. Panic flashes in his head, and he screams, but he hears Songoree's voice in his ear. "It's me. I've got you." He feels Songoree holding him close. He feels lips touch the back of his neck. Songoree disappears again. The underwater chase resumes. Garrett quickly gets to the point where he can hardly move from the cold gripping his insides. Signaling Songoree, he heads back to shore. They swim in together. On the beach, the only sign of Audrey and the boys is the beach blanket still lying on the sand. Garrett wraps it around him.

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Songoree sees his teeth chattering. "Sorry, we shouldn't have stayed out so long. I was just having so much fun I didn't want to stop. Let me warm you." He wraps his arms around Garrett, drawing him close to exchange body heat. It works—the instant Garrett touches his cheek to Songoree's, he feels a flash of grateful warmth coursing through his chest. [Back to Table of Contents]

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19. Garrett and Songoree walk through the front door and into a seemingly empty house. Songoree catches whiffs of basil and oregano and garlic drifting through the living room. Riding under that aroma is the piquant odor of tomato sauce. Audrey pokes her head through the kitchen doorway. "Back already? You have plenty of time to clean up before dinner." Garrett asks, "Where did Owen and Micah go?" "They're in the shower." "Together?" Garrett asks. "Does that surprise you?" she says with a sly smile. Songoree sees Garrett's face tighten, as if a hand were reaching into his guts and squeezing. He lays his arm across Garrett's shoulders. "Better go chase them out of there before they use up the hot water. I'll get a fire going and move the table close to the fireplace so you'll be warm during dinner. Audrey, is there anything I can help you with?" "You can bring me a proper kitchen. I knew this house was austere, with just these few pieces of old furniture and a couple of throw rugs, but this kitchen really shows your minimalist roots. Song, how do you manage with so little?" "All you need are a few pots, a wok, a spoon, a knife and imagination. Anything else just takes up space." He turns back to Garrett. "Noodles, shall I make you some tea or fix you a drink while you clean up?" 223

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"No, thanks. I can wait until dinner." "Holler when you come out of the shower and I'll dress your wounds." He heads for the bedroom, and Songoree builds a pile of kindling in the fireplace and strikes a match to it. He piles on some larger pieces of driftwood and brings two armloads of it in from the side of the house. By the sounds coming from the bathroom, he can tell the boys are toweling off and getting dressed. He ambles to the kitchen to help Audrey. She is in the process of taking four acorn squash halves out of the oven. She asks him to mash the squash pulp to make soup. He picks out a soup pan from under the counter and begins to skin and mash the squash while Audrey prepares spices for the soup. She asks, "Has Garrett agreed to do the project he mentioned? The one with your grandfather?" Songoree stops his mashing to give her his full attention. "No, we haven't really asked him yet, but I'm beginning to think we will." "I would be interested in working with him, or doing the project myself if he's not interested. That topic is my field of study. It's exactly what I've come here to do." "If Noodles decides to help us, it would be up to him if he wants your help. As for doing it yourself, I'm sorry. You're not the kind of person we're looking for." He says this gently, trying not to hurt her feelings. "You mean because I'm a woman? I can assure you, I'm more qualified than Garrett in this field." 224

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"It's not about your gender. It's how your mind works, how you approach a subject." "I don't understand." "Let me use this soup as an analogy. If we want to know soup—really know soup—there are different approaches. The religious approach is to believe that if you're a good cook and follow the recipe to the letter and believe in the goodness of the soup, you'll be rewarded with something tasty later on, after you die of hunger. The academic approach is to study the ingredients and the cooking process—how much of this versus that, how long you bake the squash at what temperature, what are the properties of the ingredients and how do these properties effect the taste buds. This approach would compile volumes of data about the soup in hopes of understanding what the soup is. "But the truth is, you can't understand soup. The only way to know soup is simply to devour it. You smell the aroma, see how it swirls as you dip your spoon into it, feel the texture on your tongue and taste the richness of the spices. You want to study and understand, and that's not what we're looking for. We need someone to experience it." Owen pops his head into the kitchen. His hair is slicked down and his face glows pink. "Wow, something smells heavenly. Need any help?" Songoree says. "Can you and Micah move the table close to the fireplace and set it. We can eat as soon as Garrett has showered."

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He takes Audrey's hand in his. "I hope you understand. We are not looking for someone to study what we know. We want someone to live it." "I think I understand, but I still hope that I can be part of the process. I'd love to contribute." "I hope you do, really." He says this with such sincerity that Audrey leans over and kisses him on the cheek. He blushes and smiles. "Everyone is kissing me these days." He meanders into the living room. The table stands close to the fireplace and is set for five. Owen and Micah are building up the fire. Songoree sits in the reading chair and lifts his guitar from behind it. He takes the pick, which is jammed between the strings, and plucks each string, adjusting the tension on three. He strums twice, insuring that it sounds right, and begins to play a Hawaiian blues tune. He hums to himself as he strums the melody. As he plays, he watches Owen and Micah pick up pieces of driftwood, one at a time. They hold them up, turning them this way and that, running their hands over the smooth curves and admiring the simple beauty of each piece as if it were a sculpture by Michelangelo. Owen takes one particularly striking piece and places it on the mantle. "We should keep this one," he says. "It's too beautiful to burn." "This one, too," Micah adds, holding up another fine sculpture. Songoree stops humming but continues to play. "Everything the sea makes is beautiful. And as fast as we can burn them the sea makes more." 226

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Owen tilts his head to one side as he admires the piece on the mantle. "Yes, but something this lovely shouldn't be destroyed just so we can enjoy a fire." "You're right," Songoree says. "I see so much beauty around me, I guess I've become indifferent to it, take it for granted." **** Garrett stands at the bedroom door, freshly scrubbed, changed into dry clothes and fresh bandages and feeling ravenous. Songoree leans his head to one side but keeps playing. "You should have let me help you with those bandages." "Heard you playing and I didn't want you to stop. Besides, there are some things I can do for myself now that I'm back on my feet." He looks at Songoree, long hair falling over his face, the beautiful guitar wood complementing his amber skin. He feels the music pull him closer. He has the urge to tell Songoree how beautiful he is, but what he says is, "The shower's free if you want to clean up." Songoree stops playing and looks into his eyes. He doesn't say anything, just stares. He seems puzzled. He lifts himself out of the chair, and as he passes Garrett on his way to the bathroom he says, "Eat as soon as it's ready. I'll just be a minute." Audrey breezes in from the kitchen and studies the table. "I should have brought flowers," she says. "Garrett, dinner is ready. Can you put some music on, an opera perhaps? 227

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Verdi, if you have some. I love Traviata. That is, unless Owen and Micah don't like opera." Owen looks up, smiling. "I love opera, even that Italian fluff. Maybe later we can hear the true master, Wagner. German opera has guts." "Oh, no," Micah says. "God save me from opera queens." Owen laughs and punches him in the arm. "You're outnumbered, lover-boy, so grit your teeth and learn to like it." Micah runs his hand through Owen's hair. "Okay, but listening to opera shows how deeply I love you. I hope you appreciate this." Owen's eyes brim with tears as he leans over and kisses him. As he pulls away, he says, "You're the first man who has ever told me that he loves me. I love you, too." Garrett thumbs through the opera CDs, but his mind is on the boys' display of intimacy. He is touched, but at the same time he feels anger swelling up inside him. His breath deepens. He can't fathom why he feels such rage. He turns to Audrey. "Why are we eating so early?" His voice has an edge to it. "Song has something planned for after dinner. He wants to be done before sunset." Dinner is squash soup, Caesar salad with raw eggs and anchovies in the dressing, pasta with a tomato sauce and round loaves of French bread. The wine is a Chianti, served in rice bowls. Songoree steps from the bathroom wearing clean shorts and a mellow grin. His hair is still damp and pulled behind his 228

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neck. He sits next to Garrett, and everyone begins to eat. Garrett is silent, still feeling the anger inside him and still trying to understand it. Micah says to Songoree, "Last week, while Owen and I were touring the Island, he got the tattoo of a shark put on the back of his shoulder. Today on the beach I noticed you don't have any tattoos. I was just wondering why. I mean, all your surfer buddies are covered with them, but you don't have a single one. Why is that?" Songoree lays down his spoon. "Polynesians invented tattooing as a declaration of love. To show your lover that you will endure pain for them, and that your love is as permanent as the tattoo itself, that you will carry this love to your death. I don't have a tattoo because I haven't found that special someone. When I do, I'll get a tattoo." Audrey says, "I knew that's why tattooing was invented, but I didn't know anyone still did that." She reaches over and squeezes Songoree's hand. "I'm not trying to be superior, and I'm fine with everybody else having them. I just want to wait for that right someone first." Audrey turns to Owen. "So, what other adventures have you had since you've come to the island? Seen anything really interesting?" "Sure, I've been on the go every day. Micah took some vacation time, and he's been showing me the island. It's fantastic. He took me to Ka Lae, the southernmost point of the United States. The beach is green. Really—olive-green sand. It's lovely. Then there was the black sand beach at 229

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Punalu'u, and all these sea turtles came right up on the beach. We went shopping in Hilo. Wow, what a beautiful town. I love all those banyan trees." "Yes," Audrey says. "It's enchanting, isn't it? Did you visit the Wailuku River State Park?" Songoree takes the wine bottle and pours more wine into Garrett's bowl. "Yes, talk about a tropical paradise. We also went snorkeling at Kahalu'u beach. The water was so clear and there were so many colorful fish that it was like swimming inside a rainbow. The brilliant colors were all around us. Wish I'd had an underwater camera with me." Everybody finishes the soup and salad and starts on the pasta. Songoree stacks the used bowls and salad plates and takes them to the kitchen. When he sits back down, he asks Owen if he's been to either of the volcanoes yet. "Oh, sure. On Kilauea we crept right up to the crack of doom and saw the molten lava below. Oh, man, the smell of sulphur and the hot steam nearly blew my head off. "We walked to where the lava spills into the sea—you can get right up to the lava flow. The rock under your feet gets warm, but it's surprising how close you can get to the molten lava. "At night the flow coming down the mountain glows red— veins of brilliant red lava that looks like shimmering blood, flowing until it reaches the sea. The plumes of steam when it hits the water are awesome." "Sounds like you've seen it all," Songoree says. "Do you plan to see any of the other islands before you move on?" 230

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"Oh, I'm not moving on. In fact, I'm living with Micah now, and I've started looking for a job. But I'd like to see the other islands before I get settled into a nine-to-five." Garrett puts down his fork and picks up his wine. He swirls the red liquid, feeling his anger swell. He takes a deep drink and says, "The first thing you told me when you came to the island was you were traveling the world, hoping to find love. Well, looks like you found it on your first stop. I'm really happy for you." He raises his bowl. "Here's to finding love." Everyone seems puzzled, as if they are all wondering why was there's so much bitterness in his voice. After a moment, Micah and Owen beam. They warm the whole table with the way they look at each other. Dinner ends with Garrett's toast. Songoree takes what little is left of the wine and tops off Audrey's, Owen's and Micah's bowls. Garrett's bowl is empty, but he replaces it with his own untouched bowl. That done, he asks everyone to step out onto the porch. When everyone is assembled outside, he steps down onto the sand. Looking up at them, he says, "I would like to say farewell to a loving friend and a courageous soul: Coolie. He gave his life protecting the people he loved. I will never forget his bravery or his gift." He glances over his shoulder. The sun has set, and thin red cirrus clouds feather across the western sky. "As you know," he continues, "the Hula is the focal point of my people's culture. I am a student of hula kahiko, the ancient hula. One of the hulas my kuma—my teacher—taught me is the Dance of Sorrow. We use this as a way to honor the 231

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passing of one dear to us. I've never performed this hula, but I would like to now." He pulls a ceremonial knife from the pocket of his shorts, peels off his shirt and drops his shorts to the sand. He stands before the group wearing only a pearl-white loincloth, the malo, and holding the knife in his right hand. He begins to chant; his body sways as his feet move him in slow circles. His arms weave patterns on the air. They seem to sculpt the words he's chanting out of the rosecolored sky. His voice rises and falls in a melancholic scale, lingering over each note, as if he wants to squeeze every drop of sadness from the song. Garrett feels his anger grow into something more powerful, something needful. Songoree moves from one foot to the other, bending and twisting with impeccable balance. His supple body shows unusual strength, like a tiger stalking its prey. The dance builds in momentum, and his movements become swift and powerful. The spectators stare wide-eyed. Audrey whispers, "He is mimicking the fight with the shark." The wind strengthens, whipping Songoree's hair about his head. Behind him, the western sky blushes crimson. He grabs a handful of his hair in his left hand. The knife slashes through the air, cutting off a hunk of hair, which flies off, carried by the wind. The knife slashes again. This time it makes a shallow cut across the meaty part of Songoree's left shoulder. Fine lines of blood begin to trickle down his arm. 232

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Audrey whispers again. "Their custom is to cut the hair and mark the body when they are in sorrow to show their anguish. In the old days, some would go so far as to knock out their teeth or put out their eyes." Now the dance slows and becomes graceful once again. Audrey tells the others that this part of the dance mimics the wind blowing through the palm trees and the waves lapping the beach, showing that Coolie's mana—his spiritual power— has been absorbed into the whole of life and is now in everything they can see. Songoree finishes his dance. The wind blowing from the southeast grows to gale force. The nearby palms bend low; the screen door whips back and forth, slamming against the door frame. Whitecaps appear on the bay. Songoree gathers his clothes and climbs the steps to join the group. One by one, they hug him and tell him how wonderfully he danced. Garrett folds his arms around Songoree and is unable to speak. He holds him for a long time. His heart pounds, his body trembles. Songoree's warmth seems to ease the sorrow the dance has created in the pit of his stomach. When they step apart, unshed tears are brimming in his eyes. Songoree suggests they go back inside before they get blown off the porch, but Audrey says they should leave before the rains come. They go inside long enough to gather their belongings and say their goodbyes. It has been a special day for all of them, and there is sadness in the parting but hope as well, hope that they will recreate this feeling again. 233

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Garrett and Songoree are left alone. The fire still burns bright, warming the room while the wind batters the house. The sunset has turned dark, and a light rain taps on the roof. Songoree wears only the malo. Garrett stares. The amber body seems to absorb the firelight. He says in a deep, choking voice, "We should bandage that shoulder." Songoree seems to see something in his expression. He takes two steps and they are in each other's arms. That skin, that sumptuous skin presses against Garrett, driving his anger close to madness. Songoree whispers. "What's bothering you." Garrett pulls him closer, squeezes tight. "It's hard for me to take, seeing Owen and Micah so much in love. I want ... I need..." He can't finish. Can't say the words. His hands begin to move over Songoree's body. Songoree pulls back and looks into his eyes. "What you need is sleep. It's been a tiring day and you drank lots of wine. You'll feel better tomorrow. Go to bed and I'll clean up." Garrett looks into those eyes with the sea-blue flecks. "I'm afraid." "I'm afraid, too." [Back to Table of Contents]

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20. Garrett lies in bed, listening to the storm. The wind blows in gusts. It seems to match the throbbing in his head. Every time he closes his eyes he sees Songoree's malo-clad body dancing a seductive hula. His body shivers. The hell with this, he thinks. I need a drink. More importantly, I need to get the hell out of here and go somewhere where I can work. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands. A drink will help me sleep. Naked, he stumbles to the bedroom door and opens it. The coals burning in the fireplace cast a pink light over the living room. He shuffles to the kitchen, finds the bottle of whiskey in the cabinet, unscrews the cap and swallows from the bottle. It bites his mouth and burns all the way down. He takes another. The cold pain in his head retreats. He carries the bottle into the living room. He scrutinizes Songoree asleep on the couch. Light from the fireplace falls over his amber face. His dark head is framed against the white pillowcase, and a small, yellow blanket covers his body like a cocoon. His legs are bent so that he fits on the couch. The pillow is awry, and one bare arm is flung over his head, hiding half his face. His lips are smiling. Garrett takes another swallow. Songoree breathes deeply, pushing his bare chest up and down, working the muscles of his abdomen. Garrett kneels beside the couch. 235

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The sound of Songoree's soft breathing mingles with the sound of rain and wind. His shirt and shorts lie next to the couch. Garrett takes them and brings them close to his face. He inhales. They have the fragrance of the sea. He gently lifts the blanket. Songoree still wears the white malo. Garrett stares at the full length of him, studying each exquisite detail. His eyes caress that lovely goldenness. The paler skin of those soft areas around the white pouch makes his heart race. He takes another pull from the bottle. A shadow passes through the room, or perhaps it's a shadow in his mind. He leans close to that peaceful face and inhales the spent breath, absorbing the warm, intoxicating sweetness of it. His own sex becomes engorged, curving upward to touch his bellybutton. He thinks of going back to bed and stroking it to a climax but decides a cold shower is best. Yet he stays kneeling by the couch, reveling in Songoree's scent, which smells faintly of lavender. Garrett's desire grows insatiable. After a time, and another swig of whiskey, he leans forward and touches his lips to Songoree's. The incredible softness consumes his lips at the same time the shadow consumes his mind. **** Songoree awakens to see Garrett's ravaged face just inches from his own. He moves his arm from over his head to touch that face. His fingertips caress that hollow cheek as 236

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though he were reading Braille. His voice, when it finally speaks, is a whisper. "Please don't do this. Go back to bed." He sees painful desperation contorting Garrett's face. He realizes he's said the wrong thing, but before he can change tacks, he hears a crack from somewhere behind his eyes, between his ears, sounding like a leather strap across an upturned butt. Garrett lunges. Swept along with all the force of his desire, he falls on Songoree, crushing his body into his own. They struggle silently, straining against each other. They fall off the couch and onto the floorboards, rolling across the floor, bound in each other's grip. Their struggle is fierce, eyes locked on each other, ragged breaths through clenched teeth. They roll back and forth. The potted palm tumbles over, flinging dirt across the floor. Garrett digs his fingers under the white malo and rips it away. Pain, like a bolt of lightening, arcs through Songoree's chest. He is on his feet, racing across the room. He flings the front door open and glances back over his shoulder. The wind howls through the room and over Garrett, who lies on the floor, panting. The bandage on his side was ripped off in the struggle. The scar is an angry purple-red sickle across his torso. Garrett's eyes hold the panic of a lost boy. Songoree's heart crumbles. The urge to go back and help Garrett to bed becomes overpowering, but fear rises up in him—not of what Garrett may do, but because of what he is feeling. Awareness tumbles over him like light blazing at 237

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sunrise over the sea. Dazed, he moves through the door and disappears into the dark storm outside. "Come back," Garrett shrieks a long, impotent cry. Songoree hears him, but his feet don't stop and he doesn't look back, all the way to his grandfather's hut. [Back to Table of Contents]

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21. The storm batters the house, but inside the air is still. A faint pink light glows from the dying coals in the fireplace. Garrett lies on the floor with his head on the same level as the coals. He watches them turn from red to gray and wonders, What have I done? Images flash through his mind, one after another: Songoree dancing in the living room to Verdi's Aida, Songoree gently rubbing his shoulders and that ever-so-gentle kiss, Songoree performing his underwater ballet with whales, Songoree asleep on the couch, a picture of amber innocence, the pain on Songoree's face at the door just before he disappeared into the darkness. What have I done? He lies on the hard floor with his eyes on a plane with the boards and the fire's dying coals. His mind struggles to adjust to this odd new perspective. It feels like he has no balance, as if even the slightest movement will cause him to fall off the floor. His fingers try to dig into the wood, nails scratching the planks, trying to hold on. Sometime in the darkest hours he becomes calm. At least he got away before I actually raped him, he thinks. God, I hope he's not hurt. I always seem to drive away what I love most. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the torn white malo lying on the floor. He reaches for it, fondles the fabric, brings it to his face and inhales the scent. Tears form in his eyes, 239

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and one makes a line down his cheek to his chin and hangs there, clinging to his flesh. A rage begins to grow inside of him. "I hate this island," he tells himself. "This island, this house, the damned story that brought me here—and Song. Most of all I hate Song." As soon as he says it, he knows it's a lie. The only thing I hate, he thinks, is this horrible loneliness. I hate being isolated from every other living thing, and most of all being isolated from Song. The pain in his head swells as his mind continues to churn, but he is aware of a change. He feels himself gradually separating from his body. A minute later, part of him hovers near the ceiling, apathetically listening to the thoughts raging through the mind of the body still on the floor. Before I came here I had a life, the body continues. I was respected at work, successful. I had my routine and my little comforts to deal with the loneliness. I had a life! It was only half a life, but it should have been enough. Now I don't know what I have or who I am. All I truly know is this: I give up. I don't care if I live or die. Tomorrow, I pack a bag and get on a plane. I'll leave this island and Song and the story behind. He tries to focus his thoughts on the future, where he will go and what he will do, but he falters. All he can think of is escape. Anything past getting on the plane is a blur. He simply doesn't care. Where and what and how don't matter when you're alone. For the first time in many years, Garrett thinks about God, about how comforting it would be if he did, indeed, believe in some sort of deity. How asking for forgiveness would make it 240

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easier to bear, knowing someone understood his pain. He realizes for the first time why people cling to such ideas. He, on the other hand, has no such comfort. Garrett feels something inside his body letting go, giving up some hold over him. The mind on the floor becomes quiet. The body goes still. He no longer feels anything but the smoldering pain. Lying on the floor in a lump, he watches the coals in the hearth turn from gray to black. The storm rages against the house, but inside the air is still. Garrett hears little more than the wind and the ticking of the ship's clock. These sounds seem to reflect his life, distant and very small. His sense of time distorts. The clock seems to take hours from one tick to the next as the night drags on. After a time, he no longer hears the clock or the wind. There is just the sound of his body breathing in, and out again. In the hour before sunrise, the storm blows itself out. The rains stop. The wind turns into a steady breeze. A deadly silence pervades the house. Shadowy shapes of furniture about the room seem hostile, like demons closing in. Thoughts bubble up in his head. I can't go on living like this, It's all so meaningless, What's the point? He no longer has the strength or the will to resist his growing agony. At the point where it becomes unbearable, he surrenders to it with total submission. Feeling it all the way to the soles of his feet, he tastes the essence of absolute agony, like white-hot fire. He makes love to it, worships it. He becomes it. Nothing exists but the pain. 241

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The room expands to the point that walls and floor and ceiling and furnishings are indistinguishable. A palpable black void forms and swallows him in a totality of primal pain. Caught in this void, Garrett feels the overpowering sensation of plummeting through space with no place to land. He gropes about this inky chaos with what no longer feels like a body. He has catapulted beyond mind and body, transcended physical form, become absolutely the cool blue light of pure consciousness. His anguish turns to a complete and utter vacuum of emotion and thought, which now feels like nothing more than a sensation of weightlessness. He becomes the void itself, the dense silence. **** Morning unfurls. The world of light once again descends upon the island. It brings pale warmth under a rose-colored sky. Bars of red-yellow rays filter though the shutters to find Garrett curled in a ball with Songoree's yellow blanket spread over him. His eyes are open. He watches the horizontal bands of light make beautiful strips across the room. He has no awareness of having slept and no feeling of being rested. He remains motionless. His gaze wanders about the room picking out details: the rose stripes across the rattan reading chair, the dirt from the potted palm scattered across the floor, the dead coals of last night's fire, the colored light shimmering across the white wall. He marvels at every detail his gaze touches. It's all so fresh, so incredibly beautiful. This mundane room is alive with energy. 242

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Through the door to the study he sees his portrait on the wall. It causes a distant memory to bubble up, something Marc told him about the painting. Marc said that he painted light, not objects. Objects only reflect the light, give it color and texture. Objects are light's canvas. Yes, Garrett thinks, that is what he's witnessing—the splendor of light itself. There is something magical about it. The harsh sound of rumbling machinery intrudes upon his feelings of awe. He hears a vehicle stop at the end of the road. Now there are footsteps on the porch. Could it be the police, he wonders? Is it the fat officer with the big gut and sweat stains coming to arrest him for attempted rape? Perhaps it's Songoree's surfer buddies here to beat him senseless for his crime. So be it, he thinks, not caring. His mind returns to the void. The front door creaks open. Garrett feels a presence in the room, sees the light transform as shadows cross the floor. He remains perfectly still while listening to the intruder take quick steps through the room. Someone takes hold of him and pulls him around, turns his face up to the awesome light. "Noodles!" The voice seems incredibly loud and carries a timbre of panic. Garrett peers into those dark eyes. He sees the azure flecks. After what seems an eternity, he tries to speak, tries to say how sorry he is, but the words all fall apart in his mind. He realizes that no words can convey what he feels. His eyes speak what's in his heart, saying over and over: I'm sorry, I love you. 243

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Songoree's eyes respond: I know, I'm here now, I'm here for you. Songoree attempts to lift him, but Garrett's body is as stiff as death after spending the night motionless on the hardwood floor. He begins to hope that Songoree will stay silent and not move him, just continue to hold him until death takes him. "Well, young man." There is another presence in the room. A piercing fear startles Garrett. "I told you I would come back when your turning leaf touched the ground. There you are, and here I am." The old man chuckles. The sound sparkles in the morning light. Through a cloud of confusion, Garrett's forms a silent question with his eyes. Songoree whispers, "My grandfather came to help you." "Monkey-boy, let's lift him onto the couch. Then make some coffee." They lift Garrett's body from the floor. He is amazed at the old man's strength. Grandfather sits next to him on the couch as Songoree leaves the room. He feels sad as Songoree slips away, that is, until he gazes into the old man's face. He marvels at how time has carved exquisite lines through the veneer, how the light seems to radiate from behind it. There is comfort in this face, and especially in the eyes. Garrett recognizes Songoree's tranquil eyes set within this ancient mask. The splendor of this vision stuns him back into utter stillness. He holds his breath, waiting to see what will happen next. "Breathe," Grandfather says. 244

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Garrett forms a question in his mind. He wants to know what is happening to him. The old man answers, "Your mind has catapulted from the world of the mundane into something extraordinary, a total freedom of self. It transcends the ordinary world and all its cares." Grandfather smiles and lays a hand on Garrett's shoulder. "You're free of your personal history. In this freedom, there is no self and no pain. Only wonder for what is." "Is this what you want me to write about? I can't. I have no words to describe this." "Don't think about what you have or don't have. That will only drag you back into the mundane. Focus on what you see and what you feel." Grandfather takes Garrett's hand. "I'm not here to ask for help. You have relinquished your history and stopped your pain, temporarily. I would like to show you how to sustain this freedom, permanently. If you choose to write about it so others can do the same, so be it." "How do you know all this?" Grandfather's serene face lights up. "Because I know who I am." "Coffee's ready," Songoree says as he glides into the room carrying two mugs. He wears his usual faded blue tank top and board shorts. The simplicity of his clothes makes him seem all the more elegant. There is a dear perfection about him. Grandfather's gray kimono is equally simple, but with his venerable face and flowing hair, he seems stately, even noble. 245

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Garrett takes the mug. Feels its weight in his hands. He inhales the aroma, and as he brings the mug to his lips, he notices that his hand—indeed, his whole body, trembles. He doesn't feel cold, but he has to concentrate to keep from spilling the coffee as he sips. Grandfather notices the trembling, too. He tells Songoree to build up a fire. Garrett closes his eyes as the coffee flavor blossoms in his mouth. The taste combines with the heat to create a sensation that ripples through his entire body. He sips again with the same effect. It's as if he's tasting coffee for the first time. He wonders, How did this happen? Grandfather says, "You created the pain in your heart by focusing on yourself—what you had and lost, want but do not have, have and cling to. It is all about greed, about attaining what you think will make you happy. When the pain became intolerable, your mind shut down, which killed your ego. Once that happened, you stopped focusing on yourself and began to see life in a different way. You experience life with no self, hence, no pain." He waits, giving Garrett time to absorb his words. Songoree kneels before the ashes in the fireplace. He has a handful of wood shavings and is searching for live coals. Deep in the cold gray ashes, he finds enough warm coals for his purpose. He sprinkles the shavings onto the coals and gently blows them to life. Smoke begins to rise. "I can sustain this feeling?" "Yes, with a correct view you can sustain it." "What is a correct view?" 246

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"The reef in this bay is made up of millions of tiny living polyps. If polyps saw the world the way people do, each polyp would see itself as something separate and distinct from everything else in the universe. That thinking leads to ego, viewing the universe in terms of how it relates to you, the polyp. Ego leads to greed, insuring that you have as much or more than all the other polyps—more food, more sun, more water, more fish to admire you. Greed leads to pain because the ego is never satisfied for long, it always wants more." The old man pauses to insure Garrett understands. "Correct view for a polyp is to see the reef, not himself or other polyps. To know he is part of a magnificent, multifaceted reef. To know that the reef is more than just coral, it is the salt water, the sun that gives it energy, the moon that creates the tides and the other sea life that bring food. All these things are the reef as well, because without them there would be no reef. Correct view is the polyp seeing clearly that he is the reef and the reef is all these things." Songoree now has a flame growing. He stacks several splinters of bone-white driftwood over it to build a warm fire. Garrett stares at Grandfather's face, trying to form another question. The old man's eyes narrow to two slits, and the moistness of the corneas reflects the red-orange light of the growing fire. Grandfather begins to shake his head, imperceptibly at first then more noticeably. This maneuver creates the effect of a quivering light within his eyes, which somehow soothes Garrett even more and stops his internal dialogue cold. 247

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Grandfather says, "I will leave you now. We will talk again. Remember, you can't run from your pain, because you create it in your own mind. Leaving the island won't help. Stay and let Monkey-boy help you. With his help, perhaps you can conquer this pain once and for all." He lifts himself off the couch and glides to the door. He turns to say, "Monkey-boy, care for our brother." He glances at Garrett. "The ills of the earth stem from man's absorption with himself. Picture a world where each man values the wellbeing of all other creatures above himself, as if every man were a Gandhi. There would be no violence, no war, no weapons and all men would nurture the earth. I have seen such a world." He moves through the door like a spring breeze, and there is no sound when the screen door closes. The fire burns strong enough so that Garrett feels the heat radiating from the hearth. He stares at the dancing flames. The movement mesmerizes him. "I'll make breakfast," Songoree says. "Is there anything else you need right now? Are you warm enough? Do you want a hot shower?" "After what I did, I didn't believe I would ever see you again." "I'm so over that. Look, you've been hurting for a long time. Your pain drove you to it. I'm sorry I left you alone, but how cool is this? I mean, what you're feeling right now? Grandfather was right—you're the one." "Can you teach me how to sustain this?" 248

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"Be still, Noodles. Be still. You need to feel what's happening, not jump back into your mind with all this thinking. You're trying to analyze it, grasp it, and you can't. Because it's nothing. Just sit back and drink it in, savor the feeling, absorb it into your toenails, the roots of your teeth, the ends of your hair follicles. Tell you what, you take a hot shower and get dressed while I make breakfast. We'll loaf for the rest of the day. No writing and no housework. We'll be lumps on the sand, enjoying the feeling of nothing." Garrett drops his head at the mention of writing. "Okay, no work. But I'll finish the story soon, and I'll be going back to San Francisco. I want you to come with me." "Me, leave this island?" He takes Songoree's hand. "I know you love to dance. You've been practicing ballet whenever I leave the house. If you come to San Francisco I can get you enrolled into the Ballet School of San Francisco. They're connected with the San Francisco Ballet, one of the finest dance companies in the world." A stunned expression crosses Songoree's face. Garrett squeezes his hand. "I'm a friend of the school's director. Marc and I did a lot of fundraising for him. I'm sure he'll enroll you." "I can't leave." "You can live with me. It would cost you nothing to live there. Please." Songoree looks away, trying to hold back his emotions. "You're serious? You'd do that, take me to San Francisco and support me?" 249

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"Sure. It's not much, really." Songoree's head snaps back to Garrett. His eyes open wide. "Not much! Are you mad? It's everything. It's all I dream of. You like me that much, to do all that for me?" Garrett eyes rivet to his. "You know, for a bright boy you can be pretty dense. I like pistachio ice cream, I like listening to opera, I like plunging into the cold surf. Don't you see? What I feel for you is way beyond like. I'm in love with you. You're part of me. I'll be leaving soon, and I don't want to lose you. I want to be part of your life." Pearls of tears are trapped by Songoree's eyelashes. He throws himself against Garrett, nuzzling his face into the soft pocket where Garrett's neck meets his shoulder. His voice is hoarse when he whispers, "I can't leave Grandfather or my people, but you won't lose me. Our karma is bound together. Like it or not, whatever life brings, I'll be part of you." [Back to Table of Contents]

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22. For three days Garrett and Songoree do nothing but loaf on the beach and cook. Garrett helps prepare the meals and wash the dishes. They don't talk about feelings or writing or metaphysics. They don't discuss their past or what lies ahead. All their energy focuses on being together here and now. They talk of little things: the tides, the unusual fish on the reef, Garrett's need for a haircut, how to fix dinner, who will wash and who will dry. Garrett feels most happy when they don't talk at all. Lying side-by-side on the beach, baking under the late-morning sun, he watches beads of sweat form on Songoree's chest and run down his side, dripping into the sand. They walk into town to buy a new pot for the potted palm and spend the afternoon repotting. The root ball is unharmed, so it should thrive in the new pot. At night, Garrett lies in front of the fire reading while Songoree plays his guitar. They watch each other, feel each other's presence. They burn a fire in the fireplace every night because they find it comforting to watch the flame's rosy light shimmer on the walls. During this time of no work, of no striving to accomplish, a profound peacefulness descends over Garrett. He feels no pain and no wanting. He senses that he has scratched the surface of something deep in his core, a quiet joy he didn't know existed. 251

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On the morning of the fourth lazy day, Owen and Micah join them on the beach. The day is bright and warm. The water is bracing. Palm branches wave idly in the breeze. Birds perform lazy acrobatics high above the beach. They all swim out to the reef to spend the morning under the surface in what has become a familiar yet extraordinary environment. Hunger drives them back. First, Songoree swims in to fix lunch while the others continue to explore. Soon Garrett and the boys charge back to shore, exhilarated and ravenous. They sit around the table on the porch dripping seawater onto the planks and drinking iced tea. Songoree serves shark steaks marinated in a Thai five-spice sauce and grilled on a little Weber barbecue grill. Steamed Chinese cabbage accompanies the fish, beside a potato salad that has large chunks of boiled potato, sweet Maui onions and a gray mustard with plenty of coarsely ground pepper. The fresh baguettes are crusty on the outside and soft on the inside. Diving into the food, Owen asks Garrett how he prefers eating shark instead of the shark eating him, which brings smiles. Between mouthfuls, Garrett asks Owen if he has started the job hunt. Owen's face lights up. "I found a job right here in town. I'm the new beach boy at The Village. I'll be working with this guy everybody calls Pops." Songoree grins, reaching over and patting Owen on the back. "That's way cool. How did you manage to land that job? They only want locals working the beach. It makes it seem more exotic for the haoles." 252

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"My computer skills. Their reservation and billing system sucks, but they can't afford anything better. I convinced them I can work on the systems for a few hours in the morning and work the beach in the afternoons. They were thrilled at the idea, so I start on Monday." Songoree says, "I'll tell Pops to treat you right. He and I are solid. We spend a lot of time together carving waves." "He asked about you. Said they haven't seen you in weeks and what the hell has happened to you?" Owen lowers his eyes and his voice drops. "He mentioned something to the affect that you would rather spend your time nursemaiding mahus than surfing with your friends. I kind of gathered that mahu means queer?" Songoree nods. "Your reputation is going down the tubes," Micah says. "Maybe we shouldn't spend so much time here." "I haven't done anything I'm ashamed of," Songoree says. "Besides, I'm spending time with people I care about." "So, Owen," Garrett says, changing the subject, "how does it feel going from a challenging job with a six-figure salary to being a minimum-wage beach boy? You okay with that kind of transition?" "Oddly enough, I'm fine with it. What's important is being with Micah. I don't need a high-pay, high-stress job to give me a sense of self-worth." He takes Micah's hand. "I just need to be with this man, and the job helps pay the bills. Besides, being a beach boy is kind of sexy."

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Micah leans over and kisses Owen. The kiss is so intimate it causes Garrett and Songoree to look at each other and smile. Micah says, "You don't need any help at being sexy." Owen laughs. His face, which has turned golden from the tropical sun, shows a hint of embarrassment. "How about your work," Owen asks. "Making any progress on the manuscript?" "Not these last few days, but I'm planning to work this afternoon. Hope you don't mind having the beach to yourselves. I'll help Song clean up and work for a few hours. It's time I got started again." "We don't mind," Owen says. "Just don't peek out the windows. No telling what we may be doing down there if left to ourselves." He laughs, and it's Micah's turn to blush. Songoree winks at Owen. "Okay, no peeking. Noodles, before you start work, can I show you something to help your writing." Surprise spreads across Garrett's face. "You're kidding, right? You want to show me how to write? I have a master's degree in writing. I've written a four-hundred page manuscript. I think I know what I'm doing." "I don't know squat about writing. I'm talking about tapping into your creativity. I've seen you do it plenty of times, but it seems to be hit and miss with you. You're not always in that creative space when you write. I want to show you how to make yourself go there before you start writing so you can make it happen every time." 254

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Garrett sits stunned. He shakes his head as if to say he doesn't understand, even though he understands perfectly. When he's in a writing groove, it feels like some other parallel self takes over his body, some self unmarred by worldly concerns. If he were religious he would call it his soul, but he thinks of it as pure focus. While in that state, it is the most profoundly satisfying thing he knows. And yes, he admits, it is very much a hit-and-miss thing. Songoree leans close to him, so close Garrett feels his breath caress his cheek. An intensity hovers between them. Songoree says, "Let me give you an example of tapping into creativity. Possibly the greatest piece of music ever created was composed by a man who was stone deaf." Owen says, "Beethoven's Ninth Symphony." Songoree nods. "I like to think he was able to do that by tapping into something that encompasses all music, by going beyond mere knowledge of music and into pure creativity. My grandfather says that the intent of all religions is to get each of us to that point of experiencing something bigger than we are. Some call it God, some Buddha, some nirvana. I call it creativity. There are many names, but they are all the same thing." A strange calm descends over the table, altering the mood. In the aftermath of Songoree's offer they all sit listening to the waves, digesting what he said. Songoree leans back in his chair, away from Garrett, but the intensity between them survives.

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"That reminds me," Micah says. "We were invited to a beach party tonight where there's going to be a fire-walking ceremony. Are you two going?" Songoree says, "My grandfather asked my mother to organize the ceremony to show Garrett that reality is not always as it seems. Fire-walking comes from Fiji, where they are skilled in the art of manipulating reality." They finish lunch in a quiet, easy mood. Owen and Micah return to the beach while Garrett helps Songoree clear the table and wash the dishes. After the cleanup, they move to the study. Garrett turns on his computer and prepares to work, while Songoree stands behind him and rubs his shoulders. Garrett is keenly aware of the strength in those fingers that gently knead his muscles. He closes his eyes, trying to curb his excitement from Songoree's caresses. Songoree tells him to concentrate on his breathing. "Feel it going in and out. Breathe from your diaphragm. Don't try to control it. Just focus on it. Feel it. When a thought pops up, don't judge it as good or bad, don't try to shoo it away, just notice it and go back to feeling the breath." He tells Garrett there is a life force behind the mind. They are attempting to tap into that force. "The Chinese call it qi. In Japan it's called ki." A dreamy silence accumulates around them, as dense as silt. Garrett feels himself relaxing. His mind quiets. He tries to focus on his breath, but his attention stays on the hands massaging his shoulders. Songoree seems to emit an energy, 256

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like a low-pitched vibration. It pulls Garrett into a deeper silence, possessing him. He leans back against Songoree's torso. They fuse. Velvet fingers massage the back of his neck, moving forward to just below his ears while working in small circles. "Be like a calm mountain lake. Thoughts come up like a breeze to cause ripples on the surface, but under the surface is the hushed stillness. Don't grasp at thoughts. Like the wind, they slip though your mind and blow away on their own." Garrett feels himself falling away, as if the ground opened beneath him and swallowed him whole. The sensation startles them both. A minute later, he feels a sensation of supreme comfort, like being suspended in warm water. He swallows. A moan escapes his lips as the silence devours him. He settles into a beautiful calm, and fades until he becomes only a feather of perception, bodiless. Songoree's voice now seems a thousand miles away. "Start typing." Words begin to pour into Garrett's mind. His fingers move over the keys, trying to keep up. Images flash in his head, and his fingers record what he sees, which is a spring morning, a Saturday... **** He and Marc sleep side-by-side. The sun's rays wash through the open window and fall on their faces. The room is warm. Marc's breathing is labored and makes a wheezing sound that wakes Garrett. 257

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Moving gently to keep from waking Marc, he swivels his head to gaze at him. The gaunt face looks like the starving children in the TV Relief Fund ads. Marc's whole body is dripping with sweat. The sheets are soaked around him. Even in sleep, his face wears a pained expression. Suffering is evident in every breath. This pain never leaves his features. Dark circles around his eyes are embedded in the yellowish-gray skin tones covering the rest of his body. Lately, he has begun to emit a sour odor that no amount of washing can remove and no cologne can mask. Looking past the ravaged face, Garrett sees the man's beauty. He feels the energy radiating from this frail body. Powerless to change what is happening, he feels the familiar helplessness tightens around his heart. But this morning holds promise. At least Marc is in bed with him, not hiding about the apartment with all the lights on. AIDS dementia brings on strange behavior—forgetfulness, paranoia, compulsive hiding, and straying of the mind. Marc often walks around the apartment during the night turning on lights, looking for something. Yes, days that begin in bed are to be savored. Garrett slips out of bed to make coffee and prepare Marc's bath. He stands in the kitchen while the water heats, makes coffee in the French coffee press and spends a quiet half-hour in the living room sipping the rich brew. Today will be warm, he thinks, a good day to open all the windows and air out the apartment, rid the place of the sour antiseptic odor. It will also be a good day for Marc to get outside if he feels up to it. 258

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He wonders which Marc will wake up today—the angry, bitchy, self-pitying one who lashes out at everyone or the gentle loving soul who knows how little time is left and wants to relish each moment. It doesn't matter which, he thinks. We've got the weekend to ourselves. I'll treasure it, even if he doesn't. An odd sense of comfort warms him, knowing he has the whole day to devote to Marc. A smile crosses his face, and he can't wait any longer. He finishes his coffee, pours himself another cup and runs a warm bath. When the tub is half-full he turns off the water and moves to the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he plays with the few strands of hair that have fallen over Marc's face. Marc opens his eyes and attempts a smile. Garrett carefully props him up, hands him six painkillers and a glass of water. He strokes the soft part of Marc's tummy as he downs the pills. When Marc puts the glass back on the nightstand, Garrett stands and bends over him, lifting his naked body from the bed and carrying him straight to the tub. He is no burden—Marc's body is feather-light. Garrett maneuvers him through the doorway and eases his body into the warm water. Once settled, Garrett takes hold of a foot and soaps it down, scrubbing his way to the knee. "Guess what day it is," he says. "I can see from the sparkle in your eye that it's Saturday. That means no Nurse Baker. Glory be, I have you to myself all day." 259

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Garrett knows now which Marc sits in front of him. He says a silent prayer of thanks. Marc will have at least one more good day. These good days are getting few and far. He leans forward and kisses him, slow and tender. It is amazing how much raw emotion can be exchanged in the simple act of touching lips together. That, he thinks, is one of the true wonders of the universe. "How shall we spend the day? It's already warm if you want to go out. You name it—anything." "I want breakfast at Sam's, a picnic in Golden Gate Park, and let's drive out to Ocean Beach and sit on the cliff to watch the sunset." A grin spreads across Marc's face as Garrett takes hold of the other foot and begins to scrub. You could almost believe he was his old self, the way that grin lights up his face. They talk quietly, refining the details of the plan. They never go beyond talking of today. Tomorrow is too far away to fathom. Today is enough. While Garrett shampoos what little hair is left on Marc's head, they hear the doorbell ring and the sound of the front door being unlocked. The apartment fills with the musical voice of Jeremy, the volunteer AIDS worker who comes twice a week. "Hello?" Marc whispers, "Two bits says she's in drag." "You're on." Jeremy leans against the door frame and glares down at the tub. "Well, thank God, I don't have to wash your skinny ass today." Jeremy is tall, muscular, and very black. He's 260

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wearing loose jeans and a tight tank top to show off his twelve hours a week at the gym. His shaved head shines above a face that is in full makeup. Marc says, "Why, Miss Scarlet, how you do go on." Jeremy crosses his thick arms over his chest. "Don't start with me, Missy. The weather is perfect, and I sure am hoping you plan to go outside and get out of my way so I can clean up. Is there anything you need before I start?" Marc clears his throat. "Yes, I need to tell you how grateful I am for all you do for us. Over the past year, I've come to love you like my sister. I honestly don't know what I'd do without you." Jeremy's plucked eyebrows raise suspiciously, "What the hell has gotten into her? You two better shuffle on out of here before I gets mad." He turns and stalks into the bedroom, ripping the sheets off the bed. Marc grins at Garrett. "I win." "Oh, no, you don't. Makeup is not drag. You have to wear a dress and a wig for drag." "Lots of women wear jeans and bright-yellow tank tops." "Sure, but only dykes shave their heads. She has to at least wear a wig for drag." "Point taken. You win." It takes a quick half-hour for them to get dressed for their outing. In San Francisco, even on the warmest days, it's wise to dress in layers, as the weather can change in minutes. Marc wears five layers. With all these clothes, including a thick wool sweater, long black jeans and a black-and-orange Giants baseball cap, Marc seems almost of normal plumpness. 261

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Garrett slings a backpack across the handlebars of Marc's wheelchair to hold extra clothes and medications and sketchpads and writing materials. The hills, crowded with white buildings that look newly washed, reflect the bright sun and also the shadows of clouds floating high above. On the street, Marc smiles and waves to everyone. They begin to pass an elderly homeless woman on a doorstep holding out a cup. Marc tells Garrett to stop. The wheelchair comes to rest just in front of the woman. She has that all-too-typical bag lady look: puffy eyes; deeply lined face with dirt smudges; many layers of shabby, unmatched clothes. But there is also something gentle about her face, not at all like so many street people whose lives have hardened into bitterness. Marc reaches out and takes her hand. "Have you eaten today?" She shakes her disheveled head. "Would you like to eat with us?" She shakes her head again. Marc looks up at Garrett. "Honey?" Garrett pulls a few bills out of his pocket and stuffs them in her cup. "Bless you," she says as they wheel away. At the corner, waiting for the green light, Marc says, "We live such a blessed life. It's a shame we can't do more for others." They stop at the newsstand beside Sam's. Garrett buys a local paper for Marc and the New York Times for himself before gliding into the cafe. They pick an outdoor table close 262

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to the street so Marc can watch the people streaming by. The waiter is new. Tall and good-looking and wearing a beret, he says good morning with a phony French accent. "Bonjour, messieurs. Ay, what would you like?" Marc says, "Bonjour. Je voudrais oeuf au jambon, et cafe au creme, sil vous plait." The waiter's eyes widen, his face reddens as he sinks into confusion. He says, "Pardon?" Garrett translates. "We'll both have the ham steak and egg, over easy, and coffee with cream." The waiter scribbles on a pad as if he is taking careful notes for a midterm exam. "I'll bring your coffee right away." He grins and swishes away. They sip coffee, read the papers, watch the foot traffic flowing by. They make casual remarks about tidbits in the papers and occasionally Marc comments on a passerby "Hello, gorgeous." Each time Garrett looks up to see who it is. The food finally arrives. The ham is sliced thick, and the egg is large and colorful and hot from the pan. Garrett sprinkles salt and pepper over both plates. He rips a hunk off the French baguette and breaks the yolk with the bread, soaking the warm bread with the glowing yellow ambrosia. The ham has a deep smoky taste, and Marc says, "This ham reminds me of that jambón serrano we ate in Spain. And do you remember the anchovies-and-octopus tapas we ate with that fabulous sangria on the boulevard by the Prado? How wonderful it would be to see Europe one more time." 263

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Garrett is not shy around a plate, and it takes him no time to finish his meal. Marc manages to eat about half of his breakfast, which is a lot for him. Garrett polishes off his leftovers as well. He takes what is left of the baguette, swabs both plates clean and savors the last of the bread. Marc calls the waiter over and orders two more coffees. They lounge for another hour with the papers and watch the people passing by. On the way to Golden Gate Park they stop at a corner mom-and-pop deli for corned beef on rye sandwiches, macaroni salad, crisp dill spears and golden ripe pears. The owner, Mr. Chang, comes out from behind the counter to shake Marc's hands. They engage in warm conversation. Mrs. Chang emerges from the back room with a wide smile spread across her plump face. She kisses Marc on the cheek and, walking over to a stand of flowers, snaps a carnation from its stem and places it in the buttonhole of his jacket. At the park, Garrett wheels Marc through the lanes to the picnic area between the duck lake and the tennis courts. The spring weather is dazzling—fragrant air, bees droning at the early blooming plants. Cherry blossoms drift on the wind, resembling pink snowflakes. The late-morning light is crisp, and makes everything it touches sparkle with life. Masses of people walk their dogs or their kids or their spouse. Joggers glide by at a fast pace, and sun-worshipers bask on blankets spread over jade-green grass. Garrett stops wheeling by the little waterfall that flows into the lake. They take a moment to admire the scene. Gaggles of geese and ducks float on the water. Their honking reminds 264

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Garrett of party laughter. Several of the better picnic spots already have blankets spread about. They see a shady spot by the tennis courts that is only a little ways off the path. Suddenly, they hear loud honking behind them. They whirl around in time to see two dozen mallards, flying in a V formation at eye level and coming right at them. Garrett ducks, and Marc screams. The birds fly inches over their heads with the surge of wind from the beating wings loud in their ears. A moment later, they hear a prolonged splashing sound as the birds slide onto the surface of the lake. Garrett and Marc look at each other and begin to laugh. Marc points to a large green spot on Garrett's shirt, which makes them howl even louder. Garrett spreads a red-and-white checkered blanket under a lofty pine by the tennis courts. He helps Marc maneuver from the wheelchair to the blanket and drops down beside him. On one side of the park are a dozen tennis courts surrounded by a high chain-link fence. From where they lie, they can hear the players grunting and the pop ... pop ... pop of the racquets hitting the bright-yellow balls. There is a soothing rhythm to the sound. Shirtless men jog by, mostly gym-queens whose bodies are out of proportion, with thicker muscular chest and arms supported by skinny underdeveloped legs. At least fifty dogs wander around the lake, their noses to the grass sniffing at every odor. Their owners all know each other. They are predominately gay men who socialize like mothers at the kiddy playgrounds. 265

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After a time of just watching the different activities and noticing this or that passerby, Marc sits up and leans his back against the tree trunk. Garrett gets his sketchbook and pencils from the backpack, and Marc occupies himself with drawing faces of the people nearby. Garrett pulls out his writing materials and works on a story for his writing group. Lunchtime comes, and they eat. After lunch, Marc goes back to drawing. Garrett leaves him under the pine and walks out of the park to get him a rocky road ice cream cone. When he returns with the dripping cone, Marc is paying particular attention to the toddlers nearby, sketching their rosy, round faces. Marc takes the ice-cream and says, "What a shame we never had children. That's the one advantage straight couples have over us—they can breed." "You just want to strap me down with a pack of kids so I can't go kicking up my heels once you're gone." It seems funny to talk about what they know will come soon, but there is also a comfort in facing it. Marc insists that's how they act. Marc shakes his head. "I'm looking forward to you being free of the burden of me." "What do you mean?" "Don't you hate me, just a little, for putting you through all this?" "The burden of you has been the happiest time of my life, and the hardest. I've never felt so needed and so loved. But when you go, it will destroy me. Maybe I'll hate you then." Marc takes his hand. "That's why I want one more thing from you when I'm gone. Just one last burden. I want you to 266

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write our story. Not the story of my death, but of our love, what we are to each other. There are so few novels with positive gay characters. I think it would be wonderful if you tell the world how special it can be. How special we are together." Garrett leans into him. They kiss, a long and passionate kiss. Garrett tastes the rocky road ice cream as well as the love spilling out of Marc. When they part he stays close. Marc whispers, "Promise me." He nods. "Okay, lover man. I'll make you the heroine in my first novel." Marc smiles as his eyes brim with tears. "Just be kind when you write about me. Don't do a Truman Capote thing on me." "Not to worry. I only remember the good times." Marc swallows. "I love you. Loved you the day we met and every day after. I'll love you into death and beyond if that's at all possible. Long after the memory of me fades I will still be loving you." Now they cry. They kiss again, and Garrett tastes the salty tears mixing with the sweetness of the ice cream. They are quiet on the drive out to Ocean Beach. They pass the zoo and park on the cliffs above the beach. They find a sheltered spot at the top of the cliff to watch the sunset. A fresh, salty wind blows off the ocean and up the cliff. Marc sits between Garrett's legs and leans back into his body for support. There is warmth in their touching. The breeze plays with their hair, whipping the strands this way and that. 267

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They are both tired but a feeling of strength grows when they are this close. Clouds drift high over the setting sun. There is no fog out over the Pacific—it's sparkling blue as far as they can see. The sun touches the horizon, and Marc gasps, "My God, look how clear it is. We might see a green flash tonight." "We never see a green flash. Don't get your hopes up." Clouds overhead turn from pink to vermilion. The sun drops quickly. Marc leans back into Garrett, and protective arms hug his frail body. "Honey, I need another favor. One besides the writing about us." "What else could you want?" Garrett holds his breath, and his body goes rigid. "I want you to see the doctor and tell him you're not sleeping well. I want you to get a prescription for sleeping pills." "We're not giving up." "We've already given up. We know what's coming. I want to go at home with you and the life we've made. I just want to go to bed one night, lying in your arms like I've done a thousand times, and drift off to sleep." "I can't do that, so don't ask me to." "I don't want the last thing I see in this wonderful life to be the back of some smug bastard doctor in green scrubs and a starched white coat, walking helplessly away from me in some sterile hospital room. Can you please love me enough to help me go at home with dignity?" 268

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They look out over the water and watch the horizon swallow the sun. The instant the last of the sun slips below the water there is a tiny sparkle of blue-green as the sun's rays come through the watery curvature of the earth. It looks like a fabulous emerald glittering under a bright light. Then the vermilion color begins to drain from the clouds until the sky turns black. [Back to Table of Contents]

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23. Garrett sits at his desk staring out the front window. A delightful mixture of emotions churns in his head. The writing had come easy. Not only easy, it was good. As satisfying as any he's ever done. He wrote in a state sports professionals call "being in the zone." Mixed with the joy of creativity is the memory of Marc on that particular day, the last good day before the slide. That's how he thinks of it—a long, painful slide into death. That day is how he likes to remember Marc: sharing breakfast and papers at the cafe, an afternoon at the park, the taste of rocky-road ice cream, and sunset at the beach. Nothing special. He takes the memory and puts it back into its compartment within the treasure chest he carries in his heart. The chest he reserves for all those nothing-special times. He takes a few deep breaths, stands on wobbly legs and walks to the porch. Down by the water, two golden bodies sprawl on the sand. Consumed by the writing, he had forgotten that Owen and Micah had come for lunch. Songoree sits at the table bent over a sketchpad, drawing patterns. He looks up and seems to gauge him. "Looks like the writing went well. How do you feel?" Garrett nods. "Swell. You think I can do that every time?"

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"It's like carving a wave. Once you've done it, there's nothing to it. The more you do it the easier it gets and the longer you can sustain it." Garrett sits at the table, shaking his head. He feels he's been given a precious gift that can't be taken away. "What are you drawing?" "I'm playing with some different designs for your totem animal, or in your case, a totem fish." "My what?" "Everyone has a totem. Some animal or bird or fish that their spirit closely resembles or they have some special affinity for. I would have thought your totem was the sea otter, but Grandfather assures me it's the manta ray. It's unusual, but I should have expected the unusual with you." Garrett feels a bewildering numbness reaching from his gut to his head. He's never told anybody about that diving experience or the recurring dreams about it. Songoree pushes the sketchpad across the table. "Check these out. I'm leaning towards the manta ray flying through the rising sun. What do you think?" Garrett looks over four designs. They are all simple. Two have Japanese characters combined with the ray. One is a very ferocious looking ray. Garrett agrees that the most appealing design is the ray with the rising sun backdrop. "Yes, this one. How did he know about something so personal to me." "How does he know anything? By direct experience. He sees what's in front of him." "I don't understand." 271

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"Of course not, you can't grasp this with the intellect. No one can." Garrett takes a deep breath and decides to drop this line of thought. "So, why are you making these designs? Are you turning into an artist or is this some kind of voodoo? You going to stick needles in them next time I step out of line?" "Just playing with ideas." "What's your totem?" "The blue whale. Grandfather's is the shark." They stay on the porch until the sun hovers above the horizon like a ball floating on the water. The clouds blush a dusty rose color. Vermilion light tumbles over the bay. When it's time to head for the beach party, they charge down the shore to where the Owen and Micah lie. The boys dress, and they all troop towards town. Suddenly, Songoree asks them to wait a minute. He dashes back to the house and sails through the front door. He emerges moments later and runs back to the group with Garrett's shark's-teeth necklace in his hand. He pauses in front of Garrett long enough to place the necklace around Garrett's neck. Garrett gives him a puzzled look, but Songoree turns and dashes down the beach towards town. The momentum of his running from the house has him excited, and his playful nature carries him down the beach at a fast clip. The three others stare at each other then sprint after him. They run through inch-deep water as dying waves spread over the sand like a white blanket. Their feet spray foamy 272

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water through the air. The cadence of their pumping arms and legs fall in unison and soon they are one body, a flock of shore birds flying down the beach. Micah runs on Garrett's left, with Owen struggling gamely on his right. Songoree sprints a few yards ahead, looking back every so often to ensure the others are keeping up. Two miles into the run Garrett pulls abreast of him. Sweat streams down Garrett's temple, and his head is already damp. Songoree slows his pace to a jog, and soon they are marching side-by-side with the others lagging by several yards. As the sun sets, the clouds turn deep crimson. Garrett's heart pounds as he gasps for air. He notices Songoree's fluttering chest and how his skin glows in the dying light. He longs to press against that luminous skin. To take his mind off his growing desire, he asks, "You arranged this party to show me that reality can be manipulated? And you claim your grandfather can alter events, even from a distance. How can that be?" "To understand, you must know—I mean utterly know— two things. First, everything is connected. You believe you're a body separate from everything else in the universe, just floating around with all the other gazillions of separate organisms, but that's simply not true. Behind the sum of your intellect and emotions and experiences is a life force that binds all three of those things. Most people call it a soul, thinking that it is something personal and separate, but it's not. "This force, this mysterious substance, combines with the life force of all other living beings. If you could see, like my 273

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grandfather sees, it would be obvious that we are all one entity. One gigantic, awesome, living energy force." "As in 'May the Force be with you?' And I suppose you're Obi-Wan." "It's more like you are the Force, along with everything else you can see. The point is, if you are connected with everything, you and everything are one." Songoree pauses a moment before continuing, letting the silence underscore his words. "The second thing you must know is the law of karma." "Yes, do something bad and something bad happens to you. You get what you put out." "Forget good and bad. Those are nothing more than your value judgments. They are not truth, not real. Karma is simply the physical law that every action creates a reaction, and every reaction is an action itself, so it, too, causes a reaction. The whole universe is changing right now, and every change is a reaction to a chain of events leading up to that reaction. Follow?" Garrett nods. "So, if you understand we are all connected, all one, and any action will cause a chain of reactions, you simply have to decide what outcome you desire and carefully figure out what chain of events can bring about that reaction, from first to last. Then all you need to do is perform the first action in the chain. Karma will do the rest if you've done your homework right." "Sounds pretty simple." 274

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"The key is understanding that we are connected, all one. You see, you're right when you think it's impossible to change things from a distance. But knowing that you and everything else are one, you make the change inside yourself, and it will ripple out on its own accord." "You also said your grandfather could possess people or animals. Is this one-life force idea how he does that, too?" "Your body, crown to soles, is nothing more than your thoughts of yourself in a form you can see and feel. You are the cause of a chain of thoughts from birth until now. Change the chain of thoughts, and you change the image of yourself. If you stop all thoughts and perceptions about yourself, that breaks the chain and you're nothing but pure being, that life force that binds everything. That's why monks sit alone for years in caves—to break the chain of thoughts about themselves and experience enlightenment, or pure being. "Now I'm confused again." "That's because you're trying to understand it with your mind. The intellect can't grasp this. You need to experience it to know. Just like your intellect can't explain how you got into a groove with your writing, but you can feel that it happened, can't you? That was you tapping into this life force and letting it shine through." "That's true, I don't understand that, either." Garrett looks back over his shoulder. Owen and Micah are walking together, Micah's arm drapes over Owen's shoulder, hugging Owen tight against him. Garrett considers sliding his arm over Songoree's shoulder but is afraid. They walk with a foot of space between them. 275

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"Don't feel bad," Songoree says. "I've been studying this all my life, and there is no way to rationalize it." "Is it only you and your grandfather who practice this, or are there others?" "I know of twelve shamans living on the islands, but around this area it's just Grandfather, me and Liliha." The color begins to fade from the crimson clouds. The eastern sky shades purple. Garrett takes in the dramatic scene. The transition from day to night is his favorite time of day. It's cooler now, the temperature drops from hot to comfortable. The breeze blowing off the bay feels delicious. "Your grandfather instructs her as well?" "No, I've been teaching her. Grandfather doesn't approve, but he doesn't stop me." "Doesn't approve?" "He's old-fashioned when it comes to women being shamans. Besides, he doesn't think I'm ready to teach anything. He sometimes calls me the 'three-inch teacher' because it's three inches from my ear to my mouth, which means, of course, that I'm only able to repeat what I've heard with no understanding behind what I say." Up ahead they see a fire lighting the beach area between the pier and the Village Resort. Garrett feels the urge to run again, and he takes off at a fast trot. The others are quick on his heels. They run past the Village Resort and up to the party, which is spread out over the beach. A fire burns at the center of a shallow pit, and a dozen six-foot-long poles stick out from the fire. They are torches ready for the fishermen. Around the pit 276

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are two dozen blankets spread over the sand. They look like a gigantic patchwork quilt. Off to one side, a low table supports several bowls of food. Songoree leads them to one blanket where Mother Kamamalu, Grandfather and Liliha sit watching the activities. All four men are breathing hard from the run and unable to talk. As they near the blanket, Liliha jumps up and runs to them. She throws her arms around Songoree and hugs him. Introductions are made all around. One by one, Liliha takes leis from her neck and places them over each of their heads. For Owen and Micah she drapes a single pink carnation lei over each head and says, "Welcome to our party." She turns to Garrett and drapes a bunch of leis around his neck and kisses him on the cheek. Breaking away, she says, "Brother, welcome to our family." Songoree slaps her bottom. She laughs and leads them to the blanket. Garrett eyes Songoree suspiciously, but he simply shrugs and shakes his head as if to say What can one expect from a girl? Songoree takes Owen and Micah over to a stack of firewood and tells them what he wants done. They go to work building the flames into a huge bonfire. Mother Kamamalu points to Garrett and says, "Come here, pretty man, sit by me. I want to know you better." She pats the space between her tremendous bulk and Grandfather. She wears a white muumuu from neck to ankles, and a ring of white orchids circles her head. Her enormous muumuu 277

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reflects the dancing firelight, making her shimmer a warm orange-red color. On the edge of the party, in the shadows of the breadfruit and palm trees, stands Reverend Bitton. He stares at Micah and Owen as they work shoulder-to-shoulder building the fire. His eyes flare when Owen leans over to kiss his son. "Lord," he says in a loud voice, "help me find a way to stop this wickedness. Help me bring my son back into the flock and overthrow those who lead him astray." Songoree goes over to where the men are unraveling a long fishing net. PJ looks up. "Hey, Song-boy. You takin' a break from babysitting mahus to hang with your buddies?" The stench of beer surrounds PJ like a halo. Mako, Bud and Pops are helping as well. They all have the same sloppydrunk appearance. Songoree says, "What's up with that, PJ, you been lonely? Can't get along without me?" Pops laughs. "That's right, Song-boy, Old PJ's been pining away. He just can't stand the thought that some other dude has stolen your heart way." "Hey, fuck you, Pops," PJ says. Bud raises his eyebrows. "Looks like you hit a raw nerve, Pops." PJ takes a step closer to Songoree and holds out his hand, offering a half-full beer can. "Have some." His offer sounds vaguely like a demand.

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Songoree takes the can and swallows a mouthful then passes the can back. PJ throws his arm around Songoree's shoulders. "Good to have you back where you belong." Pops smiles. "Looks like I'm going to be babysitting my own little fairy. Starting Monday that new haole is my assistant." "What a waste," Mako says. "All those haole babes will be fighting each other to get him back to their rooms, and he's going to be bored to tears with them." Songoree shakes his head. "Man, you sound like a bunch of old ladies at a sewing circle. Gossip, gossip, gossip. Do we stand here flapping our jaws about other peoples' business or do we fish?" "Damn straight, Song-boy," Pops says. "Let's do it." He starts clapping his hands in a steady rhythm. The twelve men around the net spread out in a loose group and begin to sway their hips and move their feet. Songoree begins to chant. His voice rises above the sound of clapping hands. The people sitting on the blankets begin to clap to the same rhythm. The men perform a ritual hula as Songoree chants. His voice is a river that flows above the accompanying sounds of surf, clapping hands and the calls of birds. Suddenly, a deep-throated war whoop erupts from the men. They run to the fire. Each man grabs a torch sticking out of the flames and lifts it high in the air. They run back to line up along the net stretched on the sand. Each man grabs a section of net. The lead fisherman charges into the water. 279

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One-by-one, they all dash after him, dragging the net with them. Garrett sits between Mother Kamamalu and Grandfather. She pats his leg with her massive hand. "Welcome to our family. We are proud to have you with us. I want to thank you for the change that has come over our Song. He was always a joyful and spirited child, but I have never seen him so happy. He's been like a new mother carrying her firstborn. He has that same calm, inner glow." Garrett blushes. He feels grateful for the dim evening light that hides his coloring. "Where did you come from," she asks. "Some big city on the mainland?" "Yes, San Francisco." "How romantic. I've seen pictures of San Francisco. It all seems so big and exciting. I don't know how you can stand to live in such an exciting place all the time. That would wear me down to skin and bones just seeing all that bustling." "That's why I came here. I needed to get away from it. It can be too much." "It's no wonder that so many mainlanders are skinny, always running from one exciting thing to another. I'm not made for that kind of living. I need a slow-paced life." Mother Kamamalu shifts her enormous bulk, trying to find a more comfortable position on the blanket. Once settled, she pats his leg again. Warmth pervades her entire being. "Whatever it is that you do to make our Song so happy, you keep doing it." 280

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Our Song. This is her way of talking, as if Songoree is some precious jewel owned by the entire community. Something of such tremendous value that everyone needs to keep guard and protect him at all cost. Yet something in her tone has a slight edge to it. A warning signal goes off in Garrett's head. She must know about the attempted rape, he thinks. Beneath her kind words he hears a note of caution, a fear of Song's being hurt. He swallows, not knowing how to respond. Grandfather clears his throat. "You've been here for several months now. Have you accomplished what you came for?" Garrett says, "I came here to be free. Free of people and responsibilities so I could write. But even though I don't work a nine-to-five I don't feel any more free. There are so many other things that weigh me down." Grandfather nods. "People in the West feel that freedom means having unlimited choices. Go anywhere, do anything, and have whatever they want. This kind of freedom causes confusion and unrest. True freedom comes from having little or no choice at all, but being satisfied with whatever life presents. Freedom comes with not wanting anything to be different, to accept whatever happens. That brings freedom of mind and profound happiness." Garrett smiles. "But you want to document your beliefs because you wish to change people's perspective. You're trying to change the entire world rather than accept reality as it is." 281

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"Yes, my son." The old man chuckles. "I am arrogant to think I can change this universe into something better than it is at this moment. My arrogance is my downfall, and I am fully prepared to pay the price, whatever that may be. But I don't do this by choice. I must do this. Life compels me." Garrett looks out towards the bay while trying to understand. The bonfire grows huge, and he feels the intense heat on his face. Owen and Micah stand to one side of the fire and occasionally throw chunks of wood into the flames. They set up an iron grill to one side of the fire and use a rake to drag some burning coals under the grill. Far up the beach, the shadowy palms reach towards the half-moon hanging in the purple sky. Night birds call from the cover of the rain forest. The sounds wash over the party. The fishermen are strung out in a long line about twenty feet apart. They hold their torches high over their heads as they drag the net straight out into the surf. When the lead fisherman has only his head and torch above the boiling surf, he curves to the right and begins to circle back into the beach. As the others follow, dots of light are strung out in a half-circle above the surf. The shimmering flames over the surf look magical, Garrett thinks, too impressive to be real. The dots of torchlight are mirrored a million times over with droplets of starlight in the sky above. He looks up and sees Orion and Cassiopeia and Gemini and, of course, the Big Dipper. To the east, the waning moon cuts a swath out of the vast incomprehensible blackness. 282

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As the fishermen haul the net back to shore, Liliha jumps up and gathers several girls from neighboring blankets. They form a circle at the water's edge and begin to sing as the men work. The tune is familiar to Garrett. The melody is the same as the popular song "Pearly Shells," but the words are Hawaiian. Mother Kamamalu leans over to Garrett and says, "This song is not the Don Ho song. It's a blessing to our island gods for bestowing their bounty in our nets." When most of the net is hauled in, the water still enclosed by it boils with fish. Grandfather pushes Garrett's shoulder and points to the fish, telling him to go help. He jumps up and runs to where Songoree, Owen, Micah and a few others are knee-deep in water. He goes directly to Songoree's side, and together they bend down, scoop up the larger fish with their bare hands and throw them up on the sand. Songoree is soaked, and within a few seconds, Garrett is drenched as well. His hair is plastered to his head, and his T-shirt and shorts cling to his body. As soon as a dozen fish flop on the sand they drop the last of the net so the smaller fish can escape. Liliha brings two knives over to Songoree and Garrett. The other fishermen stand in a circle holding their torches overhead so Songoree and Garrett can see. Songoree drops to his knees and grabs what looks like a twelve-pound striped sea-bass. He slits open the silver belly with one gliding movement of the knife and scoops out mounds of guts with his hands. Garrett drops down beside him and grabs a bullet-shaped fish. Holding it firmly, he 283

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forces the thin blade into the soft underside and slits the belly from tail to gills. He pulls out the stringy guts with his hands and rips out the gills. They work shoulder-to-shoulder, gutting and scaling. When Songoree scales his fish, using the back side of the knife to scrape, the scales fly off in all directions like shards of glasses from an exploding vase. Quiet settles around them. Garrett hears Songoree's heavy breathing, which is in sync with his own. Moonlight blends with the torchlight, causing the sweat on Songoree's forehead to shimmer. Songoree passes the cleaned fish to one of the women, who rinses the meat in a tub of fresh water and carries it to the cooking grill. He starts on another fish. His hands are washed in red. He smells of the sea mixed with the sweet scent of fish blood. Sweat drips into his eyes, and he wipes his bloody hand over his forehead, leaving a dark stain across his brow. He looks up, smiling. Their eyes meet. The intimacy of working together under the torchlight is overpowering. Suddenly, Garrett's throat aches with love for him. The singing and the joyful chatter of the feasters intensify the feeling until he can hardly breathe. He leans closer, wanting to kiss Songoree, but he stops himself. The need to touch those lips grows intense, but he forces himself to stare down at the fish he's scaling, trying to control his emotions. Songoree finishes his second fish. Before he hands it over to the waiting girl he cuts a strip of red meat from behind the 284

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dorsal fin to the belly, just in back of the pectorals. He peels the skin off a wedge and lifts it to Garrett's mouth. Garrett takes the raw fish in his mouth and chews. Its succulent flavor needs a pinch of salt, he thinks, or better yet, a splash of lime. Songoree peels the skin off another wedge and eats it himself. PJ stands over them with a torch in one hand, a beer in the other. He is dripping wet from hauling the net. He sees the intimate smiles, the sharing of meat. His jaw muscles tighten. He looks over at Mako, who is also watching the scene with a scowl on his face. A loud sizzling sound splits the air as the women throw the cleaned fish on the cooking grill. Garrett looks up and sees a cloud of sparks funnel up from the red coals. He hands a fish to a waiting girl and starts on another. More beer is brought over for the fishermen. "I was thinking," Songoree says to Garrett while they work, "I'd like to take all of you to Waipio Valley for a day. It's called the Valley of the Kings, and it's the most idyllic place on the islands. We would need to trek in, but you can see Hawaiian life as it was a thousand years ago. From there we can hike up to some falls and have lunch. What do you think, can I pull you away from your manuscript for a day, maybe Saturday?" "Sounds great." PJ looks over at Mako, who looks back at PJ. When all the fish are clean, the other fishermen roll up the net. Songoree and Garrett stand and examine each other. 285

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Their hands and arms are covered in scales and blood. Red stains spot their clothes. They run to the water and dive into the surf to rinse off. The warm wind and chilly water feel invigorating. It makes them both playful. At first they just splash each other while trying to stay afloat in the boiling surf, but the dim light of night encourages them into a freedom they would not allow in daylight. Soon they're locked body-to-body, wrestling and straining against each other while trying to force the other under the surface. On the beach, PJ, Mako and Pops stand watching. There is just enough light to make out what's happening. The Reverend Bitton walks up and watches with the same intensity. Mako says, "Looks like Song-boy has turned fruity on us." PJ nods and spits. He swallows a mouthful of beer. "They're just having fun," Pops says. "You've known Song all your life. We all know there's nothing wrong with that boy. Just high-spirited is all." Reverend Bitton shakes his head. "Looks like a duck, quacks like a duck and spends all his time with ducks." Mako says, "He's taking the fags to the falls for a picnic. That says it plain enough." "And I say he's just as normal as you or me," Pop replies with an edge to his voice. "There's a way to find out," Reverend Bitton says. "Did you say they're planning a picnic?" [Back to Table of Contents] 286

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24. Songoree and Garrett run out of the surf and up the beach. The bonfire radiates a tremendous heat. They stand close enough to warm and dry themselves. Around them, the spirited banter from one blanket to the next sounds like symphony. Liliha saunters over to them carrying two paper plates topped with grilled fish, steamed rice, sliced mango and poi. As she hands each a plate, she leans close to Songoree and says, "You're giving everyone quite a show, lover-boy. We should have sold tickets." She raises her chin absurdly high, turns, and strolls back to her blanket. Garrett notes that Hap has joined Mother Kamamalu's group. He sits beside Grandfather. Liliha sits next to him and lays her hand on his shoulder as he eats. He has a bottle inside a brown paper bag sitting next to him. Audrey sits on the other side of Grandfather. She wears a pale-blue loosefitting dress and her homburg. Her bare feet seem natural with her outfit. She looks up, sees Garrett staring at her and waves. He smiles and waves back. Garrett uses a plastic fork to eat the sweetest-tasting fish imaginable. What a delicious difference, he thinks, going right from the sea to the grill makes. He's not sure which of the fish he's eating. Its firm white flesh explodes with flavor. He polishes off the meal and tosses the paper plate and plastic fork into the fire. 287

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Songoree finishes his plate. He jogs over to a palm tree, and from the shadows brings out two shovels and two rakes. Back at the fire, he signals for Owen and Micah to help. They put down their beers and jump to his aid. Songoree directs them to dig a shallow trench five feet wide and twenty feet long next to the bonfire. Digging the trench in the soft sand takes no time. They use the rakes to push the coals from the fire into it and spread the coals out evenly. They can only work for short periods this close to the coals—they have to step back to let their faces and arms cool. Before long, they have a long bed of glowing coals. The air above the trench rises in visible waves from the intense heat. As they finish their work, Reverend Bitton lurches over to Micah. He grabs his son by the elbow and drags him several yards away from the others. "Micah, I want you to stop consorting with these sinners. They're vile and evil. Come to the chapel right now, and we'll repent together. It's not too late to save yourself." "Dad," Micah says, "how can you devote your life to Jesus, who proclaimed that we should be humble and not judge others, who said to love all people including our enemies, and turn out to be such a self-righteous, hateful bigot? I guess you're just a slow learner." Reverend Bitton raises his hand and slaps Micah's face. The sound is loud and sharp. Everybody falls silent, staring. "This isn't about Jesus. It's about your pride. My being gay has damaged your pride," Micah says. 288

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He turns his back on his father and strides to Owen's side, leaving the reverend standing in the shadows on the edge of the party. He drapes an arm over Owen's shoulders and draws him close. **** Songoree and Garrett survey the work a few feet from the edge of the pit. Mako walks up to them and spits into the bed of coals. It hisses as it hits the fiery coals. "It's hot, alright. I'll bet nobody but Song-boy can walk it," he says, glaring at Garrett. Garrett nods. "That's a pretty safe bet." Songoree laughs. "Garrett will walk after me." "The hell I will." "Shit!" Mako growls. "He ain't got the balls." He spits into the coals again. "Balls have nothing to do with it," Songoree retorts. "It's all about trust, and knowing who you are. Stand back and we'll show you." The feasters have finished stuffing themselves. Everybody chats easily. Their voices fall silent as Songoree prepares himself. He hands Garrett a bucket and tells him to bring sea water. When Garrett returns with a full bucket, Songoree says, "Right before I step onto the coals, douse me with water so my hair and clothes don't catch fire. Soak me down good." He lingers at the edge of the glowing pit. His body shimmers within the aura of scarlet heat. He remains 289

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motionless for several minutes, preparing himself. He finally nods to Garrett, who pours the bucket of water over his head, soaking his hair and clothing. The crowd around them goes completely still. Songoree gasps and takes a deep breath. He steps onto the coals, inching forward. Heat waves envelope him. It seems like some grand illusion, Garrett thinks. Everyone holds their breath as Songoree maneuvers the twenty feet of smoldering blanket. Minutes later, his feet touch cool sand; he steps out of harm's grasp. A collective wail of relief flies skyward. Everybody claps. Songoree does a playful dance with his arms in the air, like Rocky Balboa on the steps of Philadelphia City Hall. He runs back to Garrett and takes the bucket. "Amazing!" Garrett says. "I've heard about this but never believed it." "I'll fill the bucket for you. It's show time." "Song, I am so not doing this." Songoree leans close, whispers, "Do you trust me?" Garrett nods. Songoree dashes to the surf and hurries back with a full bucket. All the feasters grow quiet again; there is only the sound of the sea. Even the birds have gone silent. The spectators hold their breath. Garrett steps to the edge of the fire pit. He fights down the panic that grows in his gut, the urge to bolt. His body trembles from head to soles. Songoree takes Garrett's skull in his hands. He presses while his voice goes soft. "Breathe naturally from your 290

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diaphragm. Remember the lake—ripples on the surface but still and utterly quiet under the water? Be that lake again. Sink deeper and deeper into the cold depths." Garrett holds perfectly still. Songoree's touch checks his panic. He focuses on the sensation of his breath passing through his nose. He searches Songoree's eyes, feels strength flow from Songoree to his own body. Fear and panic melt away. Songoree guides him to that quiet place. He resists nothing. He is lost in Songoree's eyes. Minutes later, he reaches that place, that oneness with Songoree. Songoree drops his hands from Garrett's head, lifts the bucket of sea water in his left hand and dips his right hand into the chilly water. After a half-minute he takes his wet hand from the water and reaches up under Garrett's shirt, laying his frigid hand on his belly. Garrett, from deep in his quiet place, feels a powerful shiver flash from his belly up his spine to his head. His body feels numb with the sensation. Songoree brings his mouth to Garrett's ear and says, "When you feel the water hit your face, take a deep breath and step forward. Walk straight, not fast and not slow. Whatever happens, don't stop moving. Hold your breath until you're through. If you breathe you'll singe your lungs." Garrett feels the cold hand leave his belly. He begins to sink into a comfortable feeling again when all at once a glacial fountain of water bursts over him. His whole being freezes, shocked. He feels a push from behind, and he takes a step forward. 291

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The intense heat radiates around him. His feet burn, but it is not painful. He takes another step, now engulfed within the heat. He steps again. His mind stays focused on the feel of Songoree's cold hand on his stomach, the delicious sensation of hearing Songoree voice whisper in his ear. He keeps tottering forward, holding his breath while he thinks about Songoree. His feet touch cool sand. The fierce heat turns into cool air. Songoree throws an arm around his shoulder and squeezes tight. "You did it. You're so freakin' cool." Garrett moves as if in a dream. He lifts up his feet to check for burns. The bottoms of his feet are red, but there are no serious burns and no pain. The cheers around him pull him out of that lovely quiet place. He sees people stand to clap, and now Songoree's face is close to his. "You really do trust me. You're remarkable." PJ, Mako and Pops stand together with Reverend Bitton a dozen feet way, all stone-faced and silent. PJ can't keep from staring at Garrett, even when Garrett looks right at him. His directness is a clear challenge. Garrett smiles at him. "Who's next?" PJ downs what's left of his beer, crushes the can to the point where the two ends almost touch and flings it into the bed of coals. All four men turn away from the party. They strut up the beach, and the night swallows them. Audrey flutters up to Garrett and hugs him. "I had no idea you were so courageous. You were magnificent." She takes 292

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Songoree's hand in hers. "Now I understand why it has to be Garrett. You were so right. I'm not qualified." Songoree leans forward and hugs her. "Thanks for understanding. Perhaps you can help convince him to work with us." "You can count on me." Hap joins the circle around Garrett and slaps him on the back. His eyes are bloodshot and his cheeks are red and puffy. "Take a drink, my boy. You earned it, in spades." He shoves the brown bag in Garrett's direction. Garrett shakes his head. "Thanks, Hap, but I think I'll have a beer. I'm already light-headed." "Might as well drink mother's milk, but I understand. You're full of surprises. If you write like you live, I can't wait to read that damn story you're working on." Owen and Micah appear with hugs and congratulations. **** As the banter mushrooms, Grandfather touches Songoree's shoulder. He nods his head towards the trees and they edge away until the party sounds are dim. Grandfather lays his hand on the back of Songoree's neck. His voice is soft and joyful. "You skillfully guided our brother across the fire, demonstrating that when you care about someone, you can focus to perform any task." "Thank you, Grandfather." 293

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"You are no longer Monkey-boy. Today you have shown me that you are my equal. My heart soars. It is I who must thank you." Songoree steps into his arms. They merge, holding each other for a long time. [Back to Table of Contents]

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25. On Saturday morning, Owen and Micah charge down the road in a rented four-wheel-drive jeep. They park at the end of the road and honk the horn. Garrett ambles out of the house and crawls into the back seat while Songoree finishes stuffing supplies into his backpack. Garrett wears a khaki shirt, green hiking shorts and worn Gore-tex field boots. The boys are dressed in similar outfits except that their boots are new and polished. Owen and Micah turn to say good morning, and both are bursting with excitement. They seem to know some tidbit of information Garrett doesn't, so he takes the bait. "Okay, what's up?" "Just looking forward to this beautiful day," Micah says. "You're hiding something. Does this have anything to do with what Songoree's been so mysterious about—wearing Tshirts instead of tank tops, spending all of yesterday in town, and wearing that same shit-eating grin you two have now? What are you hiding?" Owen giggles, "Sure, we went with him." Micah punches Owen's arm. "Start backpedaling, blabbermouth." "Okay, you two, fess up. What's going on." "You'll know when Song decides it's time," Owen says, rubbing his arm. Songoree troops to the jeep with his pack slung over his right shoulder and toting his guitar case in his hand. He wears 295

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a blue bandana over his head, a white T-shirt and pale blue shorts. He also wears worn hiking boots. It's the first time Garrett has seen him wear anything on his feet. He stows the pack and guitar behind the back seat next to two other packs and climbs in beside Garrett. "Where are we going?" Garrett asks. "To a place up a canyon deep in the rain forest. It's the most beautiful spot on the island. Only locals know about it. It's special—you'll see." Songoree refuses to say more, which adds to the mystery that already has Garrett on edge. They drive back through town and take the main road south. Zipping along the coast, Garrett and Songoree have the fresh sea breeze hitting their faces with full force. Garrett's hair whips wildly about. He understands why Songoree wears the bandana. He marvels at the rugged cliffs along the coast—it reminds him of the northern California coastline, a vast patch of blue bordering a beautiful sheer rock face. Out on the water, fishing boats work their nets along the coral shelf where the light blue meets the deep purple. On the island side of the road, they pass several macadamia nut plantations, long rows of green leafy trees crawling up the hillsides, all blushing with elongated clusters of pink flowers. It's hard to be heard in the open-air jeep, so he keeps his thoughts to himself, content to see more of the island. He sits shoulder-to-shoulder with Songoree, and the confinement of the back seat allows an intimacy between them. They touch and rub as the jeep sways this way and that. Garrett swings 296

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an arm around Songoree's back and holds him loosely. He is very aware of how Songoree feels, and being this close has its usual affect on him. Several miles farther south, Micah brakes for a curve. Songoree leans forward to give directions. After the curve, they slow even more, and Micah steers the jeep off the asphalt and onto a red dirt road that cuts up a lush hillside. Winding up and over a hill, they descend into a lush primeval wilderness. The road follows a stream that snakes through the center of a valley. Except for a few huts that make up a small village bordering the taro patches and fishponds, the valley is wild. It's laced with waterfalls, an array of fruit-bearing trees nestled within a thick forest of bamboo and hairy palm-trunks thrusting towards the sky from the rank undergrowth of ferns and thick fleshy plants. This place is lost in time, untouched by modern man. Off to their left, nestled in a grove of palms, rests the village; thatched huts surround a round open space where people congregate for the comfort and pleasure of being with each other. Garrett eyes the village carefully. Within the clearing sit a half-dozen elderly Hawaiians and a few younger women carrying babies. The women wear colorful muumuus, and many have intricate tattoos adorning their arms and faces. Off to one side, children play a game with a soccer ball. The leisurely mood and good cheer seem endemic. The young women cackle with laughter as they cradle their babies. A group of old women stoop over a large wooden tub, washing clothing. They pass the wet clothes to younger girls who wring them and hang them on lines to dry—colorful 297

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skirts, patched pants and grayed underwear. The light breeze fans the variegated garments. They look like flags from many nations deliberately waving him by. They follow a stream through the valley and park at the end of the road. Micah shuts off the engine. Silence devours them. A distant bird shrieks. They all sit frozen, surveying the lush surroundings. The thick vegetation is a study in various shades of green. Tall trees arch like open umbrellas to form a canopy high above while thick leafy plants hug the ground. Vines hang from tree branches, wild fruit trees and thick stalks of bamboo. Bursts of colored flowers adorn the verdant landscape. Songoree listens hard. "Something is watching us," he whispers. They peer through the vegetation. There could be a thousand eyes focused on them, all hidden. Garrett wonders if Songoree is pulling his chain to add to the mystery. A bird screeches from a nearby tree. They all jump. Songoree leaps to the ground. "Grab your gear. We have a long trek ahead of us." He lifts the guitar case from the back as the others crawl from the jeep. The case has shoulder straps, and he hoists it on his back like a pack with the neck pointing up above his head. Garrett shoulders the food pack. It feels substantial. He looks forward to the challenge of pushing himself with the additional burden. Micah shoulders a pack as well, leaving him confused. "How much stuff do we need?" 298

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Owen chuckles. "Better to have too much than too little. You never know what will happen." Songoree leads off. He plunges up a moss-laden trail that Garrett hadn't realized was there. Garrett follows close behind. The boys lag at a fair distance. Songoree sets an easy pace with long, even strides. They have all day so there is no need to hurry. Garrett's body relaxes into a smooth rhythm. His pack pulls on his shoulders and presses on his hips. He hears the small stretching sounds the straps make as his body wobbles. He feels more solid with the added weight, like a bear lumbering through the woods. Moisture builds between the pack and his skin. It soon soaks his shirt. Beads of sweat glisten across his forehead. The soft ground gives under his feet, and his leg muscles strain with every step. He studies Songoree's easy gait, the agile movements of his legs as he glides up the trail. Bent branches hang over the path, and Songoree gracefully moves over and around these obstacles with ease. The guitar case hides his body from view; it looks like the case has amber arms and legs working their way though a sea of green vegetation while the neck points high above. Garrett's gaze follows it up. He sees the tropical splendor of the forest. The vaulting branches remind him of a cathedral. The silence adds to the effect. Light bands filter through the canopy. They change from golden to jade green, as if passing through stained glass. Indeed, he experiences that same quiet reverence he feels whenever he visits a house of worship. 299

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He listens hard. He discovers small sounds riding above the wall of silence: the syncopated crunch of footsteps on soft earth; the gurgle of a nearby stream; the occasional trill of a bird; his own breath; the steady splash of bright, transparent water droplets falling from trees. These sounds reduce him to an inner silence. It is easy to imagine that this place is virgin, untouched by humans. Up ahead, Songoree begins to hum. In this chapel of vegetation, it sounds like the distant voice of a choir. Garrett occasionally checks on the boys. They keep pace, but often stop to admire flowers along the trail, which is thick with orchids and hibiscus and frangipani. They pick bunches of blossoms as they go, which makes them fall behind, but they have no trouble catching up. He cannot see the sun through the green canopy. After a few miles, he loses all sense of time. It's as if this place has no time. The next mile goes by in an ambrosial blur. Caught up in the joyful act of roaming through an exotic landscape, he falls into a reverie. His euphoria lasts until the trail fades and he has to scramble up a steep hill after Songoree. Songoree stops at the top of the hill but doesn't turn around. They have marched a steady pace for two hours without a break, and he has not uttered a single word. At the top of the ridge, Garrett gazes down at an awesome scene. An opening in the canopy allows buttery light to shine onto a garden setting. A stream careens through the underbrush to the flat lip of a cliff, then falls thirty feet into a pool of aqua-blue water bordered by thick jungle. 300

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He whistles. He has seen pictures of tropical grandeur before, but he never dreamed that such pristine beauty existed. A stunned sadness fused with intense joy penetrates to his marrow. He turns to Songoree. "I never imagined anything could be this beautiful." Songoree jerks his head, as if he has heard something unusual. He pulls Garrett to a kneeling position and points to an opening in the trees. Crouched down, Garrett grows tense as his eyes follow the line of Songoree's finger. He sees a tiny tuft of brilliant yellow perched on a tree branch. "An 'o'o bird," Songoree whispers. "The rarest bird in the world." Garrett leans forward to get a better look, but the movement alerts the bird and it disappears, leaving him with a stronger sense of sadness. They hike down to a flat stony area, twenty-five feet in diameter, at the edge of the waterfall. They doff their packs and boots then peer over the side of the cliff. Thirty feet below, the water looks deep and inviting. Mist from the waterfall sprays up and out over the pool. The sunlight creates a brilliant rainbow in the mist that spans the pool. Garrett leans over and stares straight down. The waterfall creates ripples on the surface of the water, making the pool tremble. Songoree says, "It's safe to jump. The pool is deep." He takes another look down. His wobbly reflection looks back at him. "I brought you here for something special," Songoree says. 301

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At that moment, Owen and Micah glide down the path with their arms loaded with flowers they have picked along the trail. Garrett laughs. "You two look like bridesmaids marching down the aisle." They find this comment particularly funny, and are still laughing when Micah drops his pack. Songoree steps over to it and begins to unpack it. He pulls out a bottle of expensive champagne and puts it in the stream to cool. He lines up four white bowls on the rock floor. Next, he removes a carved wooden box and sets it beside the bowls, then several long sticks of incense and a Ronson lighter. He opens the Ronson, flicks the wheel to create a flame and lights the incense. The flame takes hold at the ends of the long sticks, and he blows out the flame; a cloud of spicy-smelling smoke unfolds around him. He removes a small silver vase, stands the incense in it and sets the vase next to the box. Lastly, he pulls out several leis and four lengths of cloth. Owen and Micah drop their armloads of flowers near the incense. Songoree hands them two of the lengths of cloth. They traipse into the nearby cover of bushes. Songoree picks up a red cloth and holds it out to Garrett. Garrett can smell the pungent incense mixing with the sweet odor of the flowers. The air is thick with fragrance. He watches the proceedings with suspicion. "Don't question anything." Songoree says. "We are here to perform a ritual, and you have an important role. Please do 302

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this for me. I want you to strip off everything and put on this malo. I can show you how to wrap it if you need help." Garrett scans the clearing. He doesn't like all of this mystery, but Owen and Micah are already changing and he doesn't want to spoil whatever surprise Songoree has arranged. He takes the malo. "I can figure it out." Songoree smiles softly, angelic. "Good. Leave your clothes in the bushes. We'll get them when it's time for lunch." Garrett studies the cloth in his hand, still deciding if he will play along. "Take your time. I have a few more things to prepare." He edges behind a bush and strips. He feels strange being naked in nature like this with Songoree and the boys so close. A shiver runs up his spine as he wraps the red cloth around his waist and under his crotch. It fits snugly up the crack of his backside and fans out in front to make a pouch that clearly outlines his genitals. He surveys his naked body and grins. Still somewhat sexy, he thinks, except for these scars. He tilts his head, traces the scar over his chest with the tip of his finger. They do give his skin an interesting texture. He decides the scars are not so unattractive. They add character. He stacks his clothes in a pile and ambles back in the open. Owen and Micah stand together near the center of the clearing. Both are clad in thin blue malos, and each has a redand-white carnation lei draped around his neck. Owen holds bunches of wildflowers in his arms and Micah the carved box. Over by the stream, Songoree kneels over the packs with his back to Garrett. He wears a white malo. Garrett swallows 303

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at the sight of the white cloth nuzzled between those amber mounds, making a T across Songoree's backside. The sight has a numbing effect on him. Songoree stands to face them. He has a coronet of yellow feathers across his forehead and holds a necklace in one hand and a white orchid lei in the other. Garrett's breath stops when he sees Songoree's bare chest. Over his heart, etched into that sumptuous skin, is a fresh tattoo. It's the colorful design of Garrett's totem, a manta ray flying through the rising sun. Stunned, Garrett remembers Songoree's words that a tattoo is a declaration of love and he would get one only when he found true love. Something inside him meshes like pieces of a puzzle. He pulls his eyes away from that beautiful tattoo and searches those dark eyes with the tiny sea-blue flecks. Those eyes smile. Songoree glides to him, drapes the orchid lei around his neck and kisses him on the lips—a sensual kiss that surprises him with its tenderness. Their faces stay close. He inhales Songoree's masculine fragrance, feels the warmth. When Songoree pulls back he holds up the necklace. Held together by a braided human hair is a carved whalebone in the shape of a fishhook flanked by the two shark's teeth that were pulled from Garrett's side. "I made this for you," he whispers. "The hair is Liliha's, and the whalebone is a gift from my mother." He drapes the necklace over Garrett's shoulders. They kiss again. Garrett stands in awe, speechless. 304

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They face each other with no past and no future invading the moment. Totally present, they hold each other. It is enough, Garrett thinks, to love and be loved, right now, in this delicious moment. Owen begins throwing petals over their heads from the flowers in his arms. Micah steps forward with the wooden box, which he opens. Songoree takes two carved whalebone rings from the box. He holds them up for Garrett to see. "These have been in my family for twenty generations." Garrett studies the intricate carvings. He has never seen any piece of jewelry so lovely. Songoree takes Garrett's right hand and places one of the rings on the third finger. Garrett takes the other ring and places it on same finger of Songoree's right hand. They kiss again. Songoree says, "I brought you here to tell you that I love you, that I belong to you, that I will always be yours." Garrett has no words. He has no way to verbally communicate the bombardment of feelings happening inside his head. Trembling, he somehow knows that Songoree can read his rapture as clearly as he feels it. They hold each other tight with a desperate kind of clinging that will not allow anything to come between them. Their joy reaches so deep it brings tears instead of laughter. Owen throws petals like rice at a wedding. A loud pop startles Garrett, and he glances towards the stream. Micah pours champagne into the four rice bowls then sets the bottle down, scoops up all four bowls and brings them over. 305

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They each take a bowl and hold it high towards the dazzling sun. The sunlight filters through the pale, bubbly richness of the champagne and casts a silvery light inside the rim of each bowl. Micah says, "To love." Garrett and Song bring the bowls to their lips and drink. They share a warm hug, another kiss. Owen and Micah follow their example. Songoree takes Garrett's bowl and sets it on the flat stone. He pulls the necklace from Garrett's neck and places it, along with his feather crown, on the stone next to the bowls. Then he grabs Garrett's hand and pulls him towards the edge of the cliff. Garrett laughs, and the sound ricochets off the green walls of vegetation around them. They take three quick steps to the edge and leap over the lip, plunging through the misty rainbow and into the pool. Engulfed in water, churning inside Garrett's nostrils, ears, they swim to each other under the surface. Their bodies entwine—dreamlike, slow-motion—lips find lips. They make their way to the surface, kissing while treading water. Suddenly, Garrett breaks away with a splash, dives under, kicking downward. Songoree is after him in a flash. They frolic under the surface. For Garrett, the vision of the near-naked man in his watery element is painfully arousing. He feels a burning in his groin. Songoree catches him. They thread their bodies together again. Lips meet. Garrett feels the love, like heat, radiating from Songoree to him. 306

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They make their way to the shoreline and crawl onto the soft moss covering the earth. Within the green ferns and leafy plants, they are somewhat hidden from view. They lie together, bodies touching, lips caressing, hands exploring. Soft light penetrates the dense underbrush. It casts a pale-green light over them. The light is bright enough for Garrett to see and admire the fine details of Songoree's body up close. The feel of those hard muscles and flat stomach coiled against the length of his body makes him tingle. For the first time, he tastes Songoree's mouth, face, neck and those soft pockets around the collarbone, reveling in their pure sweetness. He directs his attention to the tattoo covering hard muscle. He inspects the manta ray. It draws his mouth to it. The tip of his tongue traces it. He tastes the black ray, the red sun, the hard nub of nipple all at once. His head spins. The texture of that supple skin causes explosions inside him to match the energy radiating from Songoree. Songoree's mouth goes to work as well. He seems hungry for the feast laid out before him, but for the first time he is clumsy, unsure of how to give pleasure. His hands move between them to fondle the erections pressed against one another, straining at the cloth that binds them. Their breathing comes fast and shallow. A shrill scream and a splashing sound rends the air; the lovers are reminded they are not alone. Owen and Micah splash about the pool. Garrett pulls Songoree's hands from his erection and brings them to his lips. He kisses those perfect fingers. "If 307

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you keep that up, I'm not responsible for what will happen right here in front of the boys and God and everybody." Their heat cools slightly. A calm settles over them. They laugh to themselves as they drink in this new joy. Garrett becomes aware their surroundings. The cool shade under the thick foliage is dense with the sweet scent of orchids mixed with something that smells like honeysuckle. He touches the tattoo again. "I want one of these. A blue whale flying through a rising sun." Songoree leans into him again. His kisses are hungry, devouring. He strokes Garrett's face, the soft underside of his jaw, down his neck. They press together and are one, bound with a mutual feeling of safety, like coming home during a savage storm. Garrett breaks away. "How long have you known?" "I started loving you the first time I saw you, when you jumped off the cliffs at the point. But I didn't realize it until the night you tried to rape me. That's when I knew I wanted to make love to you. I wanted it badly, only not like that, not rough. When we make love, will you be gentle, like you are now?" "I'm gonna drive you mad with tenderness. You'll beg for mercy." The tranquil surroundings shatter with the shouts of male voices from somewhere behind the trees. "Hey, Mako. You know what one queer sperm said to the other queer sperm?" 308

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From the other side of the clearing, beyond the line of trees, comes another voice. "I don't know, PJ, what did the fag sperm say?" The first voice responds, "It said, 'How the hell are we supposed to find an egg in all this shit?'" Several voices around the pool rumble with laughter, harsh and arrogant. Garrett stares into Songoree's eyes. "Shit! There must be six or seven of them. How did they know?" They uncoil and peer through the foliage, try to pinpoint where the voices are coming from. "They must have followed us," Songoree says. "We should leave before there's trouble. We can continue our party on the beach." A voice yells, "Yo, Song-fag. We saw your little wedding ceremony and your fucking like a wahini in the bushes. Show your face on the beach and you're dead meat, faggot!" "Song, I'm so sorry," Garrett says. Another voice hollers, "That's right, you fucking fruitcake. Get the hell off our island and take your Tinkerbell husband with you, or we'll take you down." Cracking noises sound all around them, the noise of people lumbering through the underbrush. The sounds grow faint. Owen and Micah crawl out of the water. Both their faces are white. They're shivering. "Don't be sorry," Songoree tells Garrett. "It doesn't change how I feel about you. They can't help being what they've been taught to be. And besides, they're gone now." 309

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"You're defending them?" "They're just people who are frightened of things they don't understand. They were taught that by other people who were even more frightened than they are. Who was it that said there are no bad students, only bad teachers?" Owen turns to Garrett. "That would be Mr. Miyagi, in The Karate Kid." "I'll echo the truth wherever I find it," Songoree says. "Those men are not your friends. They'll hurt you, hurt us all." "As long as my grandfather draws breath, we're safe. He is very powerful. Now, let's pack up and go home. We have some unfinished business. I've kept you waiting long enough." [Back to Table of Contents]

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26. Morning light drifts through the shuttered bedroom window, causing red bands of light to spread across the white sheets. Garrett opens his eyes, feels Songoree's body threaded around him. Arms lock him to Songoree's chest, legs are tangled together. Songoree's erection roots between his thighs. Songoree's face nuzzles into the back of his neck, and Garrett smells the sweetness of Songoree's spent breath. He holds perfectly still, luxuriating in the sensation of satiny skin stretched over hard muscle. He feels a strong sense of security in these arms. Songoree is now his shelter, a snug, safe refuge where he intends to stay. Garrett's mind flashes on images of last night's lovemaking: the sensual feel of lips exploring his body, the exquisite taste of flesh, the feelings of love building into breathless passion, the explosion of emotions. His smile widens. He pulls Songoree's hand to his face and kisses those fingers that caressed him throughout the night. Songoree stirs, and Garrett feels lips brush the back of his neck. Songoree's face nuzzles his hair. "Hey, lover," Songoree says. "I thought you finally went to sleep." "I did. But then I dreamed I was being held by an angel, so I opened my eyes to make sure." Garrett turns, they kiss. Their caressing lips re-ignite the fire inside Songoree. The kiss becomes needful. 311

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Garrett breaks away. "Hey, slow down. I'm in no shape for more loving. You rubbed me raw last night." "Poor baby." Songoree snuggles closer. For an instant, the image of Marc floods Garrett's mind— the "poor baby" sounds so much like the way Marc would talk in bed. Confusion bursts over Garrett. It turns to an undertone of panic. Songoree draws closer. His lips open Garrett's mouth. They kiss again, and Garrett pushes all thoughts of Marc deep inside the black hole of his mind. He focuses all his attention on the kiss. He runs his fingers through Songoree's hair, over amber skin. His lips move down into the softness of Songoree's neck. The smell—that golden smell—makes Garrett dizzy. Songoree's breathing quickens, his excitement builds. Shivering. Garrett's lips move to the amber goose-bumps covering the boy's chest. His tongue traces the outline of the manta ray tattoo while his hands move lower, finding the stiff member surrounded by the softness between Songoree's legs. He understands Songoree's needs, and goes about fulfilling them with slow, rough-edged tenderness. He covers every inch of skin with loving attention, handling Songoree as if he were something incredibly delicate. He builds him up to the brink of climax then backs off, brings him down, only to build him back up again, teasing him until Songoree begs. Desire wells up in Garrett stronger than anything he's ever felt. Desire more powerful than he is capable of controlling. He holds Songoree's legs high, enters him slowly until he 312

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feels Songoree's beating heart. He covers Songoree's moans with his mouth. They make love to the rhythms of the pounding waves outside. His tongue goes to work on the inside of Songoree's mouth, his hips grind at Songoree's upturned backside until they are both swept away in a whirlwind of sensations. Sweat-drenched, their skin sensually sleek, the room grows loud with the sound of bestial breathing. Songoree cries out. The room expands to encompass the entire universe. Release. Pure, sweet, delirious release plunges them both into an intoxicating sensation of freedom. Locked in each other's grip, the rhythm of their breathing becomes calm again. They kiss playfully. Songoree whispers, "Try to sleep. I'm going to shower and make breakfast." He starts to rise from the bed, but Garrett grabs his wrist and pulls him back down. They kiss again. "I just wanted to tell you how deeply I love you." Songoree beams a flash of happiness. "I, too, you beautiful man." He says it again and again, like a melodious mantra. They part with another kiss. Garrett falls back to sleep while listening to the sweet sound of Songoree singing in the shower. An hour later, Songoree comes back to place a mug of coffee on the nightstand. He takes hold of Garrett's foot, holding it until he stirs and his eyes open to the bright morning light.

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"Rise and shine, lazybones. The coffee's beside you. There's just enough time for a shower before I serve breakfast." The usual poached eggs over fried rice, with slices of yellow mango on the side, greet Garrett on the porch. Tall glasses of orange juice and mugs of coffee stand next to a can of sweet, condensed milk for the coffee. Garrett's hair is still damp. Songoree turns from setting the table and steps into his arms. "Hungry?" "You bet." The love they shared throughout the night survives the crisp, clear sunlight of morning. All Garrett's pain has fallen away, forgotten in his present bliss. This moment is all he can focus on as they dig into breakfast. He sprinkles a pinch of salt over his eggs. He does the same with the pepper. Taking a bit of egg, he washes it down with coffee and says, "I think I've figured out an ending for the manuscript. It came to me in a flash while I was dreaming this morning. In fact, I think I'll be able to finish the first draft today." "That's fantastic. That means you're finished. You can start looking for a publisher?" "I'll need to carefully edit it at least one more time. After that, I'll ask Audrey to proof it, but then it's ready. But to tell you the truth, I'm not altogether sure I want to publish it now." 314

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"What's up with that? I mean, what's the point if it never sees print?" "That was the point, but I think I only needed to write the story. Publishing it seems less important now. Anyway, I can decide that later. The real point is that I'm almost done with what I came here to do." Silence. Songoree scans the bay. A blinding light bounces off the water. He squints. Garrett takes a deep breath, "I don't want this to end. Being with you is what's important now. That said, I don't think I can stay here." "I figured you would stay here and start another book." "I'm not sure I've got another story in me. I'm not like Owen, I can't just be a beach boy. If this story isn't published, if it doesn't sell, I'll need a way to make a living. There's a good job waiting for me back in San Francisco." "While you finish your story, I'm going into town. I plan to tell Grandfather that if you go, I'm going with you." Garrett's heart expands to fill his chest. His hands tremble. He can barely speak to say, "You mean that—that you'll come to San Francisco with me, be my lover?" "You're inside of me now. We are one. You're stuck with me." A shadow falls across Songoree's face. His features visibly darken. "I want you to promise me something. Promise me you won't leave the house until I get back. Don't go into town and especially don't go swimming. Grandfather will try to stop me. 315

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There is no telling how far he'll go to keep me here. Promise me." "Of course. Anything you say." They finish breakfast in a calm, happy mood. Songoree rises to clear the table, but Garrett takes him in his arms and tells him that he will clean up, that Songoree should go to his grandfather. They kiss for a long time before Songoree breaks away. Garrett stands on the porch to watch him sprint up the white sand beach. **** Songoree hikes up the path under the canopy of pandanus trees. The scented ferns and orchid plants smell sweeter from the morning dew. At the end of the path, he passes through the twelve pairs of royal palms. The path leads past the stone walls that define the boundaries of Grandfather's garden. He proceeds straight through the garden to the thatched roof hut and climbs the steps to the lanai. Scanning the tranquil scene, he sees Grandfather sitting cross-legged by the waterfall in the center of the garden. The old man's eyes are closed. There is no sign of life in that ancient face, and no movement of his body. Songoree prepares coffee on the gas stove. The scent of sandalwood incense lingers in the room even though the morning incense sticks have all burned down. The rich smell of coffee soon fuses with the sandalwood scent, creating a pleasing bittersweet aroma. When the coffee is ready, he pours the black fluid into two green-glazed mugs, adds 316

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generous amounts of sweet condensed milk to both mugs and carries them into the garden. He places a mug next to Grandfather. He sits beside the old man, setting his mug by his side. He focuses on the sound of the waterfall and lets the cool morning breeze brush his face to quiet the excitement raging in his heart. In the distance, he hears the buzz of an insect. Then he feels the old man's mind caress his own mind. They join. Songoree feels strength rising within him. A smile crosses his face. He knows Grandfather feels his happiness, knows his joy. He feels the old man's delight as well. **** Grandfather opens his eyes, reaching out to Songoree with eyes that sparkle in the morning light. He takes the mug in both hands, brings it to his lips, inhales the splendid aroma and sips. As he savors the taste, he notices the carved whalebone ring on the boy's finger. "Our Song, you have metamorphosed into a butterfly. Your happiness is our happiness." Tears run down his wrinkled cheeks. "Now, tell me about the baseball. Who is ahead in the American League?" "Grandfather, Garrett will leave the island soon. When he goes, I'm going with him." "I am pleased that you feel so strongly for our brother. This bodes well. You two are powerful together. It is what we had hoped for, but you cannot leave. No, impossible. You must keep him here." 317

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**** They fall silent. The breeze plays with the old man's long hair. Songoree feels his own hair waving about his head. "Grandfather, I can teach Garrett on the mainland. We can work on the book in San Francisco." Grandfather tilts his head to one side. His eyes are piercing. "You both will become distracted, he with publishing his book and you with dancing. You will dilute your power. Now is the time to focus this energy. Your people need you. You have come of age. It is time for you to become our spiritual leader. You must guide us along the path." "You are our guide." "I am old. The old are not respected anymore. This new generation will follow you." "It will only be for a few years, five at the most. You can continue for that short a time. And if anything happens to you, I'll come back straightaway, with or without him." "You give your word that you will come here if I should die? That you will lead our people?" "You have my word." "A warrior gives his word once then lives by it to the death." Songoree nods. Grandfather smiles. He raises the mug to his lips, savoring his coffee. "Run down to the pier and borrow Hap's truck. I need to show you something down the coast. Meet me in one hour where our path meets the road." 318

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"Shall I prepare food before we leave?" "I have no need of food. Go now. We have important business that must not wait." **** After Songoree leaves the garden, Grandfather takes his walking staff in hand and crawls to his feet. His legs—indeed, his whole body—groan from the movement after sitting for so long a time. His bones creak as he hobbles to the hut. He climbs the steps to the lanai and leaves his staff propped against the wall as he enters the room. He removes his robe and carefully folds it on the bed. Naked, he washes his body as he has done for over eightyfive years, standing at the washtub, using a wet washcloth and a bar of soap. He cleans himself meticulously. When finished, he moves to the chest of drawers by the bed. From the top drawer, he removes his good robe. It's dark gray and radiates a faint scent of cedar. He dresses, pulls his good sandals from beneath the bed and slides his feet into the leather straps. At last he moves back to the chest of drawers and opens the bottom drawer. He pulls out a carved wooden box and sets it on top of the chest. Opening the box, he pulls his human hair necklace with the jade pendant and sharks' teeth from the box and drapes it over his shoulders. Now he stands in all his dignity. It is time, he thinks. I have spent my training the boy and finding the speaker. The boy is ready. It is time to cut him lose. 319

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He reaches into the wooden box again, pulls out a blackand-white picture in a gold picture frame—the faded image of his late wife, Yoshi. He places the picture on the chest next to the carved box. Her plump cheeks and sparkling eyes still show clearly in the photograph. His eyes brim with water. "Thank you," he says out loud, allowing his mind to reach back in time and savor the memory of Yoshi, a thing he has not done in twenty years. He takes three sticks of sandalwood incense from the wooden box along with a single match. He strikes the match on the box and a flame ignites. He lights the incense, places the sticks in the holder beside the picture of Yoshi. He blows out the flame and places the dead matchstick in the incense holder. He turns to study the room. Simple. He smiles at the austerity of it, of his life. He glides out the door, takes his staff in hand and crosses the lanai. Joyful tears run down his cheeks as he surveys his garden. He admires each detail: the pond, the gurgling waterfall, the stone bridge, the bamboo forest, the orchids, the lava boulders, the green mosses tucked into the shadowy areas. An immense happiness radiates from inside him. He steps through the garden to the pond. From a stone bucket, he snatches a handful of fishmeal and sprinkles it over the surface of the water. Two dozen colorful koi appear from under the lily pads. They make smacking noises as they suck down the meal. Grandfather listens to the song of the waterfall. 320

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"Perfect," he says out loud. Scanning the garden, he says, "Everything is perfect." He meanders through the garden gate and down the path that leads under the twelve pairs of royal palms. **** Songoree waits in Hap's truck where the path meets the road. He sits behind the wheel with the passenger door open. Grandfather glides down the path like a summer breeze. He places his staff in the truck bed and lifts himself into the passenger seat. He shuts the door with a bang and says, "Take the highway past Hilo. Our destination is the lava beds of Kilauea crater. Songoree is not surprised that Grandfather wears his best robe to go traveling, but he is stunned that the old man wears his jade pendant necklace. Grandfather only wears the necklace during the most important ceremonies. His curiosity peaks, but he holds his tongue. He turns the ignition key. The engine whines and whines. Finally starting with a roar, it backfires. A cloud of black smoke spits out the back. Songoree grinds the stick-shift into gear, eases off the clutch; a neck-jerking lurch, and he steers the truck onto the road. They drive through town, take the main road to the highway and cruise along at forty miles per hour, the truck's top speed. The confinement of the cab allows an intimacy greater than Grandfather's garden. They ride in silence, with Grandfather gazing out the passenger window, studying 321

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everything they pass. The windows are wide open. The fresh island wind blows their hair about the cab. He slows for a curve, eases into it so the old man feels comfortable, not wanting to toss him about. Grandfather has always disliked riding in cars. Songoree quiets his mind, goes to that silent space deep within. He reaches across the seat with his being to become one with the old man. He wants to feel what Grandfather feels, to discover why he wears the necklace. What he finds, what is astonishingly clear, is Grandfather's joy. The old man's joy comes from watching the island speed by. He is as intense as someone making love to an old flame once again. Grandfather absorbs every detail, savors everything. All his senses climax in one drawn-out expression of love. Songoree keeps his eyes on the road and his mind empty. The road turns inland. They cut through the center of the island. Piles of cumulus clouds stack high over both mountaintops. A thick mist hugs the inland valleys. They move as if in a dream from one landscape to another. Soon, the highway veers towards the coast again. They cruise into Hilo, a seaport of old-time charm. They pass large plantation-style houses, lush green parks, low office buildings. As they skirt the peaceful harbor, they see bursts of color everywhere, mainly from the orchids and bird-ofparadise in the yards. The heady scent of flowering trees fills the air. The town has a lazy feel to it, an old beat. The slow rhythms of the place are almost sensual. 322

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They remain silent. Grandfather absorbs the scenery and Songoree absorbs Grandfather. The only noise comes from the truck. Every time he touches the brakes, a high-pitched squeal sends shivers up his spine. Even traveling on paved roads, the truck protests with rattles and squeaks and grinding sounds. They shimmy through town and steer back onto the highway. Minutes pass as the truck jiggles down the road, farther from home. Songoree begins to feel uncomfortable traveling so far away from Garrett. He wonders if Grandfather is leading him away from Garrett for some reason having to do with Garrett's safety. At this distance, he can't protect his lover. They stop at an intersection. A rasp of gears, and Songoree leaves the asphalt road for a lava-rock road that cuts through a moonscaped lava field. He drives extremely slow, avoiding the deep potholes, paying the utmost attention to the road so as not to jostle Grandfather about the cab. The road continues for what seems like many miles. Grandfather waves his right arm and points. Songoree steers the truck onto the shoulder. For the first time on the trip, Grandfather turns to him and grins. "Thank you. You're an impeccable driver." The passenger door opens with a creaking sound. Grandfather steps from the truck, pulls his staff from the truck bed and begins to trudge across the barren lava towards the sea. Songoree follows him to the water's edge. Among the lava deposits are small green plants growing under the sun. The 323

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smell of sulfur is strong, even though a steady breeze flows off the water. There are veins of molten lava flowing down the mountainside and across the lava field, flowing into the Pacific. Where the lava meets the sea, the water boils, and a foul-smelling steam rises high into the sky. New land is being formed minute by minute under the boiling sea. Grandfather stops thirty feet upwind from the steaming sea. He turns to Songoree, the smile still spread across his face. "Grandfather, why have we come here?" "You gave me your word that, should I die, you will return to our home and lead our people." Grandfather steps close, lifts the jade necklace from his shoulders and drapes it over Songoree's head. Songoree's eyes grow wide. He has never even been allowed to touch the necklace before now. Grandfather's hand caresses his face. The tenderness in his touch articulates his love. "I brought you here to tell you that, for generations untold, we have known this time would come, the time of the Chosen One, and of the Speaker, of the leap to a different level of consciousness for all mankind. Everything is in motion. Karma spins its web. It has been my honor, my privilege, to fulfill the role of mentor. I have taught you the knowledge that was passed down by our forefathers, and together we have called forth the Speaker. My work is complete. From this moment the task falls to you, the Chosen One, and Garrett, the Speaker." "The Chosen One, me?" Panic shades his voice. 324

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"Of course. Follow the footsteps of Gandhi, the Christ, Lord Buddha and Mohammed. You must live the example, the Speaker will record your life." "You never told me. I can't do this. I'm not ready." "Argue for your limitations, and sure enough, they're yours." "But..." "There is nothing more to teach you. My work is complete. Always remember, I love you as strongly as you love Garrett. I love every creature thus. You must strive to do this as well. And remember also—what I do today I do for every living creature. I do it with joy. As for you, be like Gandhi, who said, 'My life is my message.'" With that said, Grandfather turns towards the fissure where the molten lava flows into the sea. He dashes with surprising speed across the thirty feet of lava, leaps into the cloud of steam. It is already too late when Songoree realizes what is happening and runs after the old man. He gets within ten feet of the fissure as Grandfather disappears. He is beaten back by the fierce steam. [Back to Table of Contents]

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27. The drive back is a blur. Songoree's mind has shut down. He steers the beat-up truck down the highway, rattles along the coast road towards town and stops at the trail to his grandfather's hut, which now belongs to him. He staggers beneath the twelve pairs of royal palms and through the garden. In this place, he feels like he is surrounded by Grandfather, as if the old man's essence still hovers in the air, binding this garden together. He doesn't waste time probing his feelings. He charges into the hut, throws off his clothes, wraps his blood-red malo around himself and drapes his grandfather's jade necklace across his bare chest. On his way out, he picks up his grandfather's conch shell and the ceremonial knife then sprints back down the path to town. He makes a beeline for the pier. His movements become slow and deliberate. Halfway down the length of the pier, he stops to listen. Shorebirds mewl overhead. The wind whispers. He turns to face the town, fills the vast empty space within his chest with air, brings the conch shell to his mouth and blows. A low-pitched wail reverberates from the shell, loud enough to be heard throughout the town and far up into the hills. The sound echoes off the buildings and the perimeter of vegetation beyond the town. When his lungs are spent, he inhales and blows again, and again. Townspeople rush down 326

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the streets to gather at the pier. All eyes are fixed on Songoree. He keeps sounding the shell until Mother Kamamalu strides down the street from the center of town. When she reaches the pier, he puts the conch down. He sees that all of the town's people are gathered, watching and wondering. In the western sky, the sun begins to dip behind the mountains. Vermilion clouds color the bay a pale pink. The wind rushing off the bay grows brisk. Songoree raises his arms chest-high and moves his weight from one foot to another. As he begins his dance, he chants. His body sways, his arms weaving through the air, creating a vision of elegance. He moves in a trance—bends, twists, spins with exquisite balance and grace that is frighteningly beautiful. Mother Kamamalu elbows her way to the front of the other spectators. The jade necklace hanging around Songoree's neck broadcasts who this Dance of Great Sorrow is for. She shrieks and falls to her knees. Panic erupts around her. Songoree's dance builds in momentum. His movements become swift and powerful. The townspeople stare wide-eyed. As they watch, the wind grows fierce, whipping Songoree's hair about his head. He grabs a handful in his left hand, the knife he stilll clutches slashes through the air, cutting off a hunk very close to the scalp. Hair flies off, carried by the wind. Again and again the knife cuts until all of Songoree's silky hair soars out over the beach. His head is now an uneven bur. 327

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The knife slashes again. This time it slices across the meaty part of his shoulder. He makes three cuts on his left shoulder, three on the right. Now, as blood streams down his arms, his movements become graceful again. Mother Kamamalu, with the help of several people, struggles to regain her feet. She staggers toward Songoree. Tears flow down her massive cheeks. Her face mirrors the pain raging within him. She takes the knife, and her own lovely gray hair is carried off on the wind. Her head soon matches Songoree's bur. She makes the same deep cuts on her shoulders, three and three, and looks him in the eyes. The force of her stare causes him to halt his dance. "My son, where is the body of our beloved grandfather. I wish to prepare him for burial." "Alii nui. Mother. Only the Morning Star of the heavens knows the resting place of our grandfather." Son and mother embrace as the spectators begin to realize what has happened. People hold each other, tears flow, wails erupt. At the edge of the gathering, Pops stands with the Reverend Bitton. The reverend turns to Pops. "It's a pity. It would have been a great triumph for me to have converted the old man to Christ. Now I will never taste that victory." Pops wades through the crowd until he faces Songoree. "Song-boy, I'm so sorry. He was a great man. Listen, watch out for PJ and Mako. They've gone crazy after what they saw yesterday. I've never seen them like this. Watch your back. Okay?" 328

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Songoree holds out a hand and grips Pops's shoulder. He nods, but is unable to speak. The sun drops below the the green mountains, the color bleeds from the clouds. Mother and son, nailed together, stumble through the town to Mother Kamamalu's house. They bandage their shoulders. Songoree makes tea. People drop by, one by one, and in small groups. They bring bouquets of flowers and baskets of food. When darkness falls, a small gathering huddles together holding torches and singing. Songoree feels the need to escape from these mourners, to get back to Garrett. He tells Mother Kamamalu that he must leave, but he'll be back with the morning sun. "Yes, go to your man. He will comfort you. Then this mist of grief can begin to clear away." The streets are dark. There are no people walking about, and no cars on the roads. The only sounds are the waves hitting the beach and the soft pat of his bare feet on the pavement. Filtering through his grief, he feels a tension in the town. He thinks of Garrett, alone at the house, and of Pops's warning. He begins to hurry. Before he can reach the beach, five men step from the shadows in front of him. The light is dim, but he knows who blocks his path. "You know what we do to queers, don't you?" Mako spits the words. Songoree stands silent. Nausea washes through his gut. 329

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"I'm talking to you, faggot. You know what we do to queers around here?" He stands perfectly still, fighting down his fear. He tries to reach out with his mind, to calm the men as well as himself. He hears the clink of chains rattling, and a shiver runs up his spine. His heart freezes as the men close in on him. [Back to Table of Contents]

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28. With the house to himself, Garrett lounges on the porch, watching the birds soar high above the bay. Time crawls. He feels reluctant to finish the story, knowing his life will change dramatically. What purpose will he have without the story? he wonders. He lingers on the porch until the sun begins its decent. "What the hell," he says to the wind, the sky, the bay. He opens the screen door, shuffles to the study, turns on his computer and readies himself to work. He closes his eyes and recreates that silent concentration Songoree taught him. His mind reaches back to the memory of Songoree's touch. A corona of silence surrounds him. The silence grows intense. Garrett breathes from his diaphragm, not controlling it, just feeling it until he no longer feels the world around him. He feels himself falling through space. The sensation magnifies the profound stillness within his body. He trembles as his fingers move over the keys. His mind stays silent as words appear on the screen, recording the images forming in his mind. Even in this creative level of mind, he finds it difficult to write about Marc. The images come painfully, and feel as though he is peeking at someone else's private life. When he describes his love for Marc it feels like a betrayal of Songoree, and that feels wrong. 331

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In his mind, he scuba dives again with Marc off the coast of Baja under thirty feet of crystal-clear water. The reef displays beautiful patterns of varying color, but he swims facing the surface so he can watch their bubbles float away, mixing together to form larger bubbles as they speed to the surface. He loves how the sunlight filters down to make the water shimmer with life. The freedom weightlessness brings to this silent world seems magical. They glide like birds over fields of brilliant color. Suddenly, a gigantic manta ray glides up from beneath them, silent and graceful. The manta is fifteen feet across, gray on top and virgin white on its underside. It flies right up to and around the divers, performing a slow-motion spectacle. Garrett has seen this creature so many times in his dreams that he is no longer fearful. He only feels a tremendous sense of awe. His body tingles with excitement. Marc glides to the back of the ray, grabbing hold with both hands near the eyes. He starts to soar away on the ray's back. Garrett struggles to catch them. Soon, both divers are flying through the water on the creature's back, performing acrobatics unimagined. Now the giant saucer wings its way into a school of squid, thousands of glistening clear-white bodies with long flowing filament tails. The sensation is electrifying. Without having to think about it, Garrett knows in his heart that he will never experience such magnificence again, and in the water, as well as sitting at his desk, he smiles, grateful for what is being given to him and Marc. He turns to Marc and 332

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peers at those beautiful gem-blue eyes behind the mask, observes the love and the wonder, then releases his grip on the ray. Surrounded by millions of shimmering sperm-like bodies, he watches Marc glide off through the emerald-colored water, anchored to the back of the manta ray. Garrett waves his arm goodbye until the ray and Marc merge into one indistinguishable shape, which then merges into the sea. He ascends to the surface, floating on the edge of consciousness. For an hour, Garrett sits at the desk gazing out the window, motionless. Finally, he burns the manuscript file to a CD, deletes the file from the computer's hard drive and powers down the computer. He stares at the photo of Marc that sits on his desk with the gold chain and ring draped over it. He takes off his own gold ring and places it on the chain that holds the matching one. He gathers the rings, Marc's photo, the CD and the portrait that Marc painted and carries them to his bedroom closet. An old shoebox seems the perfect place. He places the photo, the CD and the rings in the box then tucks it into a larger packing box. He slides the portrait into the shipping crate he used to bring it to the island. When all signs of Marc are packed away, Garrett ventures onto the porch and breathes the fresh air blowing off the bay. "Goodbye, old friend," he says out loud. He sits on a deck chair to wait for Songoree. Glancing at the carved whalebone ring on his right hand, he pulls it off his 333

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finger and puts it on the ring finger of his left hand. He smiles, admiring the look of it. He stays on the porch all afternoon. He thinks about taking a swim but remembers Songoree's warning about staying out of the water. He is content to wait, watching the afternoon evolve into evening. But as the sun sinks, hunger pulls at his mind. He gets impatient. Not knowing what is keeping Songoree, he decides to trek to the village and grab a burger and a beer. He leaves a note on the front door and jogs up the beach. [Back to Table of Contents]

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29. By the time Garrett walks to the Village Resort, the sun has set, shading the sky lavender. The warm night feels pleasant, so he foregoes the dining room and eats at the outdoor bar. He sits on a stool that allows him a clear view of the bay, enjoying the panorama while listening to the live band as they play Hawaiian tunes. He will miss this peaceful life, he thinks, and his mood suddenly sours, torn between conflicting emotions. On the one hand, his happiness with Songoree feels exquisite, and finishing the manuscript has brought a satisfying sense of completion. But on the other hand, something nags at him— the impression that his life is now purposeless. He has no goal, doesn't strive towards anything meaningful. Back in San Francisco, he thinks, I'll get a fresh start, a new job and maybe start a new story. The city has so much to offer, but it will never be like this, this serene tropical splendor. Will Song like the city? He tries to imagine Songoree in a bustling setting, living in a fourthfloor condo, but the image doesn't materialize. It is impossible for him to picture Songoree in any setting other than this island. It's as if they are one and the same. Mike the bartender strolls up and says, "Hey, buddy, we haven't seen you here in a week of Sundays. Nice to have you back."

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"Hey, Mike, good to see you. Can you fix me up with a burger, real bloody, and some fries. And I'm drinking beer tonight, keep 'em coming." Mike walks to the other end of the bar, phones the order into the kitchen and fills a beer mug from the tap. He walks back to Garrett and places the mug on the bar. "Say, is it true that you walked on fire? Man, what was that like?" "It's true, but I still can't believe it." Garrett picks up the mug and brings it to his lips, swallowing deeply. The beer is so cold it makes his throat ache. "I can't explain what it was like. My head was so blurry I just remember the relief when it was over." They both laugh. Mike says the food should be right up, and saunters back down the bar. Garrett surveys the bar. Two couples sit at the other end sopping up tall fruity drinks. He sees another couple still on the beach, stretched out on a blanket and in each other's arms. In the semi-darkness, he can't tell if they are making love, but if not, they're not far from it. He glances at his carved whalebone ring, remembering how glorious Songoree felt in his arms. Warmth spreads from his chest through his entire body. What the hell could be keeping him? Could Grandfather have convinced him to stay? Perhaps he can't face me with the bad news. The warm glow inside him mutates into cold fear. If Songoree won't come to San Francisco, what will I do? Mike places a hot plate in front of him. He reaches under the bar and brings up a bottle of catsup and takes Garrett's 336

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empty mug to refill it from the tap. Garrett's head spins from the beer on an empty stomach combined with fear of losing Songoree. Eat, he thinks. Your hunger has you overreacting. He digs into the burger with both hands and wolfs it down, but his thoughts linger on the idea that Songoree could back out. If he does, Garrett thinks, I don't know what I'll do, but there is no sense in worrying until I do know. The burger is soon history. Garrett swabs the plate with the last few fries. He signals Mike for one last brew. Suddenly, he hears the sound of running shoes across the stone floor. He turns to find Audrey flying towards him. Panic is clearly etched across her face. "Garrett, it's Song. They've beaten him." He jumps from the stool and grabs her by the forearms. "Where is he?" "Hap found him. We took him to your house. I've already called the ambulance in Hilo. They're on their way. My car's right here." They fly down the road in Audrey's car as she fills him in on the details of how Hap found him in the street, broken and bleeding. "I called the Hilo hospital from my office, and we took him to the house, where we found the note you left on the door. Also, people are saying that Grandfather is dead, but no one seems to know how. "Prepare yourself. He looks bad, and there are some broken bones. There's probably internal hemorrhaging. They really worked him over." 337

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Before the car comes to a stop, Garrett flies out the door at a run. He sails up the steps and through the doorway before Audrey shuts off the engine. In the bedroom, kneeling beside the bed, he gasps. He can't get a breath, as if something huge were lodged in his throat. Hap stands behind him, lays a hand on his shoulder. "Never seen anyone take such a beating." Songoree lies on the bed. His clothes have been ripped away. His amber skin is bloodied, and dozens of long red welts, as thick as Garrett's thumb, crisscross his chest, back and limbs. "Looks like they whipped him with chains," Hap says. His once-beautiful face is now a hideous mask of swelling bruises. His nose is crushed, and his eyes are swollen shut— black and puffy and oozing blood. His lips are raw and easily four times their normal size. His hair is cropped close to his head, and blood drips from both his ears. Hap has bandaged some of the major wounds to lessen the blood flow. The bandages are dark red and sodden. His left arm is clearly broken in two places, and Garrett counts at least four broken ribs. A nasty gash down his right thigh still oozes blood, as do dozens of smaller cuts. He reaches up and gently runs his fingers through the jagged cropped hair, which feels thick and silky as it ripples through his fingers. Panic explodes inside him. He takes Songoree's hand and kisses those once-graceful fingers. Songoree's breathing is shallow and irregular. His limbs are rapidly cooling. Garrett tells Hap to bring blankets, quickly. 338

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"Song, can you hear me?" Songoree doesn't speak, but Garrett feels his hand being squeezed. "You once told me that scars make a man more beautiful." Garrett chokes on his words. Tears flood down his cheeks. "You are the most beautiful man I've ever known, and now you'll be even more so. Please hold on. Don't leave me alone. You've got to pull through. Please don't leave me alone." Songoree's hand squeezes. Garrett leans close to his ear and asks, "Who did this?" Even this close, he can barely hear Songoree's voice as he manages to rasp, "It doesn't matter." "Someone will pay, I promise you." Songoree turns his head to face him. "Let it go. It's my fault." Garrett strains to hear and to understand. "What are you talking about?" "I thought I had it figured out. I forgot about death. I assumed he was immortal, that death couldn't touch him." Songoree's using the word death sends a chill throughout Garrett. He makes a shushing sound and tells Songoree to lie still, not to speak anymore. "Lay here and go to that silent space inside. I'm going outside to see if the ambulance has come. I love you with all my heart. I'll be right here for you." Songoree rasps, "Let it go." Garrett is on his feet and moving through the house with Hap right behind him. Hap tells him it will be some time before the ambulance arrives. Audrey has already gone for Doc Wong. There is nothing to do now but wait. 339

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Garrett stands on the porch gazing at the glow of lights across the bay. "I can't just stand here and do nothing. It will drive me mad. You stay with Song. You see that he holds on until the ambulance gets here." "What the hell are you going to do?" "Somebody's in that town with blood on their hands, and I'm pretty sure I know who." Before Hap can say another word, he leaps down the steps and runs at full speed up the beach. At first he runs all out, the physical movement a means to control the panic in his heart. But after a mile he slows his pace and gets into an easy trot that will get him into town quickly but preserve his strength. As one part of his mind worries over Songoree, another part feels guilt washing over him. He knows he is responsible for bringing this down on Songoree. He saw the danger signs. Audrey had even warned him that night of the luau. But he went after Songoree anyway. He let it all happen, and it just may have killed the man he loves. No telling what internal injuries Songoree has suffered. As he runs he keeps seeing the ravaged body lying lifeless on the bed. It feels like watching Marc die. That old feeling of being helpless to change what's happening takes hold of his spirit. But he thinks, no, what killed Marc was microscopic. I had no way to fight it. This is different. Whoever did this can feel pain, can bleed, can be killed. By the time he passes the pier at the town's border, he feels himself expanding, as if the growing hate within makes 340

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him larger and more terrifying. He slows to a trot as his mind reviews the different man-to-man combat moves he learned during his Navy Seals training. It's been several years since he's fought a man, but he knows he is more than a match for any man. Hell, any two men. At the front door of the Parrot, he takes a moment to catch his breath. Jukebox noise reverberates through the door, but the street is dead quiet. The music inside stops. Garrett takes a last breath of air and pushes the door open. Yellow light falls over him as he steps into the bar. The room stinks of cigar smoke, beer and disinfectant. The lights stain everything yellow. He counts six customers and the Samoan bartender. He feels the door close behind him, luring him back out to safety. My God, he thinks, there's too many. He swallows, and the room goes quiet as all eyes rivet on him. Drops of sweat form on his upper lip as fear balloons in his heart. Mako's baritone voice cuts through the silence. "What's this? Looks like we're going to get us another piece of ass tonight, boys." PJ stands close to the pool table with a cue stick in hand, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. An icy claw seizes Garrett's heart. They raped him, he thinks. His head spins. He feels like he may vomit. "God help me," he whispers. His fear fades as he calculates which one he will kill first, and how. His body relaxes as he turns into a predator, calm and deliberate, feeling a powerful rush though his body, like a 341

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big cat ready to pounce. Now that there is no turning back, he begins to relish the moment. They will die—or he will die in the attempt. It's that simple. Death is the punishment: them for brutalizing his Song, or himself for loving Song too much. Garrett stalks to the pool table, passing two customers who sit at the bar. He takes a cue stick from the wall rack and turns to the table that has red and blue and yellow balls, striped and solid, scattered across the green felt. He bends into the tent of light filtering down from the hanging fixture, lines up the cue ball and makes his shot. He feels a strange twinge of triumph as he sinks a twocushion bank shot and the 9-ball tips into the corner pocket. He straightens up and scrutinizes PJ. He sees the excitement building in those eyes. You'll be the first, he thinks. A screeching noise outside turns everybody's head towards the front window. Two seconds later, the door flings open and Hap bursts into the room like a bull out of the chute. Everybody freezes for the second it takes the door to slam shut. Hap lumbers close to the bar. "The ambulance is taking Song-boy to the hospital in Hilo," he says, his voice low and steady. He scans the room, obviously sizing up the opposition while forming a plan of his own. "Doc Wong says he's busted up bad inside, but he'll be on his feet in three or four weeks." The large Samoan behind the bar shows his pointy teeth in a slanted smile. "Doc Wong, never white, always wong." He chuckles, as do a few others.

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Hap shakes his head. "I told the driver to come back here after they deliver Song-boy. They're gonna have some more business tonight." The Samoan says, "That's real smart, old man." He looks over at Garrett. "You better hope to hell they hurry 'cause you're gonna need them pretty damn quick." Hap steps closer to the bartender and says, "Don't be lookin' over there, you fat fuck. You got all you can handle right here." The Samoan's teeth gleam in the dim light. "That suits me fine, old man." He reaches up and takes hold of the knife he uses to cut fruit. "That suits me just fine." Garrett grips his cue stick as tight as he can. He takes two quick steps towards PJ, and the cue stick whooshes through the air. The thick handle smashes into PJ's face, shattering his nose and cheek, spraying blood and teeth across the green felt table. PJ falls to his knees, and Garrett catches him in the middle of the chest with a vicious kick. Bones snap. PJ is thrown backwards and goes limp on the floor. Mako and two others lunge at Garrett. Hap leaps at the two men sitting at the bar. Before either can move, he grabs the nearest one by the hair and drives his head forward and down, slamming him into the bar's grainy wood surface. The man goes limp, and Hap pushes him into the second man, who is leaping up from his barstool. As the second man fumbles under the dead weight of his unconscious buddy, Hap grabs a beer bottle standing on the bar and smashes it across the second man's face. Stunned, he weaves forward. Hap cocks his right fist and smashes the 343

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man's face. He staggers backwards and falls over a barstool before hitting the floor with his lights out. The Samoan runs out from behind the bar, wielding the knife in front of him. Hap holds the smashed beer bottle, which has turned into a wicked piece of jagged glass, in his left hand. They face each other, circling. The Samoan no longer smiles. A thin layer of sweat spreads across his forehead. "You're going to eat this glass, you fat fuck," Hap says. Mako and two burly men close in on Garrett. Garrett swings his left fist at the nearest man, landing a heavy blow to the mouth, then follows with his right, knocking him back a few steps. He sidesteps the charging Mako and knees him in the gut as he falls to the floor. He fights with the grace of a dancer. His fists sting his foes over and over as he tries to stay a moving target while wearing them down with each blow. Suddenly, a blow connects with his face, making a deep cut below the left eye. Blood gushes down his cheek. He steps forward, and his fist finds Mako. He feels bones crushing, and Mako staggers backwards. Pain explodes in Garrett's stomach. He drops to his knees; his field of vision fills with black spots. Not so bad, he thinks. You can still fight with spots. But he feels faint, and knows that if he loses consciousness they will kill him. Mako leaps on him. They grapple on the floor. Garrett tries to push him off, but his strength is draining, his breathing comes in ragged gulps. He hears cloth rip, and realizes he is being hauled to his feet by his collar. Fingers grip his throat, 344

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cutting off his air while his arms are pinned to the wall. He gasps for breath. His thoughts become crystal-clear—if he doesn't break free he has only minutes to live. The Samoan puts his head down and charges like a rhino. Hap sidesteps the blade and grabs the hand holding the knife. He jams the broken beer bottle into the Samoan's face, twisting and gouging. The Samoan squeals like a stuck pig. He tries to back away, but Hap holds him in close and works the glass into every part of that face. The Samoan goes wild with rage and breaks free. His face resembles bloody, raw hamburger with shards of broken glass sticking out. Hap steps forward and drives what's left of the beer bottle into the Samoan's gut, slashing with all his strength. The Samoan's screams echo off the walls. Flailing wildly, he blindly charges again. They fall to the floor, grappling, each straining against the other and both stabbing furiously. The Samoan goes limp; his life spills onto the grimy floor. Hap feels his own gut burning, and he knows he's cut deep. Warmth oozes over his chest and abdomen. He stares across the room, sees two men holding Garrett against the far wall while Mako pulverizes him with both fists. "God help me to endure," he whispers. It takes all his remaining strength to lift himself off the floor. He looks down at the Samoan lying limp beside the other two unconscious men. He coughs up some blood and spits on the lifeless body. "That's for your whore of a mother." Hap staggers across the barroom, and as he passes PJ's limp body he kicks the man's face, spraying bloody teeth 345

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across the floor. He pulls a pool cue from the wall rack and, using it as a club, screams as he makes a kamikaze charge at the three men beating Garrett. Hearing Hap's scream, Mako turns his head to see what's coming. When he does, Garrett twists his hips, and his right leg flies up, catching Mako in the crotch. Mako bowls over. Garrett twists again to smash him in the chest with his left kneecap. The force of the blow catapults Mako backwards, sending him sprawling. He pulls himself to his knees and begins to puke. The two men holding Garrett let go as Hap charges with the club held high. Hap catches one across the forehead, and the cue stick snaps in half from the impact, dropping the man like a sack of rice. Hap slides to the floor with him, his strength now spent. Garrett backs the other man against the wall, pounding his face in an uncontrollable fury. The man doubles over, and Garrett finishes him off with three brutal kicks to the gut. He gasps for breath as he turns on Mako, who is on all fours before a pool of vomit. He leaps on him, driving his face into the vomit, pins him there, swinging his fist into the sides of Mako's head. He suddenly stops. He wants desperately to kill Mako, kill them all, but he stops. Mako struggles beneath him, teeth and blood and puke all around them. Garrett grabs him by the hair and rubs his face in the gooey mess. He lifts him and throws him against the pool table, kicking him in the gut one more time. 346

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Mako falls to the floor. Garrett staggers over and steps on his neck, cutting off his air. Mako's face looks like a Halloween mask with teeth missing, crushed nose, battered features and bloody puke smeared all over. Garrett says, "When you tell your friends about this, be sure to let them know it was Tinkerbell, a fairy, a fucking faggot, that kicked your ass and had you sucking up your own puke." The room is dead quiet. The only movement is the overhead fan's silent spinning. Yellow light casts an eerie glow on the bodies sprawled over the floor. Garrett staggers to where Hap lies motionless and kneels beside him. The front of Hap's shirt is sliced open and blood spreads across his chest. Hap rasps, "Help me out of here." Garrett hauls him to his feet then maneuvers him out the front door and into the fresh air. The night is clear, stars wheel calmly overhead. "Help me down to the water. I want to look out to sea." Garrett gathers his strength and lifts Hap over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. He staggers down the street and onto the beach. Once on the sand, he stumbles, and they both fall over in a heap. Garrett struggles to turn Hap over and get him into a sitting position. Hap's body is limp and heavy. He opens Hap's shirt and checks the cuts. "This looks bad. We need to get you to the hospital." "Just let me sit here a minute." "Don't give up on me." 347

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"I'm beaten. Nothing left but memories and pride, and a lot of pain." "You're not beaten. Hemingway said a man can be destroyed but not defeated. You kicked some major ass tonight, and you saved my life." "It was a beautiful fight. The best I ever saw. God, it felt good to make that pig bartender eat glass. I've wanted to do that for ten years. And you—you fight like Song-boy dances. You're a real artist." "I lost control. I wanted to kill them all, but something stopped me. Instead, I just humiliated them, destroyed their pride." Sweat glistens on Hap's forehead, and his blood drips into the sand. He begins to shiver. "Grandfather died. If Song-boy lives, you'll never get him off the island. He has to stay. Leaving will kill him." "Yes, I know that now." "So, you'll stay here with him?" "My time here is over. I can't stay, can't stand the thought of bringing more violence down on Song. They did this because of me, because I love him. It nearly killed me when I saw him tonight, because I caused it. I've got to let him go, for his sake. Besides, he wants me to help him with something I don't believe in." "You don't choose what you believe in, it chooses you." Hap lifts himself enough to glare into Garrett's eyes. "Looking back on my life," he says, "there are only two things that mean a damn. The most important is that I loved an exquisite woman and she loved me back, and from that love we 348

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produced the most wondrous child. Nothing else matters. That's the only thing worth taking to the grave. Don't cheat yourself out of that. Hold on to it for as long as you can." The breeze off the bay turns cold, and holding him in his arms, Garrett feels the heat leave Hap's body. "I just can't face bringing more harm to Song. I would rather walk away now." Hap's voice is weak, raspy. "You love him and he loves you. Trouble—heart trouble—is like the wind at sea. You need the wind to help you move along, but sometimes the wind seems too big, too powerful for your little ship. At sea, you can't run from the wind. You trim your sails, batten down the hatches and you keep going. You ride it till it plays out. When it really gets bad, you turn your bow right into the wind and hold on for your life." He coughs from deep in his chest. Blood splatters over his chin. "Most people think that I've ruined my life, and I admit I haven't accomplished much, but you can take this from an old salt—you can't run from the wind." [Back to Table of Contents]

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30. A southeasterly breeze drifts off the bay, pulling at the palm fronds behind the house. The morning sun tumbles rose-colored light across the water. Garrett relaxes on the porch, sprawled in a chair while he watches the shorebirds fly lazy circles high over the beach. He smiles at the birds, at the whole morning in general. Songoree leaves the hospital today, and Garrett knows he should be excited, but what he feels is a soothing contentment. With the wind on his cheek and sun on his face, he luxuriates in the knowledge that Songoree is on his way. Mother Kamamalu sings as she cleans the breakfast dishes. Her voice floats out the front doorway, carrying the lovely melody of some island tune. Every morning since Songoree went to the hospital she has come to cook and clean. In the afternoons, she and Garrett sit on the porch, and she tells him stories of life on the island. She likes to tell the old legends of the Hawaiian gods, but what Garrett loves are the stories about Grandfather, and of Songoree's childhood. She makes even the simplest stories seem grand and rich with detail. She was with Garrett when the police came to question him about the fight. She demanded that he must be treated as an islander, that he is a member of her family. In the end, she convinced them it was self-defense, and no charges were filed. 350

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He sat next to her at Hap's funeral, held her hand through the ceremony. Each afternoon before she leaves to walk back to town, she takes him in her massive arms, holds him tight, tells him he is family and that he is loved. Garrett has not visited Songoree at the hospital, not because he didn't want to go but because Songoree sent word that he didn't want to see him. He has relied on progress reports from Audrey, who visited every day, and also Owen and Micah and Liliha. The truth is, he was relieved that Songoree didn't want to see him like this. He had sustained a sound beating during the fight, and although the swelling and bruising have disappeared, there are still several scars on his face and yellowish patches under the skin where the bruising was bad. Mother Kamamalu's singing becomes louder. He turns to see her easing her bulk through the doorway. She hands him a mug of fresh coffee. "Won't be long. Our Song will be back home." "Mother Kamamalu, thank you for everything. You've been wonderful." "How many times I got to tell you, call me Mother. And what I've done is nothing at all." Most of the morning drifts by before a spiraling cloud of dust up the road catches Garrett's eye. He spots the yellow car making its way around the bay, and he knows his wait is over. His heartbeat speeds to something resembling excitement. Songoree is minutes away. His heart races by the time the car pulls up at the end of the road. He steps off the porch, trying to keep calm. 351

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The two back doors swing open. Owen, Micah and Liliha pile out of the back seat. Audrey opens the driver-side door and steps out. She wears her green print dress and her homburg hat. She looks fresh and vibrant. The front passenger door opens, and Songoree steps from the car. Garrett hurries now, closing the space between them. Songoree's hair is a buzz cut, making him look like a Buddhist monk, accentuating his long neck. His face still shows scarring and discoloration, a cast covers his arm, and his ribs are bandaged. He moves cautiously from lingering pain, but his smile is genuine. Garrett's heart wedges in his throat. He stops, transfixed. He has never seen anything as distressingly beautiful as Songoree's injured face. Songoree wears a tank top and board shorts. Under a strap of the tank top, Garrett catches a glimpse of the manta ray tattoo, and his heart nearly bursts. He dashes the last few yards and sweeps Songoree into his arms. They fuse together with a force that rocks him. Several wordless minutes pass as Garrett holds him tight. They kiss. Garrett's head spins as he devours those lips, feels the passion radiating between them. Songoree struggles to break free of Garrett's vise-like grip, but he is too weak. "Don't think I've forgiven you. I can't," Songoree whispers. They pull apart only enough for Garrett to gaze into his eyes. In the depths of those retinas, he sees a battle raging, raw love combating an iron will. The violent force of it expands to enfold him. 352

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Mother Kamamalu comes up and wraps her arms around them both, squeezing them into her softness. The three of them stand entwined. Audrey lays a hand on Garrett's shoulder. He sees that her eyes brim with tears. "You two need to talk, try to work things out," she says. "Why don't you walk down the beach. I'm going to help Mother Kamamalu fix some lunch, and Liliha and the boys are going to clean the house from top to bottom. We'll call when lunch is ready." There is too much emotion caught in Garrett's throat for him to answer. He wants to tell her what a marvelous friend she is, and that he loves her, but he cannot speak. As if reading his feelings, she smiles through her tears and gives him a push in the direction of the beach. Songoree shakes his head and starts to protest, but Mother Kamamalu shushes him. "You're going to talk with your pretty man right now. Talk it all out, the both of you. I won't have no quarrels in my family." They break away from her embrace. They walk about a dozen yards before Songoree says, "I didn't want to come back here. I only came to tell you I'm not going to San Francisco with you, now or ever. I'm staying here." Garrett stops. "I have something for you. Wait here." He dashes back to the house, flies through the front door, and two seconds later is back with something in his arms. He runs to Songoree, holding a tiny fur ball the color of burnt coffee. Songoree shouts with joy as Garrett hands him a puppy. 353

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"He's a chocolate Lab, eight weeks old, and he doesn't have a name yet. I found him on Maui." Songoree hugs the puppy to his face. "Oh, you're such a fat little bruiser. And look at these floppy little ears. He's adorable. I'll call you Kobe because you look like those fattened Kobe bulls." He looks at Garrett. "I love him already." Garrett kisses him with Kobe between them. Songoree resists at first, but then he melts into Garrett's lips, begins to kiss back. They amble to the water's edge and sink to the ground, holding hands while Kobe explores the sand around them. They kiss again, a long, deep kiss. Garrett asks, "Why didn't you let me see you at the hospital?" Songoree pulls back. A shadow shrouds his injured face. "You know that my grandfather is dead?" "Hap told me." "You went to Uncle Hap's funeral?" "Yes, with your mother and Audrey and Liliha. It was a beautiful service. I wish you could have seen it. And I wish you could have seen him in the fight. He fought bravely. I owe him my life." "I saw. I saw it all, in the bar and on the beach. It was the first time I was really able to see like my grandfather. If I had his power, I could have prevented that violence. But I could only see it, the raw truth of it." His gaze drops to the sand; he is unable to look Garrett in the face. "What I saw was your careless, ignorant, selfish, 354

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violent rage drawing Hap into that fatal brawl. I didn't want to see you ever again because I blame you for his death. I lost two people I loved that day. I'm still heartbroken. "I was so angry with you that I thought I wasn't in love with you anymore. I tried with all my will to hate you. But when I saw you from the car I knew that wasn't truth, wasn't real. The truth is that I do love you with all my heart. I always will. "I think what I was really angry about was that I killed my grandfather in the same careless, selfish, ignorant way that you killed Uncle Hap. Now that I understand that, I think I can forgive you. Perhaps someday I can even forgive myself." "I can't blame you if you do hate me. I've brought so much pain and heartache into your life." "Cause and effect. I brought this karma on myself. Besides, I wouldn't give up a moment I've spent with you." "If you saw the fight and you know all that, then it seems you're on your way to becoming a shaman, or whatever your grandfather was." "It's one more step on the path. A big step, but the path is long. And what Uncle Hap said on the beach is true. I can't leave the islands now. I gave my word to Grandfather, and he gave his life to keep me here." "I know you can't leave all this. It's who you are." "Uncle Hap left his boat to me and Liliha. I plan to fix it up and go into the sports fishing business. You know, Grandfather was quite the fisherman in his day." "Your mother told me all about him. Let me help. I want to stay and help you." 355

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"What about your story? You need to find a publisher, get it published." "That's all in the past. Right now, I don't care if it gets published. The important thing is that I had to write it to get past that pain. Now I can move on with my life. "Hap was right, you can't run from the wind, and I have no intention of leaving you now. I've spent my life running away. Now I just want to help you in any way I can. Like it or not, you're stuck with me." "You don't mind being a fisherman instead of a famous writer?" "As long as you stay in the boat I'll be fine with fishing. Besides, I can still write. Seems to me we have a project to do. Something your grandfather started and I can help you finish." "You mean it? You'll help me?" "I'll help you with anything you need for the rest of our lives. But as far as this project goes, can Audrey be a part of all this? I've grown to love her, and I know she's dying to help." "I was hoping you'd feel that way. But there's one other issue, one thing I need from you." "Anything." "I want kids. I want us to raise a family." "How the hell do you think we can manage that?" "Liliha said she'd have our baby. You'll need to be the biological father since she and I are so closely related. The three of us can raise a whole tribe." 356

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"You sure you want to make that kind of a commitment with me?" "I already have. When I got this tattoo, it was for life. I know that now." Kobe walks up on wobbly legs to Songoree's prone body and licks his face. Laughter bursts from his throat as he hugs the puppy to his neck. Garrett sighs, his head drops. "Okay, so together we're going to raise a pack of kids and write a ground-breaking book that will change human consciousness. So, how do we begin?" Songoree gazes out to sea, beyond the reef to the deep purple water stretching to infinity. "Begin." A smile spreads across his broken lips. "How did it begin? With Grandfather's death leap? Or Coolie chasing a ball? Or you flying to the island, or our first kiss? Who can tell how anything really begins or ends? We begin with a quiet mind. Silence. All things begin within the density of silence." [Back to Table of Contents]

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31. The Royal Lady bobs on a smooth plane of purple. The tropical sun pounds on her scrubbed decks and white enamel paint like a hammer on an anvil. The undulating surface of the sea reflects the glimmering sunlight, making it seem to her inhabitants that she has been swallowed by a universe of dazzling yellow light. The sea is dead calm. The island is no longer visible; only the cumulus clouds towering over Mauna Loa show where the island lies. Steve Madison sits in the fishing chair astern wearing a leather shoulder harness that is hooked to a ten-foot fishing rod. The rod is firmly locked into the butt rest. He strains to lift it, which is bent so far over the Lady's stern that it almost touches the water, and looks as if it might break at any second. The white thirty-six-thread line runs straight down, and the tension is so tight it quivers like a tuned violin string. Steve can't budge the rod, not even an inch. The night before, Garrett did everything he could to prepare for this fight. He checked the line on the reel, cutting away where it had gone rotten and splicing in another hundred yards of new thirty-six-thread line. He sharpened the hook, and checked the leader and swivel. "Move her back a taste," he says. He lifts his hand and rubs his thumb in little circles over his first and second fingers to indicate how much. 358

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"Backing a taste," Songoree replies. He stands at the controls on the flying bridge. He has the motors throttled down so they are barely turning over. He eases her throttle forward and backs off, which nudges the boat a hair backwards to ease the pressure on the line. He knows exactly how much is needed by Garrett's gesture. They have fished together for five years now, and have come to understand each other perfectly. He eyes the Springfield bolt-action rifle slung over a hook next to the controls by its leather strap, and it makes him think of Hap for the millionth time. He thinks about how Hap loved this old rifle. He keeps the dark-gray barrel saturated with fiend-oil to prevent rusting in the salt air, and the walnut stock is polished. He has never shot off a round, but he feels more comfortable having it at the ready, and always keeps a round in the chamber when they are out on the open sea. He checks his wristwatch. "An hour and twenty-two minutes," he reports. Garrett shuffles to the cooler in the cockpit and digs a bottle of water from the ice. Beside the cooler, in the shade of the cockpit, Kobe leisurely wags his tail and pants, enduring the heat pretty well for such a large dog. Beside him stands a small brown boy wearing a Star Wars T-shirt, shorts and flipflops, and he holds a four-foot-long plastic tube with a dull red light glowing faintly inside. The boy's light saber batteries are running down. The boy points his Jedi weapon at Madison's back and whispers, "Daddy, how long will it take?" 359

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"I don't know, Andy. It shouldn't be much longer. They're both getting pretty tired." Garrett walks back to Steve Madison, lifts the water bottle to his lips and tells him to swallow only a little and spit the rest out. He trickles water over Madison's head. "You don't have a headache?" he asks. Madison is the size and build of a heavyweight gone to fat, with strong arms and chest from regular visits to his local gym. But Garrett knows all that muscle won't stop a busted blood vessel in the head from the strain, or heatstroke, for that matter. Madison is hooked to a monster fish, and Garrett isn't sure the big man has enough heart to bring it in. Madison swishes the water around his mouth and spits it on the deck. "I'm okay. What I need is a cold beer." "Keep your mind on that fish." "This son of a bitch feels like a two-ton anchor. Must be dead and laying on the bottom." "There is no bottom, and he's not dead, just sounding." "How do you know he's not dead?" "Because he's dragging us out to sea. He's smart. He hasn't panicked. He's a quarter-mile down in the dark where he wants to be, and he's trying to figure out a way to throw that hook." Garrett pats him on the shoulder. "You're going to have to find a way to bring him up, and you need to do that before he wears you out. Otherwise, you'll be too tired when the fight begins, and you'll make a mistake." "When the fight begins? What the fuck do you call this?" "This isn't the fight. You're dancing around each other, sizing each other up. And by the way, I've asked you once 360

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already not to use that kind of language in front of my son. Don't do it again." "Sorry." Garrett glances into the cockpit. Andrew sits at the ship's controls, pretending to be in the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon, cruising over the surface of the Death Star. "Luke, use the Force," he mumbles. He'll be five next month. He has long black hair and Songoree's fine-boned facial features. He seems to have inherited nothing from Garrett's gene pool. Even the boy's wonderful imagination and childish delight in the world around him comes from Songoree. Garrett turns back to Madison. "Try and get some line on him, even an inch, if you can." Madison braces his feet against the stern and pulls, using every muscle in his back, hips and legs. The harness straps dig deeper into his shoulders as he strains. His face turns a scalded red, and the wattle of fat under his chin trembles with the effort. The rod only bends more, and the line tightens to the breaking point, but the rod doesn't budge an inch. "Help me," Madison gasps. "This fish is your baby. You have to fight him yourself or die trying." Garrett would pay five thousand dollars to take the rod. This is the fight of a lifetime, and all he can do is watch, wait and keep Madison as cool and ready as possible. He is fascinated by the struggle. He checks the shoulder harness strapped to the pole, knowing Madison is just as 361

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much hooked to the fish as the fish is to Madison. It's wonderful, he thinks, one strong will battling another. "These god-damned straps are cutting into my shoulders. It hurts like hell." "You've got shoulders like a bull, Mr. Madison. That pain doesn't matter. How's your head?" "My head's fine, it's my shoulders that hurt." "Okay, Mr. Madison, I think you should try again. Really put your back into it. Make him feel it this time. Show this fish you're a man with a purpose." Again, Madison sets his feet, bends forward and pulls from the soles of his feet to his shoulders, using all the leverage his body can muster. The rod lifts a hair, then an inch. The line slanting into the purple water moves to the left a few inches. Garrett pats him on the shoulder. "You moved him. By God, you moved him. Take a few breaths and hit him again." He calls up to Songoree, "Be ready for anything. I think our baby's getting restless." "How much line is left?" Songoree asks. Garrett checks the reel and shakes his head. "Twenty yards." "We'll have to chase him if he runs." "Like I said, be ready for—" Before he can finish his sentence, the reel begins to sing and the line tilts off to the starboard side of the stern. "He's making a run to starboard," Garrett yells to Songoree. He pats Madison on the shoulder again and says, "He's going to run and you've got to stop him. Tighten the drag. Make him pay for every inch of line." 362

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Songoree jams the throttle forward and turns the wheel to starboard, chasing the fish before it can take out all the line. Madison strains against the rod. Garrett yells up to the bridge that they are down to ten yards. The line goes out slower now but it still goes out. Garrett hurries to the ice chest and comes back with a cold wet cloth. "You picked a hell of a hot day to hook a monster, and this calm makes it even hotter. You be sure and let me know if your head starts hurting." He wipes Madison's face and neck, and places the cloth over Madison's head. "You've got to stop him now. You've got to hurt him, pull with everything you've got." He feels an overpowering urge to grab the rod and help pull, but he fights it down. Instead, he grabs the water bottle and pours cool water over the big man's wrists and forearms. Madison puts all his weight and all his heart into pulling the rod back. There are only two yards of line left on the reel. Garrett is surprised the line hasn't snapped from the strain. Madison lets out a hoarse gasp, and the line going out slows to a crawl and stops. The rod lifts a foot, then two. Madison lowers it and reels in line with his right hand. "You stopped him, Mr. Madison," Garrett says. The relief in his voice is vivid. "Now the real fight begins." Steve Madison lifts the rod and reels as he lowers, lifts and reels, lifts and reels like a precision machine. He works steadily for twenty minutes, taking in a fair quantity of line onto the reel. Garrett observes the slant of the line in the water. "He's coming up." 363

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All of the sudden, a huge bulge appears on the calm purple water. The fish bursts from the bulge, dark blue with a silver belly. Up and up it flies, clean out of the water, leaping a magnificent arc through the air while shaking its head from side to side. The leap seems to take an hour. When his great bulk hits the water again, a spray of white water sails high into the air. Songoree yells, "See his sword? He's a broadbill. A thousand pounder, easy." "Sweet Jesus, I've never caught anything bigger than an eighty-pound sailfish," Madison says. "Oh, please, Lord, let me land this fish." Garrett says a little prayer himself. He knows that if the fish makes a straight rush out, he can easily strip all the reserve line from the reel and break off. What they need is for the fish to circle, and that is what he prays for. Andrew runs to the stern, swinging his light saber. "Wow. He's bigger that Jabba the Hutt! Can we really land a fish that big?" "Shut up, kid," Madison gasps. "It's back luck to talk ahead." Kobe lifts his head and growls at Madison's back. Garrett bends and whispers into Andrew's ear. The boy runs to the ladder. He climbs to the flying bridge and hurries to Songoree's side, taking hold of his father's left leg and hugging tight. A trail of tears wets the boy's cheeks. "You didn't say anything bad, Andy," Songoree says as he cups an arm over the boy's shoulders. "Mr. Madison is 364

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grouchy because he's scared to death he's going to lose that fish. A fish like this only comes along once." "Yeah, but he'll blame me if it gets away." "Let's not talk about it getting away. Okay?" "Okay, Daddy." "He's starting to circle," Garrett says. "If you can keep him from throwing that hook, you've got him. Keep that line as taut as you can. When he comes on the in-swing you take in as much line as you can then make him pay for every inch on the out-swing." Madison, the precision machine, goes back to lifting and reeling, lifting and reeling. Garrett picks up the water bottle, which is wet with condensation. He trickles cool water over the big man's head and shoulders. The fish circles for an hour. Madison takes in lots of line on the in-swing and it races back out on the out-swing. But each circle gets a little tighter as the fish tires. Songoree tells Andrew to get out of the sun. The boy climbs down the ladder and curls up next to Kobe inside the cockpit. "Your head still okay?" Garrett asks Madison nods. Good, Garrett thinks, he's reached the breath-saving phase. He leans close in front of the big man's face and peers carefully into his hazel eyes. He stares for a full minute and nods his head. Pulling away, he notices that the blisters on Madison's left hand, the hand holding the rod, have opened 365

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and fluid drips onto the deck. He grabs the bottle and pours water over the man's hands and wrists. "You're doing fine, keep bringing in line. That monster is a lot stronger that you are, but you have the advantage. That poor fish works all the time, in-swing as well as out-swing." When the fish is fifty yards from the boat, Songoree shuts down the motors and drops down from the flying bridge to help. He grabs the gaff and hands a pair of pliers to Garrett, who has already put on leather gloves. At first it seems strange to have Songoree working at the same level with him after being on the flying bridge for three hours. He sees the fish deep in the water, and everything else is forgotten. "Sweet Jesus, look at the size of him," Songoree says. The massive fish grows bigger as Madison reels him closer. He is purple-blue and looks like a shadow in the purple water, an immense shadow, swimming towards the boat. "Keep him coming," Garrett tells Madison. "We've just about got him." Everyone holds his breath. Andrew has run to the stern and peers down through the clear water with eyes the size of goose eggs. Now they all see the broad sword, tall dorsal fin and beautifully formed tail. A few minutes more, and the swivel attaching the line to the leader eases out of the water. "See if you can steer him to the starboard side," Garrett says.

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Ever so slowly, the swivel draws close to the stern. He leans out over the water and grabs the wire leader. He maneuvers the fish alongside. "Let up on your drag," Songoree tells Madison. For the first time in three hours, Steve Madison has no strain on his back, legs or arms. He pulls the drag switch, unhooks the shoulder strap hook and drops the rod to the deck. He almost falls off the chair but manages to stand. He staggers to the side of the boat where he can see them work the fish. His body visibly trembles. Holding himself against the railing, he gasps as he sees the six-foot-long sword rising out of the water. "Easy, easy, another foot. Keep him coming." Songoree hooks the gaff inside the gills and draws the massive head up and out of the water. Garrett applies the pliers, working the hook out of the fish's mouth. He struggles to cut the hook out without damaging the flesh. There is a trickle of blood oozing from the wound, but it is surprisingly small considering the fight this fish gave. Madison says, "Get a rope on him and haul him up with the winch. You can take the hook out when he's in the boat." The hook comes free, and Garrett stands back. They all take a long, appraising look at this magnificent fish, then Songoree slides the gaff from the gills. The creature seems to hang in the water. That huge black eyeball peers up at the men, appraising them as they appraise him. The fish slowly swims away from the boat. As it sinks into the purple water, he gets smaller and smaller until he vanishes altogether, and it all seems like a wonderful dream. 367

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"What the fuck!" Madison screams. "That fish almost killed me. I want that fucking fish hanging over my fireplace. You fucking son of a bitch, you deliberately let my fish go." Garrett turns and slaps Madison across the face with an open hand. "I told you to watch your mouth, and I meant it." Songoree steps between them. He pushes Garrett towards the ladder to the flying bridge. "Why don't you and Andrew take us on in. Looks like we've had enough fun for one day." He turns to Madison, who has a trickle of blood flowing down his chin and an I-want-to-kill gaze in his bloodshot eyes. He waves his left hand in front of Madison's face, and the big man's eyes follow the hand. Songoree uses a deep and gravelish voice to say, "You're not angry at all. You are overjoyed and grateful to have fought such a magnificent fish. You fought well, and you're proud of yourself, as you should be. You were just as magnificent as the fish." The tension visibly drains from Madison's face. His eyes go blank. Andrew takes Garrett's hand in his and whispers, "Daddy's doing his Obi-Wan thing again." Songoree continues, "You were the one who let that fish go free, because you realized during the struggle that you were connected to each other. You were connected to something unimaginable and you began to love that fish as much as you love yourself. His pain was yours, his spilt blood was yours. It binds you both in that love, and that love will last a lifetime." 368

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Tears begin to run down Madison's cheeks, and a smile creases his lips. Songoree glances at Andrew and winks. [Back to Table of Contents]

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32. On the ride back, Garrett sits at the controls with Andrew on his lap. The evening cools to just double-digit temperatures, and for the first time today, he can stare at the water without the glare hurting his eyes. He looks at the island, which begins to grow large on the horizon. Beyond the twists of spray above the reef, the land trembles. It seems to be a newly formed mirage that hovers between sea and sky. Above the green heaviness floats a layer of mist, soft and ghostly, too insubstantial to sink into the treetops. From this distance, there is no sign of life. Behind the Lady's stern, above the dark rolling water, ashen clouds feather across the sky all the way to the horizon. Andrew says, "Daddy, the fish won't die, will he?" "What does your heart tell you?" Andrew closes his eyes and goes quiet for several minutes. When he opens them again, he hugs Garrett with a big smile on his little face. "That fish was just tired," Garrett says. "Maybe we'll hook him again some day, and next time he'll outsmart us." **** In the cockpit, sitting on the bunk across from the controls, Songoree spreads mercurochrome onto the broken blisters on Steve Madison's left hand, and he dabs some on the man's cut lip. 370

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"We're all proud of the way you fought today. No one could have fought him any better." "Thanks, and thanks for letting him go. You're right. I do love him. I think I loved him most when I was the most tired and I thought he was going to beat me. Do you really think he'd go over a thousand?" "Easy. I've never seen a more beautiful fish. Are you hungry? Can I heat you some soup?" "Not yet. I couldn't eat yet. But I could use a beer." "Well, you certainly earned that." He reaches for the ice chest and pulls out a frosty bottle of Kona Pacific Golden Ale. When they near the mouth of Neue Bay, the Lady slips into the channel that cuts through the reef. Her well-tuned engines purr. It's a sound Songoree loves. He and Garrett spent the better part of six months getting the old gal into pristine shape, and it takes a lot of work to keep her this way, but what a satisfying feeling it is to be on the open sea knowing she's dependable. **** They tie up at the dock and walk to the Village Resort's outdoor bar to have a drink and settle the account. While the three men and the boy sit at the bar, Madison writes out a check, Kobe lies beside Andrew's stool and Songoree watches Duke, who is back from the war in Iraq, mix a drink with his two stainless steel mechanical hands. "I'll bet a thousand bucks you never saw a fish that big before today," Madison boasts as he hands the check to Songoree. 371

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"I'll take that bet," Garrett says, "but only if we bet for the bar tab. A thousand is too rich for my blood." "You're on." Garrett says, "I saw a great white up close and personal, and he had a few hundred pounds on your fish." "Bullshit." Andrew swings his trusty light saber and hits Madison across the kneecaps. "My daddy doesn't lie. Show him, Daddy." Garrett lifts his shirt to show the scar that stitches a quarter circle across his chest. "This is from the left side of his mouth. The scar on my thigh is from the right side." Garrett smiles. "Thanks for the drinks." Madison's eyes widen, and he whistles, long and slow. He lays a twenty on the bar with no argument. Duke walks over holding a tray in one mechanical hand and starts placing drinks on the bar. "A Coke for our Jedi warrior, an Evian for Song-boy, a Kona Ale for Mr. Davidson and scotch and soda for the fisherman of the year. Congratulations, sir." He picks up the twenty and as he strolls away to make change, Madison says, "Say, he's a pretty good bartender for a cripple." Songoree says, "That cripple, as you call him, lost his hands in Iraq. We're very proud him, and I'll be willing to bet he can do anything you can do, and that includes landing a thousand-pounder."

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"Don't get excited. I didn't mean any disrespect." Madison raises his glass. "Here's to remarkable bravery, be it fish or man." They all drink up as Duke comes back and sets a tray of change on the bar in front of Madison, who pushes it back at him and says, "Pour yourself a tall one and keep the change." "So, Mr. Madison," Garrett says, "How long are you planning to stay on the island?" "That depends on my wife. We're here because she read some god-damned book about saving the world and went wacko on me. She came here determined to find the damned witch doctor she claims changed her life. I don't know what she plans to do if she finds him, but if I find him first I plan to punch his lights out. She's been nothing but trouble every since she read that damned book." Garrett smiles at Songoree and shakes his head. Andrew laughs and starts to say something, but Songoree covers the boy's mouth with his hand and makes a shushing sound. "Well, well. Here's all my children. It's Andrew's dinnertime, and here he sits at a bar learning nasty habits from his daddies." Liliha's voice is scolding but tinged with humor. She stands with her hands on her hips. Beside her, Mother Kamamalu's great bulk is covered by a cream-colored muumuu that makes her look like a gigantic pearl, and she has white orchids in her long gray hair. She smiles at her boys, and the gap between her teeth makes her seem even more jolly. "Mommy!" Andrew jumps off the barstool and runs to Liliha, wrapping his arms around her waist and giving her a 373

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hug. "Mommy, we caught the biggest sailfish in the world. Honest." "Now he's telling fish stories. More bad habits." "That's no fish story, young lady," Madison says. "I can vouch for that." Songoree smiles and nods. Garrett says, "That's why we were late getting in." "Well, okay," she says, looking down at the boy hugging her waist. "But I think Mother and I should take you home and feed you before you learn any more habits from these fishing bums. That will give your daddies a night off." Garrett and Songoree look at each other and smile. Songoree turns and nods again with a look that is both grateful and disappointed. "Go give your daddies a hug." Andrew runs to Songoree and leaps into his arms. They share a long hug then Songoree passes him to Garrett. Garrett squeezes the boy to him, burying his face in the mass of black hair that is sticking up at all angles. He inhales his sweet, musty smell and kisses him on the cheek. He feels something course through the center of his chest, like a cool mountain stream flowing though a spring meadow. "I love you, Daddy." "I love you, too." Garrett lowers Andrew to the ground and holds his hand for another few heartbeats. "Come, little Jedi," Mother Kamamalu says, taking the boy's hand. "You can tell me all about that fish on the way home. I made brownies today." "Can Kobe have one, too?" 374

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"Wookies don't eat brownies," Liliha says as she takes Andrew's other hand and they lead him through the outdoor dining room. "We'll swing by and pick him up tomorrow morning," Garrett says. "Say," Madison says, "which one of you is the boy's father?" Garrett grins. "We both are, but I'm the biological father." "Could have fooled me. That's a happy kid. Wish mine were more like him. In fact, you all seem happy as clams. It must be great living here in paradise. Maybe my wife isn't so wacko after all. I own a chain of dry cleaners in Cincinnati and they've made me a rich man, but on my best day, I'm not as happy as you people seem to be." Songoree looks at Garrett and says, "It's not about where you live. We enjoy life because we've learned to do something very well, and we do it every day." "How would you two like a business partner? With my money we could expand to four or five boats. Hell, we could have a fleet of two dozen boats. With what you charge, we could clean up." "Sorry, Mr. Madison," Garrett says. "One boat's about all we can handle, and even with what we charge, we just get by. That's pretty much how we want to keep it for now." "Well, here's my business card. Call me if you ever want to expand." Madison put his business card and another twenty on the bar. "Bartender, another round for these two gentlemen and one for yourself. In fact, I'd like to buy you 375

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dinner. Please have dinner here and charge it to my bungalow—number eleven." "Thank you, Mr. Madison," Garrett says. "That's very kind of you." "Speaking of dinner, I better be getting back to the room to see if my wife is back from her pilgrimage. I'd like to go out fishing again, but we check out tomorrow. I'd extend my stay, but I don't know if they'll let us." "The owners are friends of ours," Garrett says. "I'll see if we can get you an extra night. How's that?" "Awesome. Thanks." They take their drinks to an outdoor dining table. PJ saunters up wearing his white waiter's jacket and carrying a note pad and pencil. He has a grin on his mangled face. "Hey, Song. Hi, Mr. Davidson. What'll it be tonight?" "PJ," Garrett says, "how many times are you going to make me ask you to call me Garrett?" "Sorry, Mister—I mean, Garrett. Listen, I was wondering if I might talk to you after your dinner about a little business proposition." "What kind of proposition?" Songoree asks. "Pops and Mako and me are planning to open a dive shop. We'll give the haoles scuba lessons and take groups out to dive. We've got enough money for some used scuba equipment but not enough for a dive boat. We'd like to charter the Lady for two days per week, and two trips each day, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. We need you to give us your best discount price, at least until we get on our feet." 376

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A warm smile spreads across Songoree's face. Garrett says, "That's a wonderful idea, as long as I can be your first customer. I haven't scuba dived in years." "You bet, Mr. Davidson, I mean, Garrett." **** They have grilled tuna steaks three inches thick, light brown on the outside and striped by the grill and with a cool raw center. Beside it is jasmine-flavored rice and baby bok choy cooked firm and covered in a light soy sauce. For dessert they have very tart rhubarb pie and coconut ice cream, and after dessert they have Kona coffee with plenty of sweet condensed milk to cut the bitterness. As they start on their second cup of coffee, Owen strolls onto the dining patio and joins them, sitting across from Garrett. He is dressed in a floral-print shirt and white slacks. "Hi, guys," he says. "We just got back from Hilo. We caught a movie in town and stopped to put flowers on Reverend Bitton's grave." "I'm surprised you can find the time," Garrett says. "You two have been so busy since you bought this resort you haven't had a minute to spare. Hell, we never see you anymore." "Micah makes time to visit his father's grave twice each week. Besides, we've hired some additional help now that we're on our feet and business has picked up. Ever since your book came out we've been turning people away. We're booked solid for the next two years with people making a pilgrimage to find you two." 377

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"Speaking of being booked," Songoree says, "a customer of ours, Steve Madison, wants to extend his stay an extra day so he can fish again. How about it?" "Sorry, boys, no can do. Every room is booked. It's that way for every place on the island. Things have gotten so bad with these pilgrims sleeping on the beaches and in the parks that they're turning people away at the airport who don't have a confirmed reservation. You guys are the biggest thing to shake up these islands since December seventh, nineteenforty-two. You've changed us from a sun-and-fun South Pacific playground into the spiritual capital of the world." Garrett says, "Had we known this would happen we would have never mentioned the islands at all. Big mistake. We should have mentioned the deserts of New Mexico or someplace in India." "Speaking of India, this email came for you from Audrey. When the hell are you going to get yourselves a phone line so you can take your own emails?" Owen takes a folded piece of paper from his hip pocket and hands it to Garrett. "Listen, boys, I've got to check the front desk. If this Mister Madison can't go fishing tomorrow, how about the three of us drag Micah onto the boat for the day. Maybe we can bag us some tuna or dorado." "Great," Songoree says. "We'll be ready by eight." "Let's make it ten," Owen says. "If we're taking the day off we may as well sleep in." He stands and ambles back through the dining area. Songoree asks Garrett to read the email out loud. 378

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"Dear boys, the opening of our newest spiritual center in Katmandu is a success. The people were slow to come at first, but word spread, and thousands have come from all over Nepal to hear my seminars. It's all very exciting. I've met some gracious and wonderful people. "An official from the People's Republic of China came the second week, and he has invited us to open spiritual centers in Beijing, Cheng Du and Lhasa in Tibet. Apparently, ever since our book was released in Chinese four months ago, it's sweeping their country. "On Friday, I fly to the center in New Delhi, and I'm told the Dalai Lama will attend and add his support to our cause. I'm thrilled. I'll be there for three weeks, then on to Istanbul, our first venture in a Muslim country. Keep your fingers and toes crossed. Isn't it amazing? That will be six centers outside the United States for a total of fourteen, all in just two years. "I think Songoree needs to reconsider his decision about not making personal appearances. Even the Buddha taught the dharma. If he doesn't, we run the risk of his myth growing out of proportion and these people making him into some kind of god, which is exactly what we don't want. "I saved the best news for last. Songoree, you need to dust off the baby crib and wash all the diapers, you're going to be a daddy in the spring. It seems that we succeeded on the first attempt. I'll be home for my last two months of pregnancy, and I'm so looking forward to being home with my boys once again. I'm sure it's a girl, and I'm wondering what you think of the name Ruth. 379

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"My dreams have come true. I'm happier now that anyone has the right to be. I love you both. Give Andy hugs and kisses for me. Love, Audrey." **** Late in the early hours, during the calm after the wind falls off, Garrett finishes writing in his journal. He had planned to work on his latest novel, but he feels too sleepy to concentrate any longer. He shuts down his computer and creeps across the house to the bedroom. Songoree's steady breathing merges with the distant sound of waves caressing the beach. The house seems so empty without Andrew or Kobe. He drops his shirt and shorts on the floor and slides under the crisp sheets. Songoree sleeps in the middle of the bed, taking Garrett's share as well as his own. He snuggles into that long amber body and drapes a protective arm over Songoree's chest. Their breathing begins to ebb and flow with the same rhythm. Garrett enjoys the easy familiarity that comes with being with someone you've slept with for years. He thinks back on the day, from the beginning to now, and it seems that it was a wonderful time and that it gave something special to Songoree and Andrew, and Steve Madison as well. He thinks of Madison and that awful moment when he slapped the man. He slapped him because he didn't like him, he thinks. It was unfair to judge him and stupid to lose his temper. He had done nothing wrong, and he had fought the 380

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fish beautifully. Still, there was something there he doesn't trust. His mind turns to Liliha's gift of time alone with Songoree, giving them hours of uninterrupted lovemaking. They came home and cleaned up, and while Garrett was in the shower, Songoree built a fire in the fireplace and laid out a quilt on the hearth. When Garrett came out of the bathroom, drying his hair, Songoree was stretched out on the quilt wearing only his pearl-white malo. Tomorrow he will do something special to repay Liliha, although he knows that having her boy to herself for a night is payment enough. He thinks about Audrey's email and the baby coming in the spring. He feels overjoyed and saddened. They will need to move into town once the baby comes—there simply isn't enough room in this house that he's come to love. But living with Audrey and being closer to Liliha and Mother Kamamalu will be a blessing. They will need all the help they can get raising two children. Still, he will miss this old house, and his spirits begin to sink. What a miserable way to be, he thinks. Don't tear the day to pieces and don't analyze what's to come. Just know that you've had a great day and let it go. But he has a nagging feeling there was something frightening about today. He searches his feeling the way Songoree taught him to do, but he can't quite see it. He has the vague feeling it has to do with life being out of control, and he's reminded of the poem Grandfather once quoted, the one about the falling leaf showing front then showing back. 381

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The hell with it, he decides. There is something frightening about every day. Sleep well and pick up the rhythm of your life in the morning, make love to your man again, go to town and pickup your son, and do what you can to make them as happy as they were today. END [Back to Table of Contents]

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About the Author Born in Ogden, Utah, in 1953, Alan Chin was raised in the San Francisco Bay area. He earned a Masters in Writing from the University of San Francisco and currently lives in the San Rafael, California. [Back to Table of Contents]

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ABOUT THE ARTIST Rebecca Clymo is a proud 41-year-old mother of two: Craig, who is 18, and Alexis (Alie), who is 15. She also has a wonderful husband, Chuck, who is her soul mate. They have another son who is an angel in Heaven, named Jacob. She loves any form of art, and has enjoyed doing 3D art for the last six years. Art is her passion. Her mentor and favorite artist is Jim Warren. Besides doing art, she likes to write poetry, play pool, go fishing, boating, and for long rides in the country. Martine Jardin has been an artist since she was very small. Her mother guarantees she was born holding a pencil, which for a while, as a toddler, she nicknamed "Zessie." She won several art competitions with her drawings as a child, ventured into charcoal, watercolors and oils later in life and about twelve years ago started creating digital art. Since then, she's created hundreds of book covers for Zumaya Publications and eXtasy Books, among others. She welcomes visitors to her website: www.martinejardin.com.

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