"Mmm." Joe never knew what women meant when they discussed looks.
"Dynamite kim chee," he said.
"Stay in touch, Joe." Mo patted his arm and turned towards the crowd.
Rhiannon was standing in front of a large photograph, head tipped back,
absorbed.
"Isn't Vermeer a painter?" she asked as he moved next to her.
"Yep, Dutch, sixteen hundreds--I think. Not many paintings survive, but
they're all great."
A tag on the wall beside the photograph read, Jade Willow Lady /
Vermeer. She was wearing a white cook's jacket. Her glossy black hair
was pulled back and pinned up behind her head. She held a spatula in
front of her. Her free hand was palm up, ready to reach. It was as
though she had seen Mo with the camera and had paused as she was
turning toward the grill. Light fell on her face through wisps of
steam. The print was taller than it was wide, cropped below her
forearms. The background was distinct but shaded. The light was all on
her face as she considered her balance in the act of maintaining it.
She was magnificent. She rose above time by letting it go, holding
nothing back.
"He, uh . . . painted a girl, a young woman, in much the same way,
although she wasn't cooking anything."
"Awesome," Rhiannon said.
"Jade Willow Lady."
"Who?"
"She cooks at Tops in Kaneohe. Mo and I went to look at her once.
That's what I called her."
"So beautiful," Rhiannon said. Joe went for more wine.
As he maneuvered to the table, he noticed a man, about seventy, with a
familiar profile. Joe realized that he was Mo's father. "Excuse me,"
Joe said, reaching for a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. "I was just
thinking about taxes during the reign of Caesar Augustus. Would you
have an opinion on that?"
"Ha, ha. A lot depended on who was doing the collecting. Are you
looking for a system to replace the I.R.S.?"
"It's time, don't you think? I'm Joe Burke, a friend of your
daughter's. I read your book."
"Arthur Soule," he said, shaking hands. "You've got endurance."
"I enjoyed it."
"Actually . . . " He took a sip of wine. "I've come to believe that
systems matter less than the people who run them." He had a dapper air,
amused and ironic.
"I couldn't agree more," Joe said.
The two carried on, getting into the stock market and economics in
general. Arthur seconded Henry Hazlitt's argument that selective tax
breaks were almost always counterproductive when seen in the context of
the society as a whole. From time to time Joe looked for Rhiannon. She
was moving slowly about the main room, studying each picture and
talking with men who were circling her like bees. When he and Arthur
ran out of conversation, he caught her eye and pointed questioningly at
the door. She nodded, and they slipped out into the early evening air.
"I'll walk you home, if you're headed that way," he offered.
"I suppose I am," she said. "That was fun."
"You looked like you were having fun. I noticed Wendell Sasaki paid you
a lot of attention."
"He's nice."
"He has a gallery, did he tell you?"
"Yes. He said to come by any time."
"I bet he did," Joe teased. She pulled a light cotton sweater from her
bag and put it on with lithe movements.
"It's cooling off," she said.
"Good pictures, huh?"
"I liked them," Rhiannon said, "but I don't know anything about
photography. Winifred is very nice."
"Mo--that's what I call her. She is."
"Is she your girlfriend?"
"No," Joe laughed. He was going to brush off the question, but he saw
that Rhiannon was serious. "Almost," he said. "We are too much the
same, I think. Too pigheaded, or self-centered, or something. She's
connected to Rob, the guy we met when we first went in." Rhiannon
brightened. The afternoon cumulus clouds had dissipated in a pale blue
sky. Pink wisps of cirrus trailed to the west. They walked down
Kapiolani Boulevard and turned up Keaumoku.
"Did you go to school here?" he asked.
"Roosevelt. I graduated last year."
"You don't sound like you've been here all your life."
"Five years," Rhiannon said. "My parents got divorced and I came out
here with my mom."
"Oh. Where's your father?"
"He's in New Haven. He's a chef in a great Italian restaurant. I'm
going to see him soon; I've been saving up. I mean, he's paid for the
ticket, but I want to have my own money when I get there."
"Right," Joe said. "I'm from Maine and upstate New York, originally.
I've been in New Haven. I love those old Yale buildings."
"Awesome," Rhiannon agreed. "My father doesn't think much of Yalies."
"Good man," Joe said. "So, what does your mom do?"
"She works in marketing," Rhiannon said abruptly.
"What's wrong with that?"
"Oh, nothing. We're not getting along right now. I don't like her
boyfriend."
"Uh, oh. That's hard," Joe said.
"He's such a creep. I'd get my own apartment but I'm leaving. I've
never had an apartment."
"It's fun," Joe said. "Do what you want. But you have to buy a lot of
stuff--beds and toasters and things. Actually, I don't even have a bed.
I sleep on a camping mattress."
"I wouldn't mind that," Rhiannon said. "Would you show me your place
some time?"
"Sure."
"People should do what they want to," she said fiercely.
"Damn right--although, it's not so easy sometimes." The more they
talked, the more comfortable he felt with her.
"Well," she sighed when they reached her apartment building, "good
night, Joe."
"Good night, Rhiannon. See you in the morning?"
"I'll be there."
19
Summer was almost gone. Joe and Rhiannon crossed the boulevard at the
Ewa end of Ala Moana park and walked toward the beach. The weather was
warm and overcast, for a change. Rhiannon chattered about her upcoming
trip to see her father in Connecticut. Joe made his standard suggestion
to pack only one carry-on bag. He offered the use of his Filson, but
she wanted her own, and, besides, she wasn't sure when she was coming
back. They were relaxed with each other--Joe from habit, and Rhiannon
from instinct. Sometimes love is easy, he thought. It's just a given,
just there. Why deny it? Even so, he was afraid to touch her, to open
the door to pain and loss and sexual inadequacy. Old age was coming
soon enough; he didn't have to have his nose rubbed in it. An admiring
whistle cut through his thoughts.
Three young men were standing by a tree in front of them and to their
right. Joe nudged Rhiannon to the left, changing direction, but she
would have none of it. She kept her direction and held her head high.
"Right here, Baby!" One of them was slim and tense; two were heavier.
They were eighteen or nineteen, Rhiannon's age. They moved to block the
walk. Joe and Rhiannon stopped.
"Fucking haole," one said coming up to them. He pushed Joe hard. Time
slowed. Joe sensed Rhiannon reaching into her bag. As Joe stepped back
from the shove, the slim one slipped to the side. I'm going down
anyway, Joe thought. He held the shover's eyes, smiled slightly, and
jammed him under the chin with the heel of his hand, driving him back
and turning him. He grabbed at Joe, but Joe drove him face down into
the gravel. Joe scrambled sideways and was spinning toward the others
when the lights went out.
He came up from a deep hole and opened his eyes. He closed them and
opened them again more slowly. Rhiannon was looking into his face. Far
above her, a cop was looking down. Joe remembered the young guys. He
lifted his head.
"It's O.K., Joe, they're gone." He put his head back down for a moment
and then rolled to his side. He stood up with help from Rhiannon. He
was bruised and bleeding from a scrape on his cheek, but nothing seemed
broken. He let out a breath.
"What happened?"
"I called 911 on my cell phone."
"I was just going by," the cop said. "You lucky."
"They ran when they saw the cruiser," Rhiannon said.
"My partner too fat to catch them," Officer Watanabe said. "You going
to be all right?"
"I think so," Joe said, touching the back of his head. He looked at
Rhiannon. "Are you O.K.?"
"Yes," she said.
"Did they take anything?"
"No."
"You want to come down to headquarters and try identify them?"
"Kids," Joe said. "I guess not. I should have stayed out of this end of
the park."
"Up to you," Officer Wanatabe said. He wrote down their addresses.
"Thanks," Joe said.
"That's what we're here for. We'll hang around, ask a few questions."
Joe and Rhiannon crossed over to the shopping center. He congratulated
her on having a cell phone. "I should have had pepper spray," she said
angrily. "I'm getting some today."
"I'm going home," Joe said.
" You sure you don't want your face looked at? They kicked you after
that one guy hit you with something."
"The little one?"
"He wasn't so little."
"The skinny one?"
"Yeah," Rhiannon said.
"They're the ones you got to watch," Joe said. "I'll go home and clean
up, take a couple of aspirin, take it easy."
"I know!" Rhiannon said. "I'll make you dinner." Joe couldn't talk her
out of it.
At five o'clock, she was standing at his door holding a grocery bag.
She was wearing square cut black cotton pants and a maroon sweatshirt
pushed up on her forearms. Her hair was brushed back. Joe was shocked
again at how untouched and beautiful she was. He smelled freshly baked
bread.
"Smells good."
"I didn't know how hungry you'd be. I made a quiche. You can warm it up
tomorrow if you don't want it."
"Are you kidding?" He led her into the apartment, and she took
possession of the kitchen area. "I've got something for you," Joe said.
He handed her a book on Vermeer.
"Oooh," she said.
"My contribution to your education."
"Cool. Thanks." Within minutes a meal appeared on the table. "How do
you cook without pans, Joe?"
"A pot and a wok--what more do you need?"
"Really, Joe." She sniffed his olive oil. "I knew I should have brought
some," she said.
He uncorked a bottle of Chianti and gave her the house glass. "I'll use
the mug. Happy days."
"Happy days, Joe."
They began on the quiche. Joe put down his fork after the first bite.
"This is damned good!" Rhiannon nodded calmly.
"I love this," she said, reaching for Maxie's box. She opened it.
"It's an arrowhead from Vermont. My stepson, Max, found it." She
weighed the arrowhead in her palm, as he had.
"Max made the box. He was in New Zealand . . . It's a special wood from
there. Kauri, it's called." Rhiannon placed the arrowhead back in its
oval and turned the box around, looking at it from each side. Joe
pointed at the picture of Stone Man. "He did that, too." Rhiannon
leaned over the table and looked closely at the photograph. Her eyes
opened wider.
"Awesome."
"He balances there and watches over the valley. His hands are weights.
'Stone Man,' Maxie calls him."
"Looks like New England."
"Yup, Vermont. Londonderry."
"I know where Londonderry is," she said. "My father took us skiing
there."
"Good old Maxie. Max Mueller, you should look him up when you go back
east."
"I will," she said.
"When are you going?"
"A week from tomorrow."
"Oh."
"Yes, I've had the ticket for two months." He poured them more wine.
Rhiannon leaned back in the plastic chair, looked at the painting over
the table, and then studied the drawing above the bookshelf.
"My father did those," Joe said. "He did the painting last year, not
long before he died. The drawing is of my mother. She wasn't much older
than you are."
"She was beautiful," Rhiannon said.
"Not as beautiful as you," Joe said factually.
"I could do that," she said, pointing at the drawing. She indicated the
oil. "But I couldn't do that."
"Color ups the ante," Joe said.
"Awesome," she said, still looking at the oil.
"Takes time," Joe said. "There's about fifty years practice between the
two."
"And then gone, all that experience gone," Rhiannon said.
"Gotta do it while we can," Joe said. "God, what a good dinner. I hate
to see you go, Rhiannon."
"Don't you get lonely?" she asked. An appealing smile spread across her
face. Joe imagined her clothes dropping away, saw her naked, her clean
tight skin, touches of private color at her breasts, the subtle curve
where she would swell with pregnancy. He shook his head, more to clear
it than to say no.
"Batman," he said. "Batman keeps me company. Although I do worry about
him sometimes. He's younger than I am."
"Joe--could I stay? For the week? Until my plane?" She spoke quietly
and held him with her large dark eyes. He should have seen it coming,
but he was surprised.
"Umm, with me?" She nodded. "Oh, Rhiannon."
"You think I'm too young," she said.
"No, that's not it. Rhiannon, you are not too young." He searched for
words. "It's not you; it's me. I'm too old." He swallowed a mouthful of
wine. "There was a time when I would have crawled around the island for
you on my hands and knees. Let me see if I can explain."
She stood, turned once around, and sat down again. "You don't have to.
It's all right. And besides, you're wounded." She pointed at the
Band-Aid on his cheek.
"I'm not that wounded. I'm changing. Did you ever see a chameleon
change color?"
"No," she said.
"I had one on that branch, right out there." He pointed through the
glass of the lanai door. "It was brown. Each time I looked, it was a
little less brown and a little more green. You could barely see it
change." Rhiannon looked impatient. "When it was completely green it
jumped onto a leaf that was the same color." Joe paused. "It's writing
I want to do now; I'm ready to jump. I'll probably kick myself for the
rest of my life," he said, "but I'm calling a cab to take you home."
Rhiannon gathered her things. They rode the elevator down in silence,
but as they waited for the cab she sighed and leaned against Joe. He
put his arm around her. "You have to take love where you find it," she
said. "My father told me that."
Joe squeezed her tighter. "Your father's right." The cabbie pulled in.
Joe gave him the address and double the fare. "Keep the change, huh."
"Thanks, Brah." Rhiannon rolled down the window and turned her face to
him. She held his eyes until the cab turned out into the street.
Joe walked up the stairs, feeling heavier with each step. Rhiannon's
scent lingered in the apartment. He didn't want to bother Batman with
his troubles, so he put on _La Traviata_ and finished the Chianti. He
felt terrible. He had denied love in order to protect himself and his
precious writing. He was a selfish asshole with one foot in the grave.
It was a good thing that he was out of wine.
In the morning, he returned to their cafe. If Rhiannon wanted, she
could see him there without making a big deal about it. She did not
appear. A week later, he arrived home in the afternoon to see a box by
the door. He knew immediately that it was from her. He opened it and
found an object wrapped in white tissue paper. He unwound the paper and
found a doll. She was dressed in a kimono and had Japanese features, an
eternal bittersweet look. She was gorgeous. A note read, "Her name is
Sumoko. I made her for Batman. I'm leaving today. Love, Rhiannon." Joe
took the doll and a Napoleon Bonaparte mystery out on the lanai.
"Batman, someone is here to meet you." He laid the book on the table
and put Sumoko and Batman next to each other on their backs, with the
book as a pillow, looking towards the mountain. We'll see what happens,
he said to himself and to Rhiannon, who was probably at thirty thousand
feet. What a sweetheart. He slid the lanai door closed and made himself
sit at the computer and enter what he had written earlier. As he
worked, he forgot about himself and Sumoko. He was pleasantly
surprised, later, to see her with Batman. They seemed to be getting
along.
Morgan's father, an historian, once told Joe that habits are a writer's
best friends. Joe stuck to his practice of writing all morning in
coffee shops and then walking home and entering the words into his
computer. By mid-afternoon he had a clean printout ready for the next
day. He exercised and spent quiet evenings reading, watching the news,
and thinking about the next day's work. He stopped going to the cafe
where he had met Rhiannon.
A month went by, and he made progress. He was feeling good when he
happened to meet Mo one day at the shopping center. He asked if she
wanted to have lunch. She consulted her little red book and turned over
a page. "A week from Friday?"
"Too long. I can't live without you. How about a drink--under the
boardwalk?" he said, bursting into song. "Under the banyan tree?"
She sighed and gave in. "Tomorrow?" she offered. "Five o'clock? A
little after?"
"Good deal."
Joe arrived early and had a congenial visit with Gilbert. It was
September and the beach was uncrowded. Joe felt, as much as a haole
can, that it was his island, that he had a right to be there.
Mo showed up and ordered a Lillet on the rocks, happy to have closed
shop for the day. "Slow, but promising," she said of her business. He
complimented her on the Jade Willow Lady picture. "I was lucky," she
said. "It took some darkroom work to get it right, but I was lucky with
the shot. I only took four; I was so afraid of disturbing her. I gave
her a print. She was surprised, pleased, I think."
"I'd love to have one. I'd put it up in my apartment and be reminded to
eat out once in awhile."
"Of course," Mo said. "You named her. Do you need reminding to eat
out?"
"Homey Joe," he said. "I'm working my ass off."
"I loved your story, by the way," she said. "I could see that balding
bus boy carefully loading his cart. But I wanted more."
"Yeah," Joe said. "I can't tell you how many times I've thought of that
guy. Did I tell you that I started a novel?"
"No," Mo said.
"You're right about the stories. They aren't enough. It's a new
experience for me--a novel. It's taking everything I've got."
Mo nodded and clapped slowly. "Juggling," she said.
"Huh?"
"I was remembering a story Jung told about a juggler who was feeling
bad because he had nothing to offer the Virgin Mary at a festival. He
asked the village priest what to do. The priest told him that he must
juggle for the Blessed Virgin. So he did and was filled with grace."
It was Joe's turn to clap.
"My nephew actually does juggle," Mo said. "I want to dress him in a
red and yellow medieval costume and take pictures. He uses long sticks.
They extend his arms and make him seem more like a dancer than a
juggler. So fluid and precise at the same time . . . "
"All you need is the costume," Joe said.
"And my nephew. He's going to school in North Carolina." She drank and
smiled to herself. "You've changed," she said. "You look calmer. What
happened to PrettyLocks? I can't remember her name."
"Rhiannon. She went back east to see her father." He changed the
subject. "Speaking of fathers, how is yours?"
"Rolling along," she said. "We're going to get together at my sister's
over the holidays."
"I'm planning to visit Kate," Joe said. "Maybe we should get together
at the Caffe Ladro . . . " Mo smiled noncommittally, and they parted on
a friendly note. She hadn't said anything about Rob Wilcox and he
hadn't asked. He and Mo were going to connect with work and art, it
seemed. The personal, or the intimate, would stay in the background.
Nothing wrong with that, Joe said to himself as he walked home.
Several days later the phone rang. Joe picked it up on the second ring.
"Hi, Joe."
"Max! Hey, how are you?"
"Good. The reason I'm calling is: I got a call last week from a woman
asking if she could come see Stone Man."
"Rhiannon," Joe said.
"Yeah, Rhiannon. She said that she saw the picture of Stone Man at your
place."
"So, what happened?" Joe asked.
"She showed up. She was great. She made a drawing of Stone Man and hung
out for awhile." Joe heard familiar music in the background.
"What's the music?"
"Chesapeake Bay sea chanteys--the cassette was in your truck."
"Ha, ha. That's what I thought. The banjo player is an old friend of
mine. I listened to that tape all across the country. There's a song on
there about how you're counted a lucky drudger if you ever get your
pay." He sang the words.
"Right," Max said.
"So, did you like her? Rhiannon?"
"Yeah. She said she'd come back in two weeks and cook me a decent meal
if I wanted. She was critical of the kitchen--like a little countess or
something."
Joe laughed. "Her father's a chef, I guess. You lucky drudger! You
remember my maxim about what to do when you're really attracted to a
woman?"
"Tell her," Max said, and added, "where's my quarter?"
"I'll invest it for you. She's the real thing, Max." Joe paused. "When
you see her, tell her Sumoko and Batman are spending a lot of time
together."
"Cool," Max said. "Who's Sumoko?"
"She'll explain." Good old Max. Maybe he and Rhiannon would get
together. Impossible to predict, Joe thought, but he could keep his
fingers crossed.
20
A month after Maxie's call, two years after he had left Portland, Joe
made coffee and read the beginning of his novel. He squared the pages
and leaned back. It was the best he could do--given what he knew about
the story so far. When he finished the first draft, he would start over
and add things to better frame the questions that the story answered,
and he would take things out that didn't matter. The phone rang.
"Joe?" The voice was husky, like Isabelle's, but it turned up at the
corners and had Texas in it.
"Daisy?"
"Yes. I'm in San Francisco . . . Wes died in July."
"I know," Joe said. "I'm sorry. I just heard. I was going to write."
"I'll be in Honolulu tomorrow. I wondered . . . "
"When will you be here?"
"In the afternoon. I'm on my way to Auckland to visit Adam--my son
Adam. I thought I would break up the trip and maybe get to see you."
She was staying at the Moana on Morgan's recommendation. They agreed to
meet at five. Joe was in a mild state of shock when he put down the
phone. There was no unfinished business between them. He had offered
her everything he had, and she had chosen Wes. It had been clean and
terrible, honest and final. Now, thirty years later, here they were
again. Here, where? Deep down, he knew. His face was still buried in
her hair, his lips by her ear.
"Do you know how many of us there are in the world?"
"Not very many," she said, would always say.
Joe worked the rest of the day, out of habit, but he did not sleep
well.
He was half an hour early at the Moana, wearing his best blue aloha
shirt, his mustache trimmed, his fingers drumming on the bar. Gilbert
brought him a Glenlivet and left him alone. At five minutes to five,
Daisy walked out of the hotel and down the wide steps. He knew her
first by her walk, tall and careful, and then, as she approached, by
her face which was fuller, more deeply lined, but still good humored
and direct. They embraced beneath the banyan. She fit in his arms and
against his shoulder as comfortably as ever. Joe could think of nothing
to say that wasn't sappy, so he said nothing.
She stepped back and looked closely at him. They exchanged compliments,
sat at a round table, and began to catch up. She told him about Wes,
how he had refused to quit smoking and had succumbed to lung cancer.
Her daughter and granddaughter were back living at home, recovering
from a divorce. Adam was working on a timber plantation. Joe told her
about Kate, Max, and his two marriages. No regrets, they agreed. How
could you regret a life which produced your children? Joe told her
about his writing and how he would face running out of money when it
happened. He didn't need much--as long as he could keep writing. He
could drive a cab again or work in a bookstore. And besides, he
brightened, remembering his steel company, he was four thousand dollars
ahead in the market.
Daisy's hair was light brown and streaked with gray. Her eyes were
grayish blue. She smiled often. They drank and then ate sandwiches,
occasionally pausing in their conversation to watch the Pacific grow
dark. When they were done, Joe walked with her up the steps and into
the lobby. "I love the Moana," he said. "Once, when Ingrid and Max and
I were on vacation, Maxie disappeared in there." He pointed to the
men's room. When I went in to check on him, he was on the floor,
pushing his toy rifle ahead of him, crawling out from under the last
door in the line. He had locked them all from the inside." Joe laughed,
stalling.
"What did you do?" she asked.
"Told him, 'retreat is the most difficult maneuver--let's get out of
here."'
"I don't think I'm ready for sex," Daisy said quietly.
"It's overrated," Joe said. And then, "It's not as if we haven't been
there." Disappointment hovered. "How about a back rub?"