“Yes.”
“I helped landscape it. Me and Whistling Ed Swaney. He was a sheriff in L.A.; he quit after the Watts riots. He had a whistling show on a radio station over there, fifteen minutes a week.”
“Really?”
“Yup. He was a mighty muscle man—thirty years older than I was. I could barely keep up with him. The good thing about Whistling Ed was that he didn't talk much.”
“Giving you free rein . . . “
“Yok. No. I didn't talk either, so we got along well. Anyway, we went from one posh house to the next, cutting grass and trimming trees. The owners treated him with great respect. I finally figured out why—he was always sweating. I gave it a name: Swaney's Law. If you're sweating, they can't shit on you.”
They drove down to Nawiliwili Harbor and along a back road through cane fields that followed a line of mountains. Narrow green valleys cut into the mountains, mysteriously shaded. There was a sense of two cultures, of a border at the edge of the sugar cane that was crossed cautiously, if at all.
They came to the Poipu resort district and then headed up to the canyon rim where Joe had picked plums. They stood at the lookout, above a three thousand foot drop and ten miles of rugged red and gold walls flecked with green. Mountain goats, bits of white, chased each other up and down vertical slopes. “Incredible,” Mo said, focusing her camera.
“It looks like they're playing tag,” Joe said. “So free.”
They drove to the end of the road and peered into the mist obscuring Kalalau valley where Koolau, the leper, remained buried. Clouds swirled and lifted, revealing glimpses of tree tops, steep ridges, and once, a small curve of beach far below. “I almost like it better this way,” Mo said, “when you can't see it all at once. Brrrrr!” They piled into the car and drove back down to the sunny fields on the leeward side. They passed through road cuts, hundreds of yards of flaming bougainvillea on both sides, and by small plantation houses painted green, corrugated roofs rusted to the same red tones as the soil. “Stop!” Mo commanded from time to time. Joe stretched while she took pictures.
They drove through the built up area between Lihue and Kapaa and parked outside a medical complex. “Five minutes, ten maybe,” Mo said. “The client,” she explained when she returned. “Rob Wilcox. He's a fan, buys my stuff for his clinic and for his own collection.”
“Great,” Joe said. “Is there a Mrs. Wilcox?”
“No.” She flushed slightly. They parked by the beach in Anahola, ate bananas and an orange, and decided to stretch their legs. Mo walked strangely on the sand, holding her shoes in one hand. Her pelvis tipped back; she shifted her weight stiffly from one leg to the other in an exaggerated prance that said, “You should be so lucky as to even look at me.” But no one else was on the beach. She didn't seem conscious of the change. Joe looked away. Three-footers curled peacefully along the beach as far as he could see.
They sat on the soft sand, and Mo took off her sweatshirt. Joe lay back with his head on his shoes and admired her breasts, high and shapely beneath a gray T-shirt. Steady, he said to himself, the woman barely likes you. Who was she, anyway? She took good pictures; he knew that. He fell asleep for a moment.
Mo took over the driving. They were well around the island, past Kilauea, when Joe asked, “The Tahiti Nui, do you know it? In Hanalei?”
“A restaurant, bar?”
“Yup. With a porch. I want to have a beer on the porch.” Mo looked at her watch. “Plenty of time,” Joe said. “Which flight are you on?”
“Four-thirty,” she said.
“Mine is quarter to six . . . We still have time. Maybe I can get on the early one.” They drove over a stream that curved through sparkling green rice paddies. Shortly afterwards, they stopped by the Tahiti Nui.
They sat on a wooden porch and looked across the humpy patched blacktop road to a steep hillside, densely green and silent. “Happiness,” Joe said, touching Mo's glass with his. “By some accounts, Hawaii is the most isolated land mass in the world. Kauai is the farthest out of the inhabited islands, and here we are at the end of the road. It stops right over there, can't make it around the Na Pali coast.” He drank his beer and waved at the view. “Isn't it great, Mo? End of the road. Can't go any farther. How relaxing can you get? Nowhere to go but back—when we feel like it.”
“At three o'clock,” Mo said. She took a picture of the road and one of an orange cat curled on an old sofa next to the table.
“I had a cat like that once—`Jeremy,”' Joe said.
She turned and took one of him. “Joe Burke, at the end of the road,” she offered in explanation.
“A long way from where I started.”
“You were from Woodstock, right?” Joe nodded. “Were you at the festival?”
“No. I was running a laundromat that year. I leased it from an old friend whose wife was sick of cleaning it. I couldn't get away. It was no big deal. There had been little festivals for years—`Soundouts,' we called them—music all night, sleep in a field. I had no idea it was going to be so huge. And anyway, it wasn't actually in Woodstock; it was about forty miles away. Did you go?”
“I couldn't,” Mo said. “I was in Vienna in a convent school. My father was on sabbatical. It was awful. My sister Beth was already in college. I wish I could have heard Jimi Hendrix's Star Spangled Banner.”
“A major moment,” Joe said. “When Hendrix died, the hot radio station in Honolulu scheduled that piece for twelve noon. They asked everyone to open their windows and crank up the volume. That was when I was driving a cab; you could hear Hendrix blasting all over the city.”
Mo looked at her watch again. “It's that time, Joe.”
“Damn shame,” he said. They said goodbye to the cat, and Mo drove them back to Lihue where Joe had no trouble changing his flight.
“Fun day,” he said as they parted in Honolulu.
“Bye, Joe.” She smiled.
“I'll call you.”
She lifted a hand in acknowledgment. Thanks for the warmth and commitment, he thought.
He had given up chasing women some time after Sally and before Ingrid. A kind woman had taken him in hand after a heartbreak and explained: “Joe, you can't earn love. Love is free. Someone loves you or they don't . . . God knows why.” She had been so sad and so earnest that he knew it was true. Shortly thereafter a flashbulb went off. If you can't earn love, then, if someone doesn't love you, there's nothing you can do about it. What a liberation!
He wasn't going to run after Mo. A relationship might be around the corner. Or not. He wasn't all that sure he wanted one, anyway. He'd call her in a couple of weeks.
7
Joe was going to run out of money—in less than a year. He began reading the Sunday classifieds, an experience that made him sweat and put a knot in his stomach.
On a Monday, two weeks after the trip to Kauai, he followed up an ad for a programming job at a downtown insurance company. The offices were bright and modern; the staff was energetic. He left depressed. He could have done the work in his sleep, but he couldn't pretend to want to be “on board.” The woman who interviewed him was too decent; Joe couldn't bring himself to try and con her. He knew that if he were hired, six to twelve months later he would be out on the street again, unable to keep his head down and his mouth shut.
The next morning as he was taking a shower, replaying the scene at the insurance company, he bent over for the soap. Something split in his back. It was like being hit by an ax. He managed to get out of the bathroom and lower himself to the floor. He lay still for half an hour, getting his breath.
On his side, drawing his knees up, he pushed himself along the floor a few inches at a time. He made it to his mattress and slid under the comforter. Changing positions was painful, he could sleep for only a few minutes at a time.
By evening he was too thirsty to stay where he was. He pushed himself to the front of the kitchen sink and got to his knees, gasping. Holding on with one hand, he reached for his mug with the oth
er and filled it with water. He drank and then refilled it and placed it on the floor. He opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out an old pie plate. He lowered himself to the floor and rested before he pushed himself back to the bed, dragging along the water and the pie plate. He was able to pee into the plate while he lay on one side. He made it through the night, moving as little as possible.
Music would be nice, he thought in the morning. Forget it. It was all he could do to lie still and not panic. “It's all right, Batman,” he called to the lanai. He thought about crawling to the telephone and knocking it to the floor with the broom, but who would he call? When the pie plate filled, he inched along the floor, dragging it into the bathroom, spilling some, but managing to reach up and pour most of it into the toilet. He shoved himself into the kitchen for more water. Holding to the chair by the table, he was able to reach a bunch of bananas. Two bananas and water got him through the second day.
On the third day, hanging on to the bedroom door frame, he pulled himself slowly to his feet. He was able to limp to the bathroom, supporting himself with the sponge mop. He took aspirin and shuffled back to his mattress with bread and a piece of cheddar cheese. He ate like a king, wishing that he'd turned on the radio.
The pain was less intense in the morning. Aspirin had helped him sleep for four or five hours. He was able to stand up slowly, turn on the radio, and reassure Batman. He leaned against a wall and stared at a shaft of sunlight falling on the carpet. He remained there motionless, without words. Pain had emptied him completely.
The disk jockey played a Cyril Pahinui cut. Familiar notes cascaded into the sunlight, ringing and humble, celebrating and accepting the only life we know. It's all right, Joe thought, as his isolation broke down. “For thine is the kingdom,” he said to a presence in the sunshine. Thankful tears rolled down his cheeks. Three days later he made it down the hill to the store and back.
He exercised regularly and began to feel stronger. His walks were longer. From time to time he drank too much, but he was generally under control. Fortunately, he had a little time before he ran out of money. He had no idea what to do, but he knew that he wasn't going to program computers for an insurance company. The back pain hell was a clear warning not to repeat his old patterns. In the past, he would drift around trying to write things, run out of money, and then abandon the writing in a rush to join a work group, pay bills, and pretend he was like the others in the group. It never worked out. He had to find another way.
Late one morning, he was at the Wailana Coffee Shoppe when a young woman sat down across from him. She was blonde, lightly tanned; her face was composed, nearly immobilized, with eye shadow, liner, and rich red lipstick. She had an air of sadness that was at cross purpose to her youth and to the perfection of her makeup. She ate breakfast and left, untroubled by Joe's attention.
For the thousandth time he wished he could draw, but words were his best tools. It was more than the woman's appearance that he wanted to capture; he wanted to know how he felt about her. Writing was a way of finding out. For the rest of the day, as he walked in the city, he fiddled with words, starting over and over.
The next morning he returned to the Wailana. The beauty wasn't there, but he could remember her well enough to keep writing. A woman sat next to him at the counter. He paid no attention until she asked him to pass the ketchup. She was having home fries with her eggs. “Nothing like home fries,” Joe said.
“Stick to your ribs,” she said, blushing slightly. She had nice ribs, large breasts pushed against a white blouse. “What'cha doing, if you don't mind my asking? You look so intense.”
“I was trying to describe someone.”
“Are you a writer?”
“No,” Joe said.
“My name is Alison, Alison Carl. Have you been here long? In Hawaii, I mean.”
“About six months . . . I used to live here.” She had short sandy colored hair, a blunt nose and a wide mouth. No makeup. She chewed toast with a satisfied expression.
“I'm doing post graduate work at the East-West Center. I saw the Dalai Lama yesterday.”
Joe sat straighter. “No kidding? What was he like?”
“Cute. Like a little rock.” She was compact, a high energy type. “What's your name?”
“Joe Burke.” He took evasive action. “Alison, I'm too old for you.” She looked downcast for a moment and then raised her eyebrows hopefully.
“Can you walk?”
“I can.”
“There,” she said winningly, taking a large forkful of potatoes. “What you mean, I think, is that you think I'm too young for you. It's a compliment, really. Men have trouble saying what they think, sometimes.” She seemed pleased, like a teen-ager.
“What are you studying?” Joe asked.
“Buddhism. I have a doctorate in comparative religion. I was a pastor for a while and then I worked at a seminary. I was canned.”
“Fired?”
“Yup. They were hypocrites,” she said sadly. “What do you do?”
“Nothing right now. I used to program computers, design software. When I lived here I did a lot of stuff: drove a cab, delivered newspapers, managed a tennis club . . . I ended up going to the university.” Alison sipped coffee.
“Let's get this over with,” she said, “I'm forty-four. How old are you, Joe?” She noted his surprise with equanimity.
“Fifty-three.”
“You see,” she said. “You're one too: a younger-than-you-looker.”
“Alison,” he said more firmly, “it has been nice to meet you, but I must be going. Much to do.”
“Goodbye, Joe. Thank you for talking to me.” He didn't want to wait for change, so he left a large tip and walked up Ala Moana Boulevard, relieved, but with the odd feeling that he was walking toward her rather than away.
At 4:00 that afternoon, the phone rang.
“Hi, Joe, it's Alison. I was bad this morning; I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were busy and I bothered you. I've been lonely, I guess. I didn't realize. I don't meet people like you very often.” That was flattering. Joe made a soothing noise. “How about dinner, Joe? Dutch treat?”
He was surprised. “Uh, when?”
“Tonight, of course. I want to be high in the air and look at the city lights. I've never been to the Top of the I. Come on, Joe . . . You can tell me stories about the ancient old days. I will wear a skirt. We'll be normal for a couple of hours.”
“A long stretch,” Joe said, but then he felt bad. “Why not? O.K.” They agreed to meet at 6:30. He ironed a pair of pants and an aloha shirt, mumbling to himself about what a pain in the ass it was, but by the time he stepped off the elevator he was feeling better; it was nice to be liked.
Joe was overly punctual and used to waiting for women. He forgave them; it was a genetic condition associated with the willingness to walk slowly in front of onrushing traffic and also—somehow—with the inability to have money ready at checkout counters. Alison was waiting for him.
“You're supposed to be late,” he said. She smiled prettily. She was wearing a teal colored silk tunic over a chino skirt. Her hair was brushed back; a small opal swung from each ear; something glittered around her eyes. “You look terrific.”
“Thank you.” They sat at a table with a view of the mountains. “I don't drink much,” she said as he ordered a Glenlivet and water. “I do know about Glenlivet. I'm Scots and Swedish.”
“Single malt—wonderful stuff,” he said.
“I'll have a glass of Chardonnay. So, Joe, tell me about when you used to live here.”
“I was married and Kate, our daughter, was young. I've been married twice.” Alison did not appear surprised. “Sally and I were happy to be out of Woodstock.”
“Woodstock, the Woodstock?”
“Yes, a small town. It was so great to be in Honolulu where we didn't know anyone. My feet didn't feel the pavement for a year. But we had a hard t
ime. Food stamps and all that, even welfare for a while. Things settled down when I started driving a Charley's cab and Sally cleaned houses. Cleaning houses isn't bad work—cash—anybody gives you a hard time you just go somewhere else. Here's looking at you.” They touched glasses.
“Sally had a couple of steady gigs where she liked the people and knew what she was supposed to do every week.” His mind was moving back. “Some amazing things did happen . . . “
“Oh, good,” Alison said.
“One afternoon I went over to Kahala to pick up Sally at a cleaning job. She was disturbed. Sally was a sweetheart, but she didn't talk much; after six years of marriage I knew I had to ask if I wanted to know what was going on.
“She described a scene between her boss, heiress to the Cannon towel fortune, and her boss's daughter. The daughter told her mother that a nice man had come into her room during the night, had sat on her bed and talked to her. The mother explained that dreams sometimes seemed real. The daughter said that it wasn't a dream. They argued. There were tears, and the daughter ran upstairs.”
Joe paused. “Sally thought that the mother had handled it badly.”
“What did you think?” Alison asked.
“What did I know? Anyway, time flew by. I got nervous; I thought maybe I would never do anything but drive a cab. I got a job managing a tennis club on the other side of the pali—a good job—a house, a truck, a pool in which Kate could learn to swim, acres for her to run around in.
“Sally operated the snack bar; Kate went to kindergarten. Mornings, I walked into Kailua to drink coffee and write.”
“Just like this morning,” Alison said.
“Yes. I was trying to understand Honolulu . . . as though it could be grasped and set, presented, like a pearl.” Joe sipped his whiskey. “I became friendly with a regular at the Rob Roy Coffee Shop, an ex-machinist who had fled Chicago to start over in Hawaii. `You gotta meet Mike,' he told me one day. `You guys would get along.' I asked him about Mike. `Mike's the cat burglar. You know, the one they're always writing about in the paper.”'
Joe Burke's Last Stand Page 5