Joe Burke's Last Stand

by John Moncure Wetterau

  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 th
e 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.