The Descendants (17 page)

Scottie holds her grandmother’s hand and leads her up the stairs. I never know what to say to Alice. Our encounters are similar to when someone shows me an infant and I feel like I’m the one on display, everyone watching to see how I interact with it.

“Hi, Grandma,” Alex and I sing.

She glares at both of us. Scott comes out with his rolls and a tray of drinks. Scotch on the rocks. I don’t even bother to take the drink meant for Alex. I know she won’t drink in front of me. Sid suddenly sits up and looks around like a dog that smells bacon. He reaches for a drink, and I stare at his hand around the glass. He lets go and leans back in the chair. Scott glares at him and Sid salutes.

“Who are you?” Scott asks. “Why are you here?”

“He’s my friend,” Alex says. “He’s here for me.”

Scott still stares at Sid, then turns to Alice and hands her the Scotch. “We’re going to go see Joanie today,” he says.

Alice grins. “And Chachi?” she asks.

Sid bursts out laughing and Scott turns back to him, then places a hand on his shoulder, which makes me fear for his life. “You be quiet, son,” Scott says. “I could kill you with this hand. This hand has been places.”

I shake my head and look at both Sid and Alex.

Scott lifts his hand off Sid’s shoulder and turns again to his wife. “No, Alice. Our Joanie. Our daughter. We’re going to give her anything she wants.” He glares at me. “Think about what she would want, Alice. We’re going to get it for her and bring it to her. Bring it right to her bed.”

“Joanie and Chachi,” Alice chants. “Joanie and Chachi!”

“Shut up, Alice!” Scott yells.

Alice looks at Scott as though he just said “Cheese.” She clasps her hands together and smiles, staying in the pose for a few seconds. He looks at her face and squints. “Sorry, old gal,” he says. “You go ahead and say whatever you want.”

“It was funny,” Sid says. “All I was doing was laughing. She has a good sense of humor. That’s all. Maybe she knows she’s being funny. I think she does.”

“I’m going to hit you,” Scott says. His arms hang alongside him, the muscles flexed, veins big like milk-shake straws. I know he’s going to hit Sid because that’s what he does. I’ve seen him hit Barry. I, too, have been hit by Scott after I beat him and his buddies at a game of poker. His hands are in fists, and I can see his knobby old-man knuckles, the many liver spots almost joining to become one big discoloration, like a burn. Then he pops his fist up toward Sid, a movement like a snake rearing its head and lunging forth. I see Sid start to bring his arm up to block his face, but then he brings it down and clutches his thigh. It’s almost as if he decided not to protect himself. The end result is a punch in his right eye, a screaming older daughter, a frightened younger daughter, a father trying to calm many people at once, and a mother-in-law cheering wildly as though we have all done something truly amazing.

18

I’M DRIVING ALONG
Kahala Avenue, headed for Shelley and Lloyd’s house. I don’t want to tell Shelley that my wife is going to die soon, not because I don’t like relaying that kind of news but because Shelley is a pit bull and a senator’s wife and thinks she can do anything by calling the right person.

Sid sits in the back, stunned.

“My father always made me warn the person before I hit them.” This was all Scott had to say to Sid after punching him in the face.

“Right.” This was all Sid had to say to Scott after getting punched in the face.

They looked at each other, and then Sid walked to my car and Scott walked inside the house. He called to Alice, telling her they needed to gather things for their daughter. He wouldn’t say Joanie’s name, most likely to avoid hearing about Chachi.

“How’s your eye?” I ask. “Christ, Alex, could you come to the front, please? I feel like a chauffeur with the two of you in back like that.”

“That would be nice,” Sid says. “If we had a chauffeur. My eye’s fine.” He pulls the block of frozen spinach we picked up at 7-Eleven away from his face. “What do you think?”

I look in the mirror. My daughter’s leg is strewn over his, and I wonder,
How did I inherit this guy? Where can I return him?
The color of his lid is a light blue. The skin below the eye is puffy, and instead of looking like a man with a good story, he looks like a kid with a bad allergy.

“Looks good,” I say.

“I can’t believe that just happened to me,” Sid says. “I mean, how often do old people hit someone in the face? That was unreal.”

He squeezes Alex’s thigh.

“Alex,” I say. “Come up here.”

She moves over the console to slide into the front seat, and I hear the sound of a hand smacking an ass.

I exhale loudly.

“Why’d you make Scottie go to the hospital with Gramps?” Alex asks.

“What do you mean, why? She needs to see Mom. You need to see her.”

“But maybe it’s not good for her to see Mom all the time. Especially now. Isn’t she going to start looking different?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“What if she’s in pain and we can see it?”

“Then be there for her,” Sid says. “And get it all out so it doesn’t build up and make you fucking crazy. I can’t believe your grandfather just punched me in the eye.” He looks at the block of spinach.

“He does that,” I say. “Actually, it’s been a while. That was pretty incredible.”

“You need to go see your mom,” Sid says.

Alex doesn’t argue with him. If I had said the same thing, she would have resisted, and I’m not sure if I’m grateful to Sid or the opposite of that.

I turn on Pueo and slow my speed. I feel like I’m on the King’s Trail, traveling over rough and crooked ground to sell my goods to people who may not want them. I think about the other reason people used the trail—to flee. When they broke the rules, they used the path to run for their lives.

“How come in
AFV,
they always pick the least funny video?” Sid asks.

“What are you talking about?” Alex says.

“
America’s Funniest Home Videos.
They always pick the lamest video.”

“
AFV
? You call it
AFV
?” I ask.

“They’re all lame videos, Sid,” Alex says. “Get a grip.”

“Actually, no,” he says. “You’re mistaken. I laugh really hard.”

“Shut up, both of you, okay?” I turn down the radio and pull up to the curb. The house is obscured by a web of bougainvillea and a high stone wall.

I see a girl in the second-story window looking down at us. Then she disappears.

“That was K,” Alex says.

“K? Why K?”

“People do that. David Chang is making everyone call him Alika, his Hawaiian name. She’s, I don’t know, getting a reduction. She won’t use her last name, either. Just her middle name. I think she gets sick of hearing about Lloyd.”

“She’s in my creative writing class,” Sid says. “Remember that party she had where she hired those pole dancers? That was so tight.”

“Do you guys want to go in, go say hi, while I talk to Shelley?”

Alex looks back at Sid. “Sure.”

We get out of the car and open the wooden outer door, then walk the path to the main door. I ring the bell and hear footsteps.

Their daughter opens the door, and I wave and let Alex handle the talking. She gives K a hug.

“Are you back?” K asks. She looks at Sid. “What’s up?”

She leans forward and he leans forward and they kiss on the lips. Teenage boys have it so good. They don’t realize that this casual affection will soon be over.

“Hi, Mr. King,” K says. “Lloyd’s not here.”

“In the office?” I say. “Improving our society?”

“Surfing,” she says. “South swell.”

“Didn’t he just have surgery?”

“Yeah, he kept the hip. Want to see it?”

“And didn’t he lose some toes? He can surf like that?”

“He’s determined.” A flash of pride, and then she moves away from the door to let us in.

“Your dad rules,” Sid says, and those are my thoughts exactly. He rules. I think of Alex’s friends, and their parents are huge, their pasts, goals, and endeavors looming and ruling. I wonder if our offspring have all decided to give up. They’ll never be senators or owners of a football team; they’ll never be the West Coast president of NBC, the founder of Weight Watchers, the inventor of shopping carts, a prisoner of war, the number one supplier of the world’s macadamia nuts. No, they’ll do coke and smoke pot and take creative writing classes and laugh at us. Perhaps they’ll document our drive, but they’ll never endorse it. I look at both of these girls and see it in their eyes, their pity for us and yet their determination to beat us in their own way, a way they haven’t found yet. I never found a way to beat my rulers.

“Is your mom around?” I ask K.

“She’s on the back porch,” she says.

“I think everyone on this island is on their porch. I’m going to go say hello.”

The kids all stand close together. I take a few steps, then look back at them. They’re huddled by the stairs. I hear K say, “Want to see my prom dress? It’s so slutty,” and then I hear Alex begin to tell K about her mother and I wonder if she—if all the children—know about my wife’s affair.

I see Shelley under a beige canvas umbrella. She has her ashtray and her crossword on the table, and she wears a black bathing suit under a black translucent caftan. When she sees me, she slaps her hand to her chest. “Scared me to death,” she says and swats me with her paper. Her face is a rich brown. She smokes and doesn’t wear sunscreen or exercise, which makes her sort of revered in our circle.

“K looks well,” I say. “Why does she go by K now?”

“Who knows,” Shelley says. “She’s trying to annul her Hawaiian blood or something. And now she’s writing these poems that are just awful. Sit down.” She takes her newspaper off the chair and I sit. I look at her pool, glistening and turquoise, the way a pool should be.

“I have news about Joanie,” I say. “Things have taken a turn for the worst, as they say. We’re going to let her rest. We’re going to let her go. Christ, I need to find a better way to say this.”

Shelley pushes her sunglasses onto her head. “Who’s her doctor?”

“Sam Johnston.”

“He’s good,” she says and seems disappointed. She leans forward, clasping her hands together—she’s in her action pose, ready to cure the incurable—and for a moment I believe there’s someone she can call, a letter she can write. She can fund-raise her way out of this.

“It’s what it is,” I say. “I just wanted to let you know so you can see her.”

“Oh, fuck, Matt. I don’t know what to say.”

“You just said it.”

She leans back and I pat her warm leg.

“You doing this for everyone? Making house calls?”

“I’m trying to. Just our close friends.”

She looks at her pack of cigarettes and lowers her sunglasses. “You don’t need to do that. I can do that. I can call or I can go by in person, just like you. God, I can’t believe this is happening.” She whimpers, and I see tears falling from under the sunglasses.

“I don’t mind telling people. I need to do something.” I think of my route from house to house; I’m like lava, slowly approaching and altering foundations forever. “Is there anything about Joanie you want to tell me?” I ask. “Did you know anything?”