Joe Burke's Last Stand, Page 2

  A few minutes later, Kate appeared from behind a group of tourists. They had a reunion hug.

  “How was the trip, Dad?”

  “Pretty good. Took the northern route, right straight across. Let's eat.” They were in time to get a window table.

  “So, long drive,” Kate said.

  “I was up for it. It's nice to see the country that way once in a while—you forget how big it is. Those high rolling plains in Montana are something else. They'll have snow in a couple of weeks. I could use some new tapes and a book or two.”

  “You know the place: Elliot Bay Book Company.”

  “Yeah, I thought I'd check it out this afternoon. I'm going to get a room at the Edgewater and be Mr. Luxury for a couple of days.”

  “You could stay with me. Audrey's on a trip for a week; it wouldn't be any hassle.”

  “Thanks, but I don't want to be in the way . . . I'd take some home cooking, though.”

  “How about tomorrow night? You could meet Jackson.”

  “Sounds good. What happened to Rolf?”

  “Oh, Rolf. We have lunch. I love Rolf, but he doesn't really want to live in this period. That's what he calls it, `This period.' He's happier in bookstores reading about early Scandinavian immigrants.”

  “I was just reading about a Swede who was making cider with a hand press he bought for a quarter when he was 12. It was in the paper this morning. He'd been married 50 years. Said his wife was Norwegian but she was taking pills for it.” Kate laughed, a full wraparound laugh. She had her mother's coloring—chestnut hair, light brown eyes, and rosy cheeks.

  “You'll like Jackson; he's very different.”

  “I'm sure I will. I liked Rolf—he was appealingly gloomy.”

  “Jackson's an artist. He gets mad when I say that; he says he's a craftsman. You should see the things he makes: jewelry, furniture—he can make anything.”

  “Speaking of art, your grandfather gave you a painting. It's in the truck.”

  “Oh! Is it good?”

  “I like it. I don't know if you will.”

  “Oh, Dad! Don't be such a parent. If you like it, I know it's good.” The fish sandwiches arrived, and Joe watched the toddler with an ice cream cone in Honolulu, the girl veering her bike into a Maine hedge, the teen-ager leaving home, the Seattle executive as she took a large bite. “Mmmm,” she said with her mouth full, “mmm—Ivar's.”

  “Have you heard from Maxie lately?” she asked.

  “Not for a couple of months. He's still in New Zealand.”

  “I had a card from Auckland in August,” Kate said. “Sounded like he was having a good trip.”

  “How's your mom doing?

  “Fine. She's got a new job working for a mineral exploration outfit. Have you seen Ingrid?”

  “Not recently,” Joe said. “She's doing well, at least she was the last time I saw her. She's been selling her jewelry, and her classes keep her busy. Same as ever. She has a new boyfriend.”

  “Oh good. I love Ingrid. She always sends a Christmas card and tells me how Maxie's doing.” Kate had known Max since he was eight. They had become brother and sister even though there was no blood relationship. They had been especially close when Kate lived with Ingrid, Max, and him during her high school years. Kate had been lucky, Joe thought, to have had two mothers, or a mother and a half. His own mother had died when he was seven. It was long ago, but he could remember well enough that he'd never liked her very much.

  After lunch Joe watched Kate walk with long strides toward her office, hair bouncing on her shoulders. Strong, he thought proudly. He checked in at The Edgewater, lay down on the bed, and didn't wake up until four.

  The days were getting shorter. A salty breeze drove layers of cloud across the sound as Joe walked down Alaskan Way to the Elliot Bay Book Company. The ocean was to his right, but he was headed south instead of north as he would have been on the east coast. It took days in Seattle to stop thinking that he was going the wrong way.

  The bookstore was well lit and cheerful. A tall woman with dark hair and hammered silver earrings was browsing in a corner. She wore a caramel colored T-shirt that showed a black elongated figure above the name “Caffe Ladro.” Her shoulders were wide; the cotton draped comfortably around high flat breasts and fell a distance to her hips. She appeared to be in her forties. Joe hoped that she didn't have blue eyes.

  Two types of women got to Joe immediately. One was black Irish, blue eyed. He looked into those eyes, something slipped, and he was calling for fire, night, and Vikings to ax. The other was blonde with translucent skin, full breasted and silent. The blondes were anima projections. When he was 24, he'd had a disastrous affair and afterwards discovered the explanation in a book by Jung. A man loses touch with his female side and then sees an unlucky woman who resembles the inner image of his lost self. POW, he is on her, has to have her. Irration-

  al trembling, dry throat, pounding heart, out of control—it's an anima projection. Women do it too, of course, the other way around.

  “Yes?” the woman asked. She had brown eyes.

  “Oh, God,” Joe said. “Excuse me. I was thinking about anima projection.”

  “Psychology's in there.” She pointed to another room. “This is cooking.”

  “Ah, yes, well . . . ” Joe turned away. The floor was slick with banana peels. He made it around the corner and took a breath. Too old for this, he said to himself.

  He drifted through several rooms and found Economics in One Lesson by Hazlitt, a book he'd heard about for years. He was interested in the economy because his small savings were mostly in the stock market. He picked up a copy of Trader Vic — Methods of a Wall Street Master by Victor Sperandeo. By the time he chose a tape of slack key guitar by Cyril Pahinui, Gabby's son, it was dark. On his way out, he averted his eyes from the cooking section, but he needn't have; the woman was gone.

  The Edgewater Hotel bar has floor to ceiling windows on the water. Joe ate a sandwich and watched huge ferries slide through the night, brilliant against the black water. They made the Portland, Maine ferries look like life boats. Joe went to bed early, slept fitfully, and spent the next day walking, reading, and exercising. His back wasn't what it was—too many years in front of a computer monitor. If he kept at the yoga exercises, it didn't bother him, but a real day's work would be the end. For a long time he could do whatever the kids could, and then he couldn't. It made a divide between them and even, sometimes, between the past and present. Memory was suspect; did he really do that?

  “You did, Dad, you really did.” Fortunately, Kate was there, confirming the past, regaling Jackson with stories from the old days. They were eating seafood linguini in her apartment. Jackson listened as he twirled pasta with his fork and spoon. He was tall and thin, pleasant. His hair was dark, pulled back into a short pony tail. He drank a lot of wine without seeming to be much affected. His eyes got brighter.

  They considered Kate's new painting which was propped up on a side table. A young woman stood in a barn door looking out at a rainy morning and an apple tree in full white bloom. Her hair was long and brown; her bare feet interacted with paint splattered floor boards. She seemed to dance without moving.

  “Lot going on,” Jackson said.

  “Lot of life in there for an old guy,” Joe said. “What do you think for a frame?”

  Jackson considered. “Simple, but with relief—to give it a little more depth, be more inside the barn.”

  “Definitely simple,” Kate said.

  “I see what you mean,” Joe said. “That will be my part, Kate—getting it framed.”

  “I could do that,” Jackson said.

  “Hey, great. Let me know what it costs . . . “

  Jackson lifted a hand. “No problem. I've got a friend with a frame shop.”

  “That's quite a chess set,” Joe said, pointing to a low table by a bookcase. The pieces were hand carved and had a warm waxed shine. They were slightly larger than usual and looked as though they were mea
nt to be handled.

  “Jackson made those last winter,” Kate said. “He just makes this stuff—like knitting or something.” Jackson looked embarrassed. “Dad, how long are you going to be in Seattle?”

  The question had been floating in the back of Joe's mind. The answer crystallized, “Not long.” They waited for him to continue. “I don't know what I'm going to do, really, but I'm feeling jumpy. I'll let you know. You've got my e-mail address; I'll check in every so often.” He wanted to keep his uncertainty away from Kate. It wasn't so much that he wanted to shield her, but more that he needed to confront the future unhindered by old patterns of relating and response.

  “Stick around,” Kate said. “The longer the better.”

  Jackson smiled neutrally. A good time to leave, Joe thought.

  “Very nice to meet you, Jackson,” he said. He hugged Kate and left, feeling that they were a good match.

  On the way off the hill, he noticed the Caffe Ladro and remembered the woman in the bookstore. The next morning, he thought about checking out of the Edgewater, but he had no plan. He registered for another night and drove back to the Queen Anne district. He had a latte and a bagel in the Caffe Ladro and bought a T-shirt. He was hoping the woman would come in. Her name would be Moira; they would have an animated discussion which would reveal his fate. She didn't show. Must have been busy, probably making a lemon meringue pie.

  He went back to the hotel and stared at the ceiling in his room. Filson's was in Seattle, he remembered. He looked for the address in the phone book and found that it was a short bus ride away. He had a wool Filson jacket that he'd worn for 12 years. Every so often he sewed a button tighter. Filson stuff is understated and invincible; it would be like a visit to the temple.

  A temple angel, slim with long blonde hair, asked if she could help. “Not just yet,” Joe said and wandered down aisles of tin cloth pants, wax impregnated jackets with wool liners, vests, and virgin wool sweaters. He stood a long time in front of the duffel bags and assorted luggage. He was tempted by a carry on bag with a heavy leather handle, but in the end he bought a bag that reminded him of his Air Force AWOL bag—flat bottomed with a humped top and a single massive brass zipper. The canvas twill was doubled around the sides and bottom; the handles and the shoulder strap were made of dark bridle leather; it was the Fort Knox of AWOL bags. While he was at it, he bought a belt made of the same heavy leather. “Might as well have the best,” he said to the angel, repeating the Filson motto.

  When he was back in his room, he unsnapped the new belt buckle and replaced it with the one he had worn for twenty years. The words he had scratched on it with a Dremel power tool were nearly rubbed away: “Eating a plum, hearing/ the roar of centuries—Kokee.” Once a year, the islanders are allowed to pick plums in Kokee, in a park on the rim of a deep canyon. The trees are old with thick limbs. He remembered a young Hawaiian woman on a low limb, stretched out, reaching for plums—brown skin, black hair, dark green leaves, fruit, the ocean gray and blue for thousands of miles in all directions. Echoing silence. It was like being in a shell or a giant's ear.

  Joe put on his new belt and went down to the hotel bar. He ordered an ale and watched a boxing match on a large TV. Pit Bull Salvatori was wearing down a fighter named Fanatuua. He was sagging, his body blotchy. The bell rang and Fanatuua collapsed back against a padded corner post. A trainer squirted something into his mouth and rubbed his chest while his manager talked in his ear. Fanatuua nodded once.

  The bell rang again, and Pit Bull was on him, lefts, rights, uppercuts, trying to end it. At some point in life, Joe thought, how people lose becomes more interesting than how they win. Fanatuua wouldn't go down, seemed calm, almost as though he weren't there. He was covering up, weaving slowly from side to side. Maybe he was fighting the clock, not the man. Maybe if he made it through eight rounds he would have earned his money. Maybe he was out on his feet. The Philly crowd yelled for a knockout; the referee watched closely.

  Fanatuua stepped forward, moved Pit Bull back, threw a combination that did no damage. Maybe he was fighting for his family, Joe thought. Maybe he was married to one of the Samoan women who come to Hawaii to work in the Polynesian Cultural Center and study at the Mormon school in Laie. They walk slowly across the grass, books in their arms, flowers in their dark hair. He ought to make fifteen or twenty thousand from this fight. Maybe he'd give it to his father, the Chief, who was proud of him, who would know what to do with it. His hands dropped. Pit Bull drove him into the ropes with an overhand right. The camera zoomed to Fanatuua's face, sweat, a small cut. His eyes were bright. His mouth was set in a slight smile. He was not afraid.

  Pit Bull smashed him four times. The ref jumped in and separated them. TKO. Pit Bull ran around the ring, fists in the air, and hugged Fanatuua. Fanatuua tapped him twice on the back and walked to his corner. Maybe he was thinking that Salvatori won, might be the champ soon, but couldn't knock him out. Maybe he was thinking about home.

  Joe leaned back in his chair and remembered his new bag. He pictured himself packing it and realized that he was going to Hawaii. That was why he bought the bag, although he hadn't known it at the time. There were complications: the truck, what to bring, what to do when he got there. But that was where he was going.

  3

  As the plane banked over Diamond Head, green at that time of year, tears came to Joe's eyes. Hawaii is so beautiful, so far out to sea, that he felt lucky just to be there.

  When he stepped from the plane, the light perfume of plumeria and the warm breeze were like old friends. He had credit cards and a few bucks in the market, but he might have been thirty again, driving a cab, hoping for a load to the Kahala and a big tip. He rode the city bus into Waikiki, the Filson bag on his lap, and rented a room for a week on Kuhio Avenue—a concrete block room with a four foot lanai, a tiny refrigerator, and a hot plate.

  An hour later he was beneath the banyan tree at the Moana beach bar. Gilbert was still tending bar. “Gilbert, you haven't changed a bit.” Gilbert was from Honolulu, medium sized with dark hair and dark eyes. He could have been from anywhere. His square features were professionally neutral; his smile was quick and ironic, under control.

  “Your eyes going,” Gilbert said.

  Joe ordered a mai tai for old time's sake. Sunset is a three hour show in Waikiki. Joe stayed until the end—the last high smudge of crimson snuffed out in darkness, the Pacific reduced to the sound of waves collapsing along the beach.

  On his way back to the hotel, a woman in a mini skirt asked if he wanted a date.

  “Not tonight. But if I did . . . ”

  “I'll be here tomorrow.” She had large teeth, a big smile. He didn't want a date, let alone that kind of date, but he felt a rush of warmth; it's hard not to like someone who is willing to hold you, even if only for money. The warmth followed him into bed and softened the sounds of car horns and distant sirens.

  In the morning he had a solid hangover. He trudged out of Waikiki to the shopping center and ate breakfast in a coffee shop that served the best Portuguese sausage on the island, made, he was told, by an elderly couple whose identity was secret. He bought a bus pass valid for the rest of November. The Honolulu bus system reaches around the island, across the island, up the ridges, and deep into the separate valley neighborhoods. Workers and students commute by bus. Kids give up their seats to the elderly.

  Joe quartered around the city like a hunting dog. Twenty-five years earlier the State bird was said to be the crane. Now, it was an endangered species. The city was quieter. He found himself returning to Makiki, a neighborhood of low rise apartment buildings and condominiums on a steep hillside, half an hour's walk, in different directions, to the university and to the Ala Moana Shopping Center. It was beautiful there at night, the buildings lit above and below each other like modern cliff dwellings. A week after he arrived, he rented a one bedroom apartment on Liholiho Street, telling the realtor that he had a degree from the university—which was true—and that he was re
tired, which didn't sound right. “Semi-retired,” he amended.

  It was a bare bones apartment on the third floor with a lanai that faced mauka, toward the mountain. Joe bought a plastic chair, a round cafe table, and an hibachi for the lanai. Batman made himself comfortable on the table. Joe constructed a table in the kitchen/dining room from pine boards and milk crates. He bought a foam camping mattress, sheets, a light comforter, a pillow, and a reading lamp for the bedroom. For the kitchen, he bought a toaster, a tea kettle, a pot for cooking rice, and a wok. He set up a minimalist home: one plate, a bowl and a mug, chopsticks. He splurged on an eight inch chef's knife. After a week of moving the plastic chair in and out, he bought a straight backed wooden chair for inside. He bought an exercise mat which he left spread out in the main room.

  It was fun to start over in this way, owning only what he needed for his new life, whatever that was going to be. After some consideration, he bought a compact sound system and a TV for news and sports. He ate rice and fish, bought vegetables at the farmers market, and walked on the beach. The beach belongs to the people in Hawaii; it cannot be owned or sealed off. He bought a few aloha shirts and spent days at the university, the main library downtown, the shopping center, and occasionally, Waikiki. In a month he had a tan, and his pidgin had come back. Kate had learned to talk on the island; she spoke pidgin from deep down. Joe's pidgin was only half way there. If the locals are in doubt, they will ask anything in order to hear you speak—in a few words they know how long you've been around. Joe didn't mind the test. Usually he got points for trying.

  Kate wanted him to visit during the holidays, but he decided against it. He was just getting used to the island and he didn't feel like traveling. The day after Christmas, he was at the Moana leaning back with a beer and thinking about Sperandeo's book on stock trading when someone asked, “Caffe Ladro?” The woman he'd seen in Seattle was standing a few feet away, looking at his T-shirt.