The Descendants

by Kaui Hart Hemmings

  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.”

&n
bsp; 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?”

  “What?” She wipes her fingers across her face. “What do you mean? Are you asking me to say something at her…”

  Shelley doesn’t want to say the word, and I don’t want to hear it. “No,” I say. “You know how it is. It’s nice to hear what other people know about her, but never mind. Not now.” I stand up. “I’m keeping my visits short. Sorry about that. I feel like I’m wrecking the place and not cleaning up.”

  She doesn’t stand to hug me. She’s not a hugger or a person who walks you to the door, and I’m glad to do away with those things right now. I didn’t mean to ask about Joanie, her affair; I shouldn’t be thinking about that.

  “I’ll tell Lloyd,” she says. “We’ll go see her today. Please let us know if we can do anything. Please.”

  “Thanks, Shelley.”

  “Actually, forget it. Don’t ask. I’ll be in touch with you whether you like it or not. I’ll get the ladies together. We’ll take care of everything, the details. You just tell me what you want.”

  “Thank you,” I say, remembering the death arrangements, food and flowers, ceremony. She lifts her caftan to her face and then reaches for her cigarettes.

  “Shelley?” I ask. “Could you call Racer? Could you tell him for me? I was going to tell him, but I didn’t.”

  “Of course!” she says, and I realize how happy it makes people to have a specific chore.

  The kids are standing in the kitchen eating chicken lo mein out of an aluminum pan.

  “Want some?” K asks. Her expression is full of sorrow and sympathy. “It’s from Lloyd’s fund-raiser. We have sushi, too, if you want.”

  I take a pair of chopsticks and eat a few bites, and then I tell Alex and Sid we need to get back on the road.

  The kids all kiss and hug and make promises to call. K walks us to the door, then heads up the stairs. We get into the car and I drive away slowly.

  “She’s going to write about this,” Alex says. “I know it.”

  “She better make me look good,” Sid says.

  “What’s there to write?” I ask. A woman lives. A woman dies.

  I drive and think of who should be next, whose house we should flatten. Russell Clove is just down the block, but I don’t want to deal with him right now, so I choose Bobbie and Art instead.

  I look over at Alex but pretend to be looking at the street signs beyond her. Her face looks so tired. She looks ruined, like something that was grand a long time ago.

  As we near Bobbie’s house, she says, “I know where he lives, you know, if you want to see him.”

  19

  ALEX TELLS ME to stop. “This is it,” she says.

  I try to look at the house, but a coral wall surrounds it. I can see the crests of waves beyond the roofs of homes. His house isn’t far back, which means he’s rich, relatively, but not filthy. At first I like this, but then it seems worse. If we had pulled up to a home with stone lions guarding the entrance, then I would get it, but this home is average, which makes their love seem more real. I pull in closer to the curb and park in front of my wife’s lover’s home.

  “I like his wall,” Alex says.

  I look at the coral wall. “It’s okay.”

  “Are we just going to sit here until he comes out?” Sid asks.

  “No,” I say. “We came, we saw.” I make to start the car, but I don’t.

  “I wonder if he’s home?” Alex asks. “Should we ring the bell?”

  “You should,” Sid says.

  “You should,” she says back. He kicks the back of her seat, and she turns and reaches for his leg. He grabs her arm and she laughs.

  “Stop it,” I yell. “Stop touching each other.”

  “Whoa,” Sid says. “Maybe that’s why your wife cheated on you, if you’re so against touching.”

  I snap my head around to face him. “Do you get hit a lot?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve had my share.”

  I face my daughter. “You know you’re dating a complete retard. You know that, don’t you?”

  “My brother’s retarded, man,” Sid says. “Don’t use it in a derogatory way.”

  “Oh.” I don’t say anything more, hoping he’ll interpret my silence as an apology.

  “Psych,” he says, and now he kicks the back of my seat. “I don’t have a retarded brother!” His little trick is giving him a great amount of amusement. “Speaking of the retarded,” he says, “do you ever feel bad for wishing a retarded person or an old person or a disabled person would hurry up? Sometimes I wait for them to cross the street and I’m like, ‘Come on already!’ but then I feel bad.”

  “Shut up, Sid,” Alex says. “Remember what we talked about. And we’re not dating, Dad.”

  This seems to work. He’s quiet. I watch him remembering whatever it is they talked about.

  “This is completely bizarre,” I say. “Just sitting here. Stalking him.”

  “We’re not stalking him,” Alex says. “He’s at work, I’m sure. Man’s got to work to get a wall like this.” She reaches to turn on the ignition and then puts the radio on. “Why do you need to see him? Are you going to say anything to him?” She turns on the air conditioner, and it blows into my face.

  “That wastes gas,” I say.

  “Oh, please,” she says.

  “You think this car just runs on God’s own methane?” Sid yells. Alex and I both turn our heads.

  Sid’s sitting in the middle of the backseat now, his legs spread out, staking claim on every part of the car. “What? It’s from a movie.”

  “I just want to see him,” I say. I listen to the music, but Alex changes the station, waits, and changes it again and again and again.

  “Just find something.”

  “It’s all R&B crap.” She continues to run through the stations.

  “Turn it to 101.7,” Sid says. He leans forward, his face right next to mine. I smell cigarettes and a mixture of cheap cologne and Twizzlers.

  “101.7.” Alex keeps pressing the changer, and with each touch, a hollow beep emits from the stereo.

  “Just put it on 101.7,” I say.

  A growling voice invades the car. It’s soothing, in a way, to be reminded that other people around the world are angry. It isn’t just me. A breeze comes through my open window, carrying the scent of sea salt and a slight tinge of coconut husk. The radio station muffles the singer’s every other word, which makes me think of the dirty words even more. Fuck, I think. What a beautiful word. If I could say only one thing for the rest of my life, that would be it. Sid bobs his head to the right then the left over and over again. He looks like a pigeon.

  “Do you know what he does?” Alex asks. “Is he married?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about him.” I say this more to myself than to her. I never even thought about the fact that he might be married, though I doubt he is. His house seems like a bachelor’s, and even his name, Brian Speer, sounds independent and unattached, a solo-flying weapon. It’s such a familiar name. Maybe that’s why I want to see him. Because I feel that I know him. Everyone knows everyone here. I must know him.

  “You mean you didn’t ask Kai and Mark?”

  “I didn’t get into it with them.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just didn’t.”

  A car drives up the road and we all
crouch lower in our seats, which makes me feel silly. The car continues on, then disappears behind the hill that leads to the estates by the ocean. I look at Alex hunkered down, and a feeling of utter incompetence washes over me. I’m soaked in bad parenting. Drenched. I imagine how all of this looks through her eyes. Her mother, who has cheated on her father, is in a coma, and she’s accompanying her father to get a look at her mother’s lover. Her sister prances around in her lingerie and stabs herself with sea creatures. Why have I let her bring me here? Why have I exposed my needs?

  “This is stupid.” I start the car, forgetting that it’s already running, and I hear the engine grind.

  “If someone messed with my girl, all hell would break loose,” Sid says.

  “Whatever, Sid,” Alex says. “A girl doesn’t need a knight.”

  It’s as though Joanie is sitting beside me. It’s exactly something she would say. I want to ask my daughter, Why not? It would be so easy. I’d love to have a knight. What’s wrong with being rescued?

  I drive back toward the avenue.

  “He has dark hair,” Alex says. “If you just want to know what he looks like.”

  We move away from the houses and drive up the wide road to the lookouts below Diamond Head. I slow to let the boys with surfboards tucked under their arms cross in front of us. One boy with long rusty-colored curls does a sort of waddle across the street. His long board is in one hand, and he’s trying to keep his trunks up with the other.

  “I used to drop you off here, remember?” I say this quietly, so we can have our own conversation.

  “Yup,” she says. She releases a short, almost angry laugh.

  “Why’d you stop surfing?”

  “Just happened. Why’d you stop playing with LEGOs? Just happens.”