Imagine

by Jill Barnett

  “Hi, Hank!”

  He whipped around. Theodore stood a few feet behind him. Hank stared at the kid for second, caught in a confusing lapse between the past and the present. He leaned the bat back against the wall, then faced Theodore.

  As if fate were jeering him, the kid was wearing a Chicago White Stockings baseball cap. A wreath of olive leaves hung around his neck, a toga was fitted over his clothes and hung on the floor next to a half-burned fiddle. The kid had a badminton racket slung over one shoulder. The white feather birdie was clutched in his fist. He lifted the hand with the badminton racket and waved.

  Hank glanced at the genie, who sat on that divan watching him with great interest. Hank scowled.

  The genie’s eyes grew larger, and he snatched a novel from the Greek urn. “Don’t mind me,” he said too casually. He lay back on the divan, crossed one leg over the other, and began to read.

  Hank waited, but Muddy didn’t look up. “Come here, kid.”

  Theodore cocked his head at him but didn’t move. “Am I in trouble?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh.”

  “I said come here.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “If I have to walk over there, I’m going to be even madder.”

  “I wish—”

  “Don’t wish!” Hank dove for the kid, his hand reaching.

  The kid clapped a hand over his mouth and gave him a sheepish look. The kid didn’t say anything. Hank thought he heard a snort of muffled laughter and shot a look at the genie. He still lay there, seeming absorbed in his book.

  Hank shook his head and looked back at Theodore. “Why wouldn’t you come out of the bottle, kid?”

  “’Cause.”

  “I want an answer.”

  Theodore looked down at his feet. “’Cause I wanted you to see it, too.”

  “So you wouldn’t leave?”

  The kid nodded.

  Hank watched him. “Did you think about just asking me?”

  He nodded again. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  Well, hell, he thought. The kid was right. He wouldn’t have come. “Look, kid, you can’t go through life manipulating everyone to get your own way.” He could just hear Smitty if she’d heard that one. She’d have made some remark about the black pot talking to the kettle.

  “But it worked.”

  “This time, maybe, you got away with it. But next time? No way, kid.”

  “Are you gonna give me a licking?”

  That took him aback. “Did your father?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Hank clasped his hands behind his back and looked away just as the genie whipped his nose back into the book. Hank looked back at Theodore. “Well, I’m not your father, kid.”

  Theodore was quiet for a long time, then whispered, “Could we pretend you were?”

  “You want me to take a switch to your butt?”

  “No.”

  “Good. ’Cause I don’t hit kids.”

  The kid mumbled something.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  He looked up at Hank, his face serious. “I’d take a licking if it meant you could . . . someone would—” Theodore stopped, then blurted out, “I just want a dad.”

  He heard a sniffle and shot a quick glance at the genie. The book was shimmying in his pudgy, beringed hands.

  Hank looked back at the kid; his face was turned up as if he were waiting for him to say yes. Hank shifted his gaze away and stared at that stupid clock. “I’m not dad material, kid. Sorry.”

  “What is dad material?”

  Hank laughed a bitter laugh. “Hell if I know. I never had a father.” He looked at the kid but could tell his words hadn’t satisfied him.

  “Do you have to have a father to be a father? Can’t you learn?”

  Hank rubbed his chin and realized he had no answer. He paused, then squatted down so he was at eye level with him. “Look, I was an orphan and you’re an orphan. We have something in common, so how about we just be buddies instead?”

  The kid was quietly thoughtful. “I’ve never had a buddy. What do they do?”

  Hank shrugged. “What we’ve been doing. You can help me, like you did with the sail and the hut.”

  “Do buddies do things together?”

  “Sure.”

  “Like fishing?”

  “Yeah, kid, we could do that.”

  “Swimming?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know how to swim.”

  “You can learn.”

  “If I can learn to swim, then why can’t you learn to be a father?”

  He could have sworn he heard someone mutter, “Answer that one, chump.” But when Hank looked at the genie again, he hadn’t moved.

  He turned back to the kid. “Because it’s easier to learn things when you’re young.”

  Theodore was thinking. “Oh. I guess that has something to do with your ways.”

  “What ways?”

  “I don’t know. Smitty told us you were set in your ways.”

  “She did?”

  He nodded.

  Hank supposed that was better than telling the kid he was a pigheaded bastard, which both he and Smitty knew was true.

  “Will you teach me how to play baseball?”

  Hank spun around. “How did you know—” He cut himself off.

  The kid had picked up the bat, and he was looking at Hank with a startled expression.

  Hank realized with a sudden uneasiness that he had yelled at the kid about something the boy knew nothing about. No one here knew.

  He looked over at the genie. He wasn’t reading the book. He was watching Hank with penetrating interest. Hank scowled at him, but it didn’t do any good this time, so he took the bat from the kid and tossed it on some pillows. “Let’s get outta here, kid.”

  “But —”

  “Now.” Hank held out a hand. “Let’s go.”

  The kid looked him, then set down the badminton racket and birdie. He took off the cap, wreath, and toga, solemnly handing them to Muddy. “Thank you. We have to leave now.”

  The genie set the things on the divan before he came over to Hank, the kid’s hand held in his. Without a word he extended his other hand to Hank.

  A second later they blasted out of the bottle.

  Margaret knelt over Hank. He lay flat on the sand. Around him, a misty ring of purple smoke was slowly fading. Theodore, Muddy, and Lydia, who was holding a sleeping Annabelle, stood nearby and leaned over.

  “Is he dead?” Theodore asked her.

  “No, dear.”

  Hank moaned.

  Margaret looked up at the others. “He’s coming around.” She placed her hand on his chest. “Hank?”

  “Did I make it?” he asked in a distant voice. “Am I safe or out?”

  “You were knocked out for a few minutes.”

  He groaned, then opened his eyes, which were disoriented. He looked at her, at the children, then his dull gaze shifted to Muddy.

  Hank blinked up at the sunlight from a face that looked as if it had sucked on bad pickles. He rubbed a hand over his eyes and swore like a sailor.

  Margaret looked at the others and rolled her eyes. “He’s all right, children. I told you there was nothing to worry about. He probably fell on his head. Run along now. Muddy will go with you.”

  “Wait!” Theodore paused and poked his red head over Margaret’s shoulder. “You okay, Hank?”

  “Sure, kid,” he said in a raspy voice.

  “Good! We’re still buddies?”

  “Yeah.”

  And he spun around and ran off. “Leedee! Wait for me!”

  Hank scowled up at her. “What the hell happened?”

  “When you shot out of the bottle, you let go of Muddy’s hand.”

  He cursed again.

  “Too bad you didn’t fall on your mouth.”

  His eyes narrowed. “If I’d fallen on my mouth, then I couldn’t have done this.” His hand s
hot out, and he pulled her head down. He kissed her hard.

  She shoved at his chest and jerked her head away. “Stop it!” She turned and spotted the children standing by the palm trees, gaping. She could feel her face flush bright red—at thirty-two years old.“Hey, Leedee! Muddy! Stop!” Theodore hollered.

  “Did you see that? Hank and Smitty are smooching!”

  “Curse your black heart, Hank Wyatt,” she said in a hiss.

  “I don’t have a heart, Smitty.” He sat up. “I’d have thought a smart woman like you would have figured that out by now.”

  “They’re children.”

  He glanced at the children, then bellowed, “Smitty was just helping me catch my breath, kid! You go on.”

  He looked back at her. “Unless you wanna get kissed again, sweetheart, you’d better move your butt.”

  He slowly stood, muttering that he was getting “damn old.” He rolled his shoulders, then rubbed the back of his head. He winced, then wiped his hand across his chest and reached for a banana growing nearby. He peeled it and began to eat.

  She watched him for a second. “If Charles Darwin could see you now.”

  “Who?”

  “Charles Darwin. The naturalist who theorized that we are descended from apes.”

  He gave her a long, unreadable look. “My education came from the streets, Smitty. There were no Charles Darwins.” He stood straight and tall, his look challenging. “I don’t use my mind to question life. I use it to stay alive.”

  She watched him and realized he was truly angry, and his voice was even more bitter. She moved toward him, then placed her hand gently on his arm. “Hank?”

  He stared down at her from a face that gave nothing away.

  “You have no reason to be ashamed.”

  He looked at her hand, then stared off some place over her head. “The children need you.”

  She’d been dismissed. “Hank . . .”

  He turned and said nothing, just walked past her and across to a brow of rocks that jutted out over a crescent of white beach sand. He jumped down into the sand and stood there, his back to her, his hands shoved into his pockets, staring out at the lagoon.

  “Hank, please . . .”

  “Who the hell said I was ashamed?”

  She’d said exactly the wrong thing. She stared at his hard back and took a couple of steps. “I’m not trying to fight with you.”

  “Good. Because you’d lose. Now get the hell outta here.”

  Chapter 20

  Over the next few days, the weather was their friend. The winds had been only light island breezes, and to Margaret’s relief, there had been no rain. They had started the new hut—a combined project. Within a couple of days, the but had a frame sturdy enough to withhold the monsoon storms Hank grumbled about, and it had strong walls of woven leaves and tied bamboo.

  Like a neutral country, the new shelter sat in the clearing on a spot exactly halfway between the original huts. It was a long and narrow bungalow type structure with window shutters that could close the hut off tightly from the driving tropical rains, yet could be propped open with levers of bamboo to let the sunshine and trade breeze through.

  There was one door, and like the shutters, it was made from rods of strong bamboo tied tightly together. A barrel filled with fresh water sat near the door. There were hammocks woven of copra for sleeping and mats for sitting.

  A flat-topped trunk was a table and smaller barrels served as stools. The tilley lit the hut, but the fuel was quickly disappearing. They had little in the way of comforts.

  There was some argument about a kitchen. A comment from Hank about needing a volunteer fire department. Margaret conceded when she burned five mangoes, then spent an hour making notes in the sand about what island foods were eaten cooked and what were eaten raw.

  Hank’s dark mood hadn’t much changed. For some reason, Margaret was certain that their Darwin conversation wasn’t the reason for his brooding.

  His resentment wasn’t against her, but at the world in general. He remained silent, a man who looked as if he wanted to pick a fight with anyone who would oblige.

  In an angry, cutting voice, he’d told Theodore to keep the genie inside the bottle, blustering that Muddy got in the way and distracted everyone—everyone being Hank, who groused about all that damned purple smoke.

  But Hank had worked hard, and finally, because they all hounded him, he even let Muddy out of the bottle to help with the roof thatching. That was, however, after Hank had fallen through the roof twice. Purple smoke was nothing compared to the blue air around Hank.

  At night, though, he would disappear. In the morning, when Margaret awoke, he would be asleep in one of the hammocks they had made, snoring and sleeping off a binge of drinking.

  By the third night she decided to follow him. She figured luck was in her favor since she had only burned half the fish and three breadfruit that evening.

  Margaret stepped outside the hut and walked toward the beach. A quarter moon hung high in the black sky, making the sand a little darker and the sea more gray than silver.

  In the distance the waves rumbled against the rocks. But other than the booming sound of the sea and the slosh and sizzling sounds of the water hitting the sand, there was nothing else. No gulls, no clicking of the insects, no human voices, just the powerful voice of the Pacific Ocean.

  She walked along the beach, her feet padding silently on the spongy sand. The wind picked up and whipped her skirt and hair She searched the high beach and the rocks. She searched the dark corners where the coconut palms looked like open hands against the night sky.

  Finally she climbed up onto a stack of rocks near the end of the cove and she saw him sitting on a small crescent of beach, hemmed in on every side by either rocks or sea. There was sheen of moonlight on him and she could see his black hair flow back in the night breeze. He sat in the sand, his arms resting on his bent knees, staring at the black miles of the Pacific.

  She didn’t move. Some sixth sense warned her. There was something bleak about him, something that hadn’t been there before. Or perhaps she hadn’t noticed it before.

  For a few minutes, he looked as if he were part of a vast and distant place. She could see his face, just the outlines, the hard ridges of his jaw, neck, and shoulders. He was like a silhouette on glass—only the solid black outline and no clue as to who or what the person was. Just lines that drafted one’s shape but defined nothing.

  She took a step, and some pebbles rattled down the face of a rock.

  He turned sharply, his posture suddenly guarded. She stepped down into the soft, dry sand cooled by the night air and approached him. “What are you doing?”

  “Celebrating.” He lifted a bottle to his mouth and took a drink.

  “More whiskey?”

  “Rum.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Buried treasure.” He laughed and lifted the bottle to his mouth again. He took a huge swig, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He held up the bottle. “Have a drink, sweetheart. You look like you could use it.”

  She shook her head.

  “No guts?”

  “I don’t need liquor to color the world.”

  “I do.”

  “Perhaps you just think you do. It’s a crutch.”

  He looked at her for a long and angry moment. “A crutch? Yeah, it is.” He drank some more.

  “You don’t care?”

  “Nope.”

  “But it’s such a waste.”

  “That all depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether you’re talking to me or you.” He laughed.

  “You’re impossible.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I’d bet if you drank some of this, you’d be possible.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He didn’t say anything. It was times like this that his silences were worse than his words.

  He stared at the bottle as if his mind were a milli
on miles away. Then he laughed a self-deprecating laugh and shook his head before he took another drink. She stood a few feet away and watched him, wondering what kind of life would bring a man to this point.

  There was a taint about Hank as if each of his years had slowly decayed him. No one could miss it. At times like this, he wore it like a hero wore his medals.

  He was a rugged, cynical man with a distant isolation about him, a part of him that wasn’t open to the world. A part of him that said keep away. Hank Wyatt had all the scars and bruises of someone who had gone through hell at an early age and was still trying to get even.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. And she was sorry not for how she felt, but sorry for him.

  He looked up at her as if he just remembered she was there. He took another drink, then stared out at the sea. “Me, too, sweetheart. Real damn sorry.”

  She shook her head, turned, and walked away.

  Maybe it was the booze that made Hank think. Maybe it was the trip inside that bottle and reminders of his past. But each night he had sat here on this small plot of beach. Alone. He’d recounted the years in his mind, drowning the memories with enough booze to make him forget who he was or who he could have been.

  Whiskey and rum could drown both dreams and failures.

  So he drank, a kind of self-persecution for every goddamn mistake he’d ever made. And over forty years he’d made plenty. As a kid he’d been warned, heard the words but didn’t heed them—that he was someone bent on destruction. “You’ll never be anything, Henry James Wyatt.”

  He’d heard similar warnings when was an angry, young kid of fifteen, and the grizzled old owner of a baseball team had bellowed at him, “No one can destroy your life but you, you hardheaded bastard.”

  And Billy Hobart, that grizzled, old owner, had been right.

  Hank was forty years old, and there wasn’t much left of him. He wondered what else he had destroyed inside of himself. Or, he thought, had there ever been something to destroy?

  He had fought so long against being what everyone else was, telling himself they were the world’s suckers. But he wondered now if the only sucker out there was him.

  He held the bottle to his lips and took a long drink, not because he needed it or even because he wanted it, but because it dulled his mind, dulled the truth he had to face. He was a man who had been throwing himself away for so damn many years that he didn’t know how to stop.