The Descendants (19 page)

I hear the back window go down. “Watch it, dick spank,” Sid yells.

“Just turn at the fountain and go back,” Alex says.

“Why?”

“I thought I saw something. I’m not sure. Just drive around.”

I turn toward the coast, then loop around at the fountain onto Kalakaua and backtrack. “Is this far enough?”

“I think so,” she says. “Don’t pull out.”

“That’s what she said,” Sid says.

“Shut up!” Alex yells. “Just pull up to the stop sign.”

I do as she says.

“Look.” She points to the house across the street.

It’s a light blue cottagelike home with white plantation shutters. The home is for sale. Joanie always used to push us to move to town, to this side of the island, where her friends live, away from Maunawili, where it rains. I never wanted to live on this side, with the joggers and gaudy mansions on Kahala Avenue. Alex likes this side, too, or at least she used to. The cottage is across the street from the ocean side of the road, but it’s prime Diamond Head real estate and remodeled to look old.

“It’s really nice,” I say. “But the avenue.” I point to the cars speeding by. “It would be hard to get out of the driveway.”

“No,” she says. “Look at the sign.”

I squint to read the for-sale sign and see his name and understand why it sounds so familiar. I pass his name every day, embossed in white and blue:
BRIAN SPEER. REAL ESTATE BROKER.
978-7878.

In the photo, I can see his dark hair. I can see his confidence. He looks like an advertisement for teeth whitening. He looks like he’s in love.

“No way,” Sid says.

“Now you know what he looks like,” Alex says.

I stay at the stop sign and we look at his picture, not speaking for a while.

“Are you satisfied?” she asks.

“No,” I say.

20

I MEMORIZED HIS
number but haven’t called. I don’t know what to say. The number keeps running through my head. I know I’ll have to dial it eventually.

I’m sitting alone at the dining room table, looking at our yard and the mountain. I’m drinking whiskey and feeling old. I couldn’t go to any more houses after I saw his picture. I just wanted to come home. The phone is in my hand. If I dial the number, I’ll just get his work voice mail, since it’s nine at night. I’ll call and listen to his voice and then hang up. I guess I’m stalling, because once I dial his number, it’s as though I’m committing myself to something, locked in to a contract.

I dial to hear his voice. On the third ring, I get the recording: “Hi, this is Brian. Sorry I missed your call. If you leave me a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

What kind of businessman says, “hi”? I remember being reprimanded by my mother whenever I said “hi” instead of “hello.” His voice is strong, almost impatient, which is good. You want to make clients feel you’re doing them a favor by taking their money. At the beep, I hang up and walk down the hall toward Scottie’s room. I hear Esther reading and walk past, but when I get near my room, I hear both of my girls laughing hysterically. I remember Esther saying that the nursery rhymes make Scottie laugh with pure delight. I backtrack down the hall to listen to her read.

“‘Little Jack Jingle, he used to live single.’”

“Read the one about the rooster again,” I hear Alex say.

“I already read that three times.”

“One more time,” Scottie says.

I hear pages turning and then: “‘Oh, my pretty cock. Oh, my handsome cock, I pray you do not crow before day. And your comb…’”

I can’t hear the rest because of the laughter. I shake my head and continue to my empty room. I’m surprisingly pleased that Scottie knows “cock” has another meaning and that she isn’t genuinely enthralled by nursery rhymes. I’m also pleased that my girls are having a laugh together—I haven’t heard this in some time. Or perhaps ever. Alex would hardly come out of her room when she lived at home. Still, their laughter excludes and saddens me. I feel I’m stepping in too late for this father thing to really work. And why can’t they laugh at other things, normal things?

“Hey, boss.”

I turn to see Sid coming out of Alex’s bedroom in his boxers and no shirt.

“Did you call him?” he asks.

“It’s none of your business,” I say. “And you’re not sleeping in that room. And put some clothes on, please.”

“Why?” he asks.

“I think you should go home,” I say.

“Alex wouldn’t like that,” he says.

This is true, and I know if I forced the issue, I’d have to deal with her rage.

“You can sleep in the extra room,” I say. “Take it or leave it. And I think you’re going to want me to trust you.”

He rubs his stomach. It’s got too many muscles. It looks unnatural. I sense my own stomach and suck it in.

“We’re going to do what we’re going to do,” he says.

“Yeah, but I’m not going to make it easy,” I say. I remember my boyhood. Yes, kids will find a way to do whatever it is they’re going to do, but I remember that finding a place to have sex was one of the hardest things in the world. A girl won’t have sex just anywhere. A woman might, but not a girl.

My room is right next to Alex’s. I move from side to side. “Creaky floors,” I say.

He laughs. “Don’t worry. I was just joking. We’re not like that. It’s not about that. I wouldn’t sleep in her room anyway.”

The light blue on his face has become black, with a hint of deep red like a berry stain around his eye.

“He’s nobody,” Sid says. “Just call him. Raise hell.”

I turn around and walk back toward my room. I think of Sid’s hand beginning to block the hit and then coming back down and clutching his thigh. He must have decided to take the punch. I could ask, but I don’t want a reason to like him.

When I get to my room, I call Brian again and listen to his voice mail, but this time I find that his voice and words and tone relax me. I realize that he doesn’t intimidate me, as a true competitor should. I imagine him sitting in one of those homes, wiping down the counters, baking bread to make the staged rooms cozy. I imagine him dusting. He’s nobody. In fact, he could work for me.

After the beep, I say, “Hello, Brian.” I pause. “I’m interested in the house on Kalakaua. The blue one with the plantation shutters.”

I hear the girls laugh again. I leave my number, hang up, and remain still, as if movement would ruin everything. What do I want? Just to see him? To humiliate him? To measure myself against him? Maybe I just want to ask him if she ever loved me.

21

THE NEXT DAY
we go to the hospital. It’s Alexandra’s second time seeing her mother since the accident. She came when Joanie was first admitted and hasn’t been here since. She stands near the end of the bed, her hand on Joanie’s leg, which is covered with a blanket. She’s looking at her mother as if she’s about to say something, but I wait and she doesn’t.

I notice all the cans of macadamia nuts in the room and see that Scott was being literal. He was going to give Joanie the things she always wanted and craved.

“Say something,” Scottie whispers.

Alex looks at Scottie, then looks back at her mother, who is still hooked up to the machines.

“Hi, Mom,” she says.

“Tell her you were drunk,” Scottie says. “Tell her you’re an alcoholic.”

“I guess it’s in the genes,” Alex says.

“Girls,” I say, but I can’t think of what I should reprimand them for. “Be serious.”

Joanie looks as though she has just been washed. She has no makeup on, and her dark hair seems damp. Suddenly, I want to get the girls out of here. I know they don’t know what to say, and it’s making them feel guilty. Maybe they shouldn’t have to see this. Maybe they shouldn’t be serious. Maybe I’m wrong and shouldn’t want them to spend every last moment in this room.

“Where’s Sid?” I ask. It feels strange, asking about him.

“He’s smoking a cigarette,” Alex says.

“Tell her you’re sorry,” Scottie says.

“For what?” Alex says.

“For being drunk. For not being a boy. Mom wanted boys. That’s what Grandma told me. We’re girls.”

“Sorry for being bad,” Alex says. “For wasting Dad’s money on coke and liquor. Money you could have used for face lotion. I’m sorry.”

“Alex,” I say.

“Dad lets me have Diet Coke,” Scottie says.

“Sorry for everything,” Alex says, and then she looks up at me and says, “Sorry, Mom, that Dad wasn’t good enough for you.”

“Alex, you’re out of line. Stop talking that way now.”

“Or what? Are you going to ground me? Or ship me to some other school? Are you going to give me a time-out?”

I don’t know what to say or do—I don’t want to yell “Your mother is dying” in front of Scottie—so I resort to what I used to do: I grab Alex’s shoulder, pull my hand back, and spank her.

“You got served!” Scottie says.

“Scottie, step into the hall.”

“But she’s the one out of line.”

I raise my hand. “Now.”

Scottie runs into the hall.

“Did you just spank me?” Alex asks.

“You have no right to talk to your mother that way. She’s going to die, Alex. These are your last words. She’s your mother. She loves you.”