The Descendants Page 17

  He imitates the actors and I see it. I see what he’s talking about.

  “First off, I’d kick the guy’s ass. Boom.” He pantomimes a right hook and then slamming a body over his knee. “With the daughters, I don’t know. I’d take them on a trip. Or, no, I’d buy ’em shit. With your money, you can buy them all kinds of things. Alex told me about all the loot you’re going to get.”

  I look at him and wonder if this is why he’s with Alex. “Do you want some of it? Some money?”

  “Sure,” he says.

  “If I gave you a lot of money right now—tonight—would you leave?”

  “No,” he says. “Why would I leave?”

  “No, Sid. I’m asking you a favor. If I give you money, will you leave?”

  “Oh,” he says. “I get it. Is that what you want? You want me to go?”

  The hair on the sides of his head sticks straight out.

  “No,” I say. “I guess not.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to do with daughters,” he says. “Exchange them for sons?”

  “But then I could wind up with something like you.”

  “I’m not so bad,” he says. “I’m smart.”

  “You’re about a hundred miles away from the town of Smart, my friend.”

  “You’re mistaken, counselor,” he says. “I’m smart, I can take care of myself. I’m an awesome tennis player, a keen observer of life around me. I’m a good cook. I always have weed.”

  “I’m sure your parents are proud.”

  “It’s possible.” He looks at his knees and I wonder if I’ve offended him.

  “Do they know where you are?”

  “My parents?”

  “Yeah, Sid. Your parents.”

  “My mom’s sort of busy right now, so she kind of wants me out of the way.”

  “What does she do?”

  “She’s a receptionist at Pets in the City.”

  “Our cat goes there. So, it’s a busy time for pets?”

  “No,” he says. “She’s busy getting the house together. Getting my dad’s things organized. He died a few months ago.”

  At first I think he’s joking, that this is a prank like his retarded brother, but I can see that he’s serious. He’s doing the same thing I do when people talk about Joanie, trying to smile and look like he’s okay with the whole thing. He wants me to feel at ease and is searching for a way to the next topic. And so I do for Sid what I wish people would do for me.

  “Good night, Sid,” I say. “Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He leans back on his pillow. “Good chat, boss,” he says. “See you tomorrow.”

  29

  THE NEXT MORNING I go for a run on the beach, and he runs right toward me and then past me. He is looking at the ocean when he jogs by, and I am higher, near the houses, where the sand is dry and more difficult to run though. I turn around and follow him, heading down to the packed sand. I’m thrilled and nervous and somewhat mortified that we’re doing the exact same thing at the exact same time. I run and watch the back of him, his calves, his neck. His T-shirt says STANFORD LACROSSE, which is just vile, and his shorts are the kind that serious runners wear, short and thin, with large slits on the sides. I imagine he’s the kind of man who clips his phone to his belt. He’s a fast little fucker, so I pick up my pace. There are only a few other people on the beach: some surfers checking out the swell, a fisherman planting his pole into the sand, a black dog sniffing in the bushes. The day is preparing itself for something promising, something grand—the gauzy light is beginning to sharpen, making the hammock of white sand flicker; the mists are lifting, dramatically and coyly revealing the bright sea and the blue-green cliffs.

  I slow down, not wanting to get too close to him. I feel an incredible rush of energy and know it’s fueled by rage and try to focus and remind myself why I’m here. I love Joanie and she loves this man in front of me and I am going to bring him to her. He has the right to say goodbye. He has given her something I couldn’t. I’m like a cat dragging a rat to the doorstep.

  A wave crashes onto the shore and he sprints away from it. I stay on course, letting the cold water splash up my legs. A little before the pier, he slows his pace, looks at his watch, and begins to walk up the incline. I stop jogging and watch where he goes. He walks on the beach for a while and catches his breath, then continues on toward the pier. I wonder if he’s heading to his car in the lot. I begin to walk, not knowing what I’ll do if he gets into a car. Am I ready? Can I do this now? Then I see him turn around and come back toward me, and I quickly face the water. I stretch, doing a twist that allows me to keep him in my sights. I twist to the other side and see him heading toward one of the small blue cottages that my cousin Hugh owns. I didn’t think Hugh rented them out anymore, and I wonder if Brian knows Hugh. Brian walks up the porch steps and opens the screen door. He must know one of us, which isn’t that much of a coincidence, since we’re so prevalent here. Like cockroaches. I could ask Hugh if and how he knows Brian. I could get some information on this guy before I make my move. Or I could walk into this blind. Why do I need information? Here he is. I found him. Now I have to get him.

  I look at the hotel on the cliff, wishing my daughters were here. I realize I’m afraid. The sun is getting warmer on my back, and I wish the air could stay the way it was moments before: the air of promise, the elements brewing but not quite cooked. Enough stalling. I walk toward the cottage, trudging through the deep soft sand, but as I get near, I see something that startles me. I see Brian disappear inside, but then he comes out and sits down on a recliner with a glass of water. Following him are two children—one around thirteen, the other, I don’t know, eight—and then from the screen door comes a beautiful woman in a white bathing suit and a large white sun hat. She’s elegant. Radiant. Stunning. She’s Brian Speer’s wife.

  30

  I WALK BACK toward the shore and sit on the beach. I wait to see if Brian and his family come down. I’m sure they will. It’s what you do. He has put an obstacle in my plan. After seeing his wife and children, I can’t bring myself to follow through. Not only would it be difficult logistically, but I don’t feel right about it anymore. I begin to doubt the entire affair, even though I know that it happened.

  I see my daughters and Sid walking on the rocks, making their way to the beach from the hotel. There’s no path from the hotel beach to this one, just rocks and ocean, discouraging nonguests from entering or guests from ever leaving.

  When they reach the bay, they look around until they spot me. Scottie runs to me and spreads out her towel.

  “Alex ordered room service,” she says in a tattletale voice.

  “Good,” I say.

  Scottie never knows what will fly and what won’t, and I think this is a good tactic. Her stings look better now. They’re white and dry, like old scars. What’s happening to you? I want to ask. What can I do for you? I think of her posing in front of the mirror last night, her hands pushing her breasts together. I never noticed that Scottie has little breasts, but she does.

  She lies on her stomach and turns her head toward me.

  “Do you get cable in your room at home?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says.

  “What shows do you like?”

  “The Sopranos,” she says. “Dog the Bounty Hunter. Wait, just on cable, or all shows?”

  “I don’t think you should watch any shows,” I say.

  “I’d rather die,” she says.

  Alex saunters toward us, Sid trailing behind her, smoking. I watch the men watch her until they see that I’m her destination, and then they look away.

  “Any luck?” she asks.

  “Oh yeah,” Scottie says. “Did you find Mom’s friend?”

  I consider my answer. If they know I’ve found him, they’ll expect me to act.

  “No,” I say. “No luck.”

  Sid nods at me and I nod back. He has become a completely different person to me—a mystery, a rock. He must be stron
g. Or heavily drugged.

  “Did you have a good breakfast?” I ask.

  “Yup,” Sid says.

  “Brought you a bagel,” Alex says, tossing me one with raisins in it.

  “Wow,” I say. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  The sun has gotten even stronger, and it feels nice on my back. I have taken my tennis shoes off and press my toes into the cool sand. Sid and Alex are settling onto their stomachs, and Scottie turns onto her back. More people are on the beach and in the glassy ocean. People on either side of us have umbrellas and beach chairs, coolers, towels, sunscreen, hats.

  “Do you guys have sunscreen?” I ask.

  “No,” Scottie says. “Do we have water?”

  “Did you bring any?” Alex asks.

  “No,” I say.

  Alex pops her head up. “Did you bring snacks for us?”

  “We can walk to town.”

  How do mothers manage to bring everything a child could need?

  Alex props herself up on her elbows. She looks behind me. I follow her gaze and see the woman in white. She looks at us with a friendly expression, then down at the sand as she continues to walk. The two boys I saw at the cottage run toward the ocean, and she calls out to them, “Stay in the zone, please.” They both crash through a small wave then settle like birds. They bob and drift. She walks a little closer to the shore and it’s perfect because she’s below us and I can stare openly. She takes the bags off her shoulder and pulls a towel out of one. She flicks her wrists, and the towel sails into the air, then floats to the sand. She has a green translucent wrap covering her bathing suit; she leaves this on, sits down on the towel, and takes a book from her bag. It’s a thick hardcover.

  Both girls are focused on the woman’s every movement. I wonder if they’re comparing her to their mother, or if they’re looking at her the way one looks at something nice. I check behind me to see if her husband’s coming, but I see only a man on a riding mower and some local kids cutting across the lawn with fishing poles.

  Her boys ride the waves on their stomachs. Every now and then she’ll look up to watch, marking her place in the book with her finger.

  “You guys should go swimming,” I say.

  “Will you go in with me?” Scottie asks.

  I don’t really want to, but I don’t want to say no because I know the woman can hear us.

  “Sure!” I say too enthusiastically. “Alex, you, too?”

  Alex sits up. I never know when I’ll meet resistance. Once I think I know the pattern with these girls–fun, intimacy, fight, unpleasantness, smooth again—they change the order.

  “Sid? Want to join us?” I feel phony, like I’m pandering to him. Now he deserves my courtesy because his father’s dead.

  “Let’s do this.” He stands quickly, runs toward the ocean, and stomps through the waves, then dives in. I don’t see him for a while, and then I stop looking for him to surface.

  The girls and I walk to the ocean, and I slowly sink into the water.

  “Catch this one, Steven,” the older boy says to his younger brother. The younger boy looks back at the wave looming over his head. “Go!”

  We all duck under the wave, and I look toward the beach to see if the boy caught the wave. I see him in the distance. He caught the wave to shore.

  “That was awesome,” he yells.

  The older boy yells back, “I told you.”

  The older boy doesn’t give Scottie a single glance. He’s all business, watching for the next set, making false starts and slapping the water in frustration. What a little freak.

  I can see their mother looking over the rim of her sunglasses at us. Alex and Sid have gone past the break. I see them heading to the floating green raft. Scottie inches toward the boys and lines up to catch a wave.

  “I got dibs!” the older boy yells at her. “Go, Steven. This one’s yours. Go! Go!”

  I can tell Steven is shaken. He’s out of breath, and the yelling is disorienting him. He glances at Scottie, then takes off, thrashing at the water, but the wave moves under him and he sails down its back.

  “You’re in the way,” the older boy yells at Scottie. “Go find your own lineup.”

  I watch Scottie respond with a hesitant, nervous look as though what the boy said was a joke.

  “You’re in an ocean, buddy,” I say. “I think you can all manage to share an ocean.”

  “I wasn’t in his way,” Scottie says. “He just didn’t swim hard enough.”

  What are you going to say to that, little punk? I stare him down and he backs off, perhaps because he sees his mother coming into the water. I soften my gaze and smile at the boy. “Here comes a set that has your name on it,” I say. “Thatta boy!”

  Their mother nods at me. Her suit is modestly cut, and she has kept her sun hat on. It hides her face, so all I can see is her body plunging into the water. Her bronze hair splays out behind her like a cape as she glides toward her boys. Scottie seems enthralled. Joanie would have run into the water in a string bikini and behaved like the older boy, making a competition out of everything, urging everyone to go, go, go.

  Mrs. Speer does a backstroke, her long arms windmilling behind her, the water falling off her fingertips. Her feet make tiny splashes in front of her. That she has left her hat on is somehow both silly and charming.

  “Catch this, Mom,” the younger son says.

  She looks at the small swell moving toward her and breast-strokes toward shore.

  “Faster!” the boy says.

  Scottie tries to catch the wave, too, her eyes still fastened on the woman. She sees Scottie and quickens her stroke to match. The wave is gaining height and it will reach its peak soon. Now I’m afraid, not for Scottie, because I know she’s good at this, but for the woman, who seems so fragile, like something you’d put on a high shelf, spotlit with soft illumination. As she swims, she looks back, a grin on her face, until she looks up at the wave over her head and gasps. Then the wave spills down and she’s gone.

  I catch the next wave in and see both Scottie and the woman washed up on the shore. Scottie is already standing, but the woman is on her side in the sand, her long hair wrapped around her head, a strap of her suit down her arm and the bottom part hiked up and revealing her ass.

  I run up to shore but remind myself that some women, such as my wife, don’t like men helping them. I pretend to be concerned about Scottie and ask the woman while laughing, “You okay?”

  Another wave crashes into her, and she slides down the shore, receding with it; she’s caught in a set and can’t seem to get out. I look out at her boys, who are laughing hysterically. I go to her and swoop her up to standing. She steadies herself by placing her hands on my shoulders and then quickly moves them away. It has to be the strangest, warmest thing I have felt in months, possibly years: her hands on me. I can still feel them. I wonder if I’ll always sense them, like a tag burned onto my skin. It’s not necessarily because of her but because she’s a woman touching me.

  “My God,” she says. “I feel like I’ve gone through a car wash.”

  I laugh, or force myself to, because it’s not something I’d normally laugh at.

  “What about you?” she says to Scottie. “How did you make out?”

  “I’m a boy,” Scottie says. “Look at me.”

  Sand has gotten into the bottom of her suit, creating a huge bulge. She scratches at the bulge. “I’m going to go to work now,” she says. I think she’s impersonating me and that Mrs. Speer is getting an unrealistic, humiliating glimpse.

  “Scottie,” I say. “Take that out.”

  “It must be fun to have girls,” Mrs. Speer says.

  She looks at the ocean, and I see that she’s looking at Alex sunbathing on the floating raft. Sid leans over Alex and puts his mouth to hers. She raises a hand to his head, and for a moment I forget it’s my daughter out there and think of how long it has been since I’ve been kissed or kissed like that.

  “Or maybe you have your hands f
ull,” Mrs. Speer says.

  “No, no,” I say. “It’s great,” and it is, I suppose, though I feel like I’ve just acquired them and don’t know yet. “They’ve been together for ages.” I gesture to Alex and Sid. I don’t understand if they’re a couple or if this is how all kids in high school act these days.

  Mrs. Speer looks at me curiously, as if she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t.

  “And boys.” I gesture to her little dorks. “They must keep you busy.”

  “They’re a handful. But they’re at such a fun age. It’s such a joy.”

  She gazes out at her boys. Her expression does little to convince me that they’re such a joy. I wonder how many times parents have these dull conversations with one another and how much they must hide. They’re so goddamn hyper, I’d do anything to inject them with a horse tranquilizer. They keep insisting that I watch what they can do, but I truly don’t give a fuck. How hard is it to jump off a diving board?

  My girls are messed up, I want to say. One talks dirty to her own reflection. Did you do that when you were growing up?

  “Your girls seem great, too,” she says. “How old are they?”

  “Ten and eighteen. And yours?”

  “Ten and twelve.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Great.”

  “Your younger one sure is funny,” she says. “I mean, not funny. I meant entertaining.”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s Scottie. She’s a riot.”

  We are both silent for a while, watching Scottie sit on the sand and let the waves toss her around.

  “Actually,” I say, “they’re both a little sad. Their mother is in the hospital.” I realize how uncomfortable this will make Mrs. Speer. “She’ll be fine,” I add after the obligatory “Oh, no!” “They’re just worried. That’s all.”

  “Sure,” she says. “That must be so hard. What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “She got into a boating accident.” I watch to see if she recognizes any of this.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “Sailing? Or was she on one of those with motors?”