"Yeah.”
"Devo."
"Right," he says, looking at me like I'm some kind of idiot.
"Okay." I sit back. "I just wanna get that straight."
Devo ends. A new song comes on that's even more annoying.
"Who is this?" I ask.
He looks at me, puts his sunglasses on and says, "Missing Persons."
"Missing Persons?" I ask.
"Yeah." He laughs a little.
I nod and roll down a tinted window.
Tim sips his drink and then brings it back to his lap.
"Were you in Century City yesterday?" I ask him.
"No. I wasn't," he says evenly, without emotion.
"Oh," I say, finishing my drink.
Finally, the song by Missing Persons ends. The DJ comes on, makes a joke, droning about free tickets to a New Year's Eve concert that will be held in Anaheim.
"Did you bring your racket?" I ask, knowing that he did, having seen Chuck place it in the trunk.
"Yeah. I brought my racket," Tim says, bringing the glass to his mouth, pretending to drink.
Once on the plane, in first class, me on the aisle, Tim by the window, I'm a little less tense. I drink some champagne, Tim has a glass of orange juice. He puts his Walkman on, reads a GQ he bought at the airport. I begin to read the copy of James Michener's Hawaii that I bring to the Mauna Kea whenever I go and I set my headset to "Hawaiian Medley" and listen to Don Ho sing "Tiny Bubbles" again and again and again as we fly toward the islands.
After lunch I ask the stewardess for a deck of cards and Tim and I play a few hands of gin and I win all four games. He stares out the window until the movie starts. He watches the movie and I read Hawaii and drink rum and Coke and after the movie Tim flips through the GQ, looks out the window at the expanse of sea below us. I get up and walk a little drunkenly upstairs and wander around the lounge and take a Valium and walk back downstairs for the descent into Hilo and as we land Tim clutches the GQ tightly until it's permanently curled and the plane pulls up to the gate.
When we get off the plane, a pretty, sweet-faced Hawaiian girl puts purple leis around our necks and we meet the chauffeur at the gate and he gets our luggage and we sit in the limousine, not saying a lot, barely even looking at each other, and as we drive through the humid mid-afternoon along the coast, Tim fiddles with the radio and can only get a local station from Hilo playing old sixties songs. I look over at Tim as Mary Wells begins to sing "My Guy" and he just sits there, the purple frangipani lei already starting to brown, hanging limply around his neck, his blank eyes staring sadly out the tinted windows, looking over the sweeps of green land, the GQ still clutched in his hands, and I ask myself if this is the right thing to do. Tim glances over at me and I avert my gaze and an imagined sense of imposed peace washes calmly over the two of us, answering my question.
Tim and I are sitting in the main dining room at the Mauna Kea. The dining room has one wall that is open and I can hear the far-off sounds of waves breaking along the beach. A breeze enters the darkened room, the flame of the candle at our table flickering for a moment. The wind chimes hanging from beams below the ceiling whisper softly. The young Hawaiian boy at the piano on a small, semi-lit stage next to the dance floor plays "Mack the Knife" while two elderly couples dance awkwardly in the darkness. Tim tries, inconspicuously, to light a cigarette. A woman's laughter drifts through the large dining room, leaving me, for some reason, clueless.
"Oh, Tim, don't smoke," I say, sipping my second Mai Tai. "We're in Hawaii for Christ sakes."
Without saying a word or making any sign of protest, without even glancing at me, he puts the cigarette out in the ashtray, then folds his arms.
"Listen," I begin, then, stuck, pause.
Tim looks at me. "Uh-huh. Go on."
"Who"—my mind flops around, falls on something—"do you think is gonna win the Super Bowl this year?"
"I'm not too sure." He starts to bite his nails.
"You think the Raiders will make it?"
"Raiders have a chance." He shrugs, looks around the room.
"How's school?" I ask.
"It's great. School's great," he says, slowly losing his patience.
"How's Graham?" I ask.
"Graham?" He stares at me.
"Yeah. Graham."
"Who is Graham?"
"Don't you have a friend named Graham?"
"No. I don't."
"Oh. I thought you did." I take a large swallow of Mai Tai.
"Graham?" he asks, looking directly at me. "I don't know anybody named Graham."
I shrug this time, looking away. There are four fags sitting at the table across from us, one of them a well-known TV actor, and they are all drunk and two of them keep staring admiringly at Tim, who is oblivious. Tim recrosses his legs, bites at another nail.
"How's your mother?" I ask.
"She's great," he says, his foot beginning to shake up and down so fast it's blurry.
"And Darcy and Melanie?" I ask, grasping at anything. I've almost finished the Mai Tai.
"They get kind of irritating," he says, looking behind me, in a monotone, his face a mask. "All they seem to do is drive down to Häagen-Dazs and flirt with this total geek who works there."
I chuckle for a moment, unsure if I was supposed to. I get the waiter's attention and order a third Mai Tai. The waiter brings it quickly and once he lays it down, our silence ends.
"Remember when we used to come here, during the summer?" I ask, trying to ingratiate myself with him.
"Kind of," he says plainly.
"When was the last time we were all here together?" I wonder out loud.
"I don't really remember," he says without thinking.
"I think it was two years ago. In August?" I'm guessing.
"July," he says.
"That's right," I say. "That's right. It was the weekend of the Fourth." I laugh. "Remember the time we all went scuba diving and your mother dropped the camera overboard?" I ask, still chuckling.
"All I remember are the fights," he says dispassionately, staring at me. I stare back for as long as I can, then I have to turn away.
One of the fags whispers something to another fag and they both look over at Tim and laugh.
"Let's go to the bar," I suggest, signing the check the waiter must have set down when he brought the third Mai Tai.
"Whatever," he says, getting up quickly.
I'm pretty drunk now and I'm weaving through a courtyard unevenly, Tim at my side. In the bar, an old Hawaiian woman dressed in a flowered robe, her neck thick with leis, plays "Hawaiian Wedding Song" on a ukelele. There are a few couples sitting at some of the tables and two well-dressed women, maybe in their early thirties, sitting alone at the bar. I motion for Tim to follow me. We take the two stools next to the women in their early thirties. I lean toward Tim.
"Whaddya think?" I whisper, nudging him.
"About what?" he asks.
"Whaddya think I mean?" I ask.
"About what?" He looks at me irritably.
"Next to us. Them."
Tim looks over at the two women, flinches.
"What about them?"
Pausing, I stare at him, dumbfounded.
"Don't you go out with girls? What is this?" I'm still whispering.
"What?"
"Shhh. Don't you date? Go dating?" I ask.
"Sorority girls and stuff, but . . ." He shudders. "What are you asking me?"
The bartender comes over to us.
"I'll have a Mai Tai," I say, hoping I'm not slurring words. "What about you, Tim?" I ask, slapping him on the back.
"What about me?" Tim asks back.
"What-do-you-want-to-drink?"
"I don't know. A Mai Tai, I guess. Whatever," he says, confused.
One of the women, the taller one, with auburn hair, smiles at us.
"Odds look good," I say, nudging him. "The odds look pretty good."
"What odds? What are you talking about?" Tim asks.
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"Watch this." Leaning against the bar, I turn toward the two women.
"Well, ladies—what are you drinking tonight?" I ask.
The taller woman smiles at us and holds up a frosty pink glass and says, "Pahoehoes."
"Pahoehoes?" I ask, grinning.
"Yes," she says. "They're delicious."
"I don't believe this," I hear Tim mutter behind me.
"Bartender, sorry, er . . ." I peer at the smiling gray-haired Hawaiian as he brings over our Mai Tais, until his name tag comes into my line of vision, "Hiki, why don't you bring these two gorgeous ladies another round of . . ." I look at her, still grinning.
"Pahoehoes," she says, smiling lewdly.
"Pahoehoes," I tell Hiki.
"Yes sir, very good," Hiki says, moving off.
"Well, you two—you both look like you were on the beach today, catching some rays. Where are you from?" I ask one of them.
The one who responds takes a sip from her drink. "I'm Patty and this is Darlene and we're from Chicago." "Chicago?" I ask, leaning closer. "Is that right?"
"That's right," Patty says. "Where are you both from?"
"We're from L.A.," I tell her, the sound of a blender almost drowning me out.
"Oh, Los Angeles?" Darlene asks, looking us over.
"That's right," I say. "I'm Les Price and this is my son, Tim." I gesture toward Tim as if he's on display, his head bowed down. "He's, er, a little shy."
"Hi, Tim," Patty says carefully.
"Say hello, Tim," I urge.
Tim smiles politely.
"He goes to USC," I add, as if offering an explanation.
The woman playing the ukelele begins to sing "It Had to Be You" and I find myself swaying to the music.
"I have a niece out in L.A.," Darlene says, mildly excited. "She goes to Pepperdine. Ever hear of Pepperdine?" she asks Tim.
"Yes." He nods, looking into his Mai Tai.
"Her name is Norma Perry. Ever hear of Norma Perry? She's a sophomore?" Darlene asks Tim, sipping her Pahoehoe. "At Pepperdine?"
I look over at Tim, who is shaking his head, still looking into his drink, glassy-eyed. "No, I'm, um, afraid, um, not. . . ."
The three of us stare at Tim like he's some kind of blank, exotic creature, more stunned than we should be by how inarticulate he actually is. He keeps shaking his head slowly and it takes massive will on my part to turn away from him.
"Well, how long are you two ladies here?" I ask, taking a large gulp of Mai Tai.
"'Until Sunday," Patty says. She has so much jade on her wrist that I'm surprised she can lift her drink. "How about you two?"
"Until Saturday, Patty," I say.
"That's nice. Just the two of you?"
"That's right," I say, looking over at Tim good-naturedly.
"Isn't that nice, Darlene?" Patty asks Darlene, looking at Tim.
Darlene nods. "Father-son. It's nice." She finishes her Pahoehoe greedily and immediately sets upon the fresh one Hiki places in front of her.
"Well, I hope I'm not being too forward if I ask you this," I begin, leaning a little closer to Patty, who reeks of gardenias.
"I'm sure you won't be, Les," Patty says. Darlene giggles expectantly.
"Jesus," Tim mutters, finally taking a sip of his Mai Tai. I ignore the little bastard.
"What is it?" Darlene asks. "Les?"
"Who are you two ladies here with?" I ask, laughing a little. "That's it," Tim says, getting off the stool.
"We're here alone," Pattv says, looking over at Darlene. "All alone," Darlene adds.
"Can I have the keys to the room?" Tim asks, holding out his hand.
"Where are you going?" I ask, sobering up slightly. "To the room," he says. "Where do you think? Christ." "But you haven't even finished your drink," I say, pointing at the Mai Tai.
"I don't want the drink," he says evenly.
"Why not?" I ask, my voice rising.
"I'll drink it if he doesn't." Darlene laughs.
"Just give me the key," Tim says, exasperated.
"Well, I'll come with you," I tell him, standing there.
"No, no, no, you just stay here and enjoy yourself with Patty and Marlene."
"That's Darlene, honey," Darlene says behind me.
"Whatever," Tim says, his hand still held out.
I reach into my pocket for the key and hand it to him.
"Make sure to let me in," I tell him.
"Thank you," he says, backing off. "Darlene, Patty, it has been a ... um, uh. I'll see you later." He stalks out of the bar.
"What's wrong with him, Les?" Patty asks, her smile faltering.
"Problems at school," I say drunkenly. I reach for the Mai Tai, bringing it to my mouth, not drinking. "His mother."
I wake Tim early and tell him that we're going to play tennis before breakfast. Tim gets up easily, without protest, and takes a long shower. After he gets out I tell him to meet me down at the courts. When he gets there, fifteen, twenty minutes later, I decide that we should warm up, hit a few balls. I serve, slamming the ball forward. He misses it. I serve again, this time harder. He doesn't even try to hit it, ducking instead. I serve again. He misses it. He doesn't say anything. I serve again. He hits the ball back, grunting with exertion, the bright-yellow ball hurtling at me like some kind of fluorescent weapon. He tumbles forward.
"Not so hard, Dad."
"Hard? You call that hard?"
"Well, uh, yes.”
I serve again.
He doesn't say anything.
After I've won all four sets, I try to be sympathetic.
"Aw hell, you win some, you lose some."
Tim says, "Sure."
For some reason it's better on the beach. The ocean calms us, the sand comforts. We are polite to each other. We lie side by side on chaise longues beneath two short, wide palm trees in the sand. Tim reads a Stephen King paperback he picked up in the gift shop in the lobby and listens to his Walkman. I read Hawaii, every now and then looking up, concentrating on the sun's warmth, the sand's heat, the smell of rum and suntan lotion and salt. Darlene passes by and waves. I wave back. Tim lowers his sunglasses.
"You were pretty rude to them last night," I tell him.
Tim shrugs catatonically and pushes his sunglasses back up. I'm not sure he heard what I said, due to the Walkman, but he realized I spoke. It is impossible to know what he wants. Looking at Tim, one cannot help feeling great waves of uncertainty, an absence of aim, of purpose, as if he is a person who simply doesn't matter. Trying not to worry about it, I concentrate on the calm sea instead, the air. Two of the fags walk by in thin French briefs and sit by the open bar on the beach. Tim motions for suntan oil. I toss it to him. He rubs the lotion over tan, broad shoulders, then sits back, wiping his hands off on muscular calves. My eyes ache from reading small print. I blink a couple of times and ask Tim to get us a couple of drinks, a Mai Tai maybe or another rum and Coke. He doesn't hear me. I tap his arm. He jerks up suddenly and takes his Walkman off. It falls to the sand.
"Shit," he says, picking it up, inspecting it for sand or damage. Satisfied, he puts it back around his neck.
"What?" he asks.
"Why don't you get your dad and yourself a drink?"
He sighs, gets up. "What do you want?"
"Rum and Coke," I tell him.
"Okay." He pulls on a USC sweatshirt and walks listlessly toward the bar.
I fan myself with the copy of Hawaii and watch Tim walk away. Once at the bar, he stands there, not trying to get the bartender's attention, waiting for the bartender to notice him. One of the fags says something to Tim. I sit up a little. Tim laughs and says something back. And then I notice the girl.
She's young, Tim's age, maybe older, and she's tan, with long blond hair, and she's walking slowly along the shore, oblivious to the waves breaking at her feet, and soon she's moving toward the bar and as she moves closer I can make out her face, barely—brown, placid, eyes wide, unblinking even with the brightness of an after
noon sun that is total and complete. She moves languorously, sensually, to the bar, next to Tim. Tim is still waiting for the drinks, daydreaming. The girl says something to him. Tim looks at her and smiles and the bartender hands him a drink. Tim stands there, they talk briefly. She asks him something as Tim begins to walk toward me. He looks back at her and nods, then jogs away, almost tripping. He stops and looks back, then laughs to himself and walks over and hands me the drink.
"Met a girl from San Diego," he says absently, removing the USC sweatshirt.
I smile and nod and lie there with the drink, which is clear and bubbly and not what I ordered, and when I close my eyes I pretend that when I open them, when I look up, Tim will be standing in front of me, motioning me to join him in the water where we will talk about minor things but he's spoiled and I don't care and ignore him and to ask forgiveness is pretending. I open my eyes. Tim dives into a breaker with the girl from San Diego. A Frisbee lands on the sand next to my feet. I spot a lizard.
Later, after the beach, we are both in the bathroom, getting ready for dinner. Tim has a towel wrapped around his waist and is shaving. I'm at the other sink, washing suntan oil off my face before a shower. Tim takes the towel off, unselfconsciously, and wipes lather off his jaw.
"Is it okay if Rachel comes to dinner with us?" he asks. I look over at him. "Sure. Why not."
"Great," he says, leaving the bathroom.
"She's from San Diego, you said?" I ask, drying my face. "Yeah. She goes to UC San Diego."
"Who is she here with?"
"Her parents."
"Well, won't they want to have dinner with her tonight?"
"They're in Hilo for the night," he says, underwear on, searching for a shirt. "Some business her stepfather's involved with."
"You like her?"
"Yeah." Tim studies a plain white shirt as if it is a book of answers. "I guess."
"You guess? You were with her all afternoon."
After a shower, I walk into the bedroom and over to the closet. Tim seems happier and I'm glad he's met this girl, relieved that there will be someone else with us at dinner. I put on a linen suit and pour myself a drink from the minibar and sit on the bed, watching Tim put gel in his hair, greasing it.
"Are you glad you came?" I ask.
"Sure," he says, too evenly.
"I thought maybe you didn't want to come."