This was the way it was going to have to be, Oliver realized. Talk wasn't going to do it. A counselor wouldn't work. This was their language.
He pulled up her skirt and curved his right hand between her legs. His left hand reached up under her head and took a fistful of hair. He pulled her head down, immobilizing it, and rubbed slowly with his right hand. Her shoulders strained upward twice in resistance or surprise. Oliver held her head back and continued to rub.
Jacky adjusted quickly. She pushed up against his hand. "Take them off," she said. Oliver rolled sideways without letting go of her hair. He pulled her panties down, and she bent her knees. He slid them over her feet and then moved back on top of her. "Give it to me," she said.
Oliver entered her, slowly and deeply until she was pinned to the bed. She made a small gurgling noise. He withdrew and then pushed into her again. "Oliver?" He increased the pressure on her hair and went on fucking her silently and slowly. "Oliver?" He didn't trust himself to speak. He was afraid to speak. She would regain control, somehow. "Ohh," she groaned. "Sweet?" The question in her voice was increasing, changing to doubt. His intensity strengthened, feeding on her doubt.
He kept an impersonal rhythm, driving her into the bed with each stroke, holding his grip on her hair. "Baby," she said. "Fuck me." She began to writhe beneath him, meeting him, trying to draw him on. Oliver refused to hurry. "Oliver?" She was pleading, now. Deeply in. Slowly out.
Jacky began to strike him in the back. She made angry sounds. Her fists drummed on his back. I—am—in—control, he said to himself. "Damn you!" she exhaled. She stopped hitting him. "All right. All right." She went limp.
Oliver continued without varying. She gave up. Her hands went to his back and her body molded to his. Her breath began to whistle on each exhale as he drove into her. She came with a sudden release and a series of falling sighs. Her hands fell back on the bed.
Oliver released his grip on her hair and cradled her cheeks in both hands. He kissed her for the first time. Holding her lips softly under his, he began to move faster. Her hands went to his shoulder blades. Her tongue touched lightly in and out of his mouth. In a minute, he was done. She stroked his back.
"Oliver?"
He was off her and dressing.
"Oliver, please . . ." She sat up, uncertain. He saw the little girl in the strong woman. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn't trust himself not to give in. She would control him forever. It wasn't her fault; it was just the way she was. Arlen's words came to him.
"It's not your fault," Oliver said. "It's not anybody's fault. You are wonderful, Jacky. Queen of crab cakes. The greatest fuck in the western world. But—I've changed. It won't work." He shook his head. "I wish it could."
"Why did you come?" She reddened. "Well, go then!" She looked around and picked up a book from the table next to the bed. "Go!" She threw it at him. He ducked sideways and walked downstairs. She followed him, shouting "Go!" As he went out the front door, a glass shattered against a wall. "Getoutof here!" The other glass smashed and he heard her begin to cry.
The Jeep started and he was on the road again.
8.
Oliver drove a mile and stopped, ears buzzing from wine and the violent emotion. He saw Jacky again, sitting up on the bed, one hand across her heart, and he felt a stab of pain and longing. It wasn't too late to turn around. They could put the pieces back together; he could serve her, and she would take care of him. Why not? What else was he going to do? He searched around in the glove compartment and found a Willy Nelson tape. Might as well have the real thing.On the road again . . .Shit. He pounded the steering wheel once and kept going.
Philadelphia. He made it past the city and began to wear down. He didn't need to hurry—Arlen wasn't expecting him home for a couple of days. He turned off the highway and stopped at a motel. He put his bag on a chair and lay down for a moment. Had he done the right thing? Or was he just running away from commitment? He was in a bind. He couldn't stay in a submissive relationship with Jacky, but the more powerful that he felt as an individual, the lonelier he became and the more he wanted her—or someone.
Pie. At least there was pie. Somewhere. He drove down the road until he came to a diner. Two state cops were drinking coffee at one end of the counter. A truck driver and three construction workers sat at the other end. Oliver sat between the two groups and sank further into his feelings. Thirty-five and what did he have to show for it? Six thousand dollars and a cat. An old Jeep.
He finished his apple pie and watched the double doors to the kitchen swing shut behind the waitress. The swinging doors dissolved into dark water. He saw Owl overboard, holding his head above the waves. "Find your father," Owl said. Oliver's eyes opened wide. Owlhadsaid that once. "Someday, you should find your father."
Oliver thought hard. He had to do something. It was good advice. He made up his mind to try.
"More coffee?"
"Uh—yes. Please."
Oliver took a deep breath and peeled the top from a creamer. He poured the liquid into his coffee and watched white swirls turn the black to brown. Owl had done his best for him. He had acknowledged their difference without really talking about it. He hadn't tried to be everything to him. Tears came to Oliver's eyes. He stared straight ahead and let them slide down his cheeks. Wiping them away would have been disrespectful.
No one seemed to notice.
Oliver returned to the motel and slept twelve hours. The next day he considered stopping in New Haven, but he decided to drive straight through to Portland. His mother had not been in contact with his father, Muni, since she had left Hawaii. She wouldn't know any more than what she'd already told him. The Nakano's had owned a small hotel in Honolulu. Muni's brother, Ken, was a teacher. Muni had been a student at the University. That was it. His mother had split soon after she learned that she was pregnant. According to her, Muni had wanted to marry, but she knew it wouldn't work.
Not a lot to go on, but it would have to do.
"Welcome back, Oliver. You're home early," Arlen said.
"Don't get used to it. I'm going to Hawaii." Arlen's jaw dropped."Don't worry," Oliver said. "I'm not going to stick you with Verdi.Thanks very much for taking care of him, by the way. We just had achat. He says you're a nice man and you have some Laphroiag left."
"You can't tell a cat anything, these days," Arlen said. "It's not quite cocktail hour, but I suppose it's close enough."
"Just a drop," Oliver said.
They sat near the birds. "Perseverance furthers," Oliver toasted."That's from theI Ching."
"Ninety percent of success is showing up," Arlen answered. "WoodyAllen."
"It's true, isn't it," Oliver said. "You just have to keep at it. What was your father like, Arlen, when you were a kid?"
"Very much as he is now," Arlen said. "Early to bed, early to rise. We had a dairy farm near Unity. We didn't have a lot of money, but we always had clothes and whatever we needed for school. If we wanted extra, we had to work for it. He still has the farm, but he sold the herd after Mother died." Arlen's eyebrows raised with the memory, then settled. "He's hung on, doing a little of this and a little of that, getting by with social security. He sold a small piece of land three years ago. He keeps saying he's going to sell out and move to Florida, but he doesn't get around to it."
"Good for him. I never met my father. That's why I'm going toHawaii—to see if I can find him."
"Oh," Arlen said. "Well. It's a long flight. But there's no place likeHawaii. I usually stay over on the west coast, break the trip in two.The jet lag isn't so bad that way, and the flight isn't such an ordeal."
"Not a bad idea."
"San Francisco is wonderful, of course. Seattle and Portland are nice. There's a marvelous Japanese garden in Portland, high on a hill overlooking the city."
"I'll think about that. I'm not sure when I'll be going or how longI'll be. Depends on when I can get a cheap ticket and what happens."
"I would stay at least a week or two. You might as well make a trip of it while you're at it."
"I'll call one of those professional cat-sitter people—unless you know someone who might want to live here for a couple of weeks?"
Arlen rubbed one of his cowboy boots. "Porter might like that. His situation at the moment is—tenuous."
"Porter?"
"I'll ask him if you like," Arlen said. "He might be up for some peace and quiet. Porter is trustworthy."
"Any friend of yours . . ."
"I'll ask," Arlen said.
"O.K., thanks." Oliver sipped whiskey. "My stepfather was a good guy.He drowned—nearly twenty years ago."
"I'm sorry. Fathers can be bad, too, you know."
"I guess I'll just have to find out. Bound to learn something, either way."
"A drop more?"
"Sure."
"Fathers, then," Arlen toasted. "I remember when I told mine that I was gay. I was pretty nervous."
"What happened?"
"He rubbed his chin with both hands in a way he had when he was thinking. He said: 'They say people are wired that way or they choose that way. I think you're wired that way.'
"'I am,' I said. 'But I choose it, too.' I didn't want him thinking I was sorry for myself. My father pointed across the valley.
"'Louis, over there—he's got six boys been chasing everything in skirts since they were big enough to sit on a tractor. I wouldn't trade you for two of them.'
"'Two!' I said. 'Three, anyway.'
"'He'd be getting a deal at three,' my father said." Arlen smiled and lifted his glass in the general direction of his father.
"All right!" Oliver said.
That week, Oliver bought a round trip ticket to Portland, Oregon and a seven day Hawaiian vacation package that left from Portland. Porter would be glad to stay in the apartment and cat-sit, Arlen informed him. The three met for lunch in the Old Port. Porter was round and jovial, balding with a small spade shaped beard and one gold earring. He was a baker. His fists bunched like hard rolls when he wasn't eating or telling jokes. Oliver was well satisfied with him.
Oliver took to walking on Crescent Beach early in the morning. It was cold, foggy sometimes, but always refreshing. He walked the upper path that led through woods and across a field to a rocky shoreline. From there, the path turned eastward, following the shore to the beach and to the main parking lot, closed at that time of year. One morning he noticed an unusual arrangement of sticks and rocks near the beginning of the beach. The sticks were jammed into the sand at odd angles. Small rocks were piled to suggest barricades. It was like a kid's fort but more sophisticated.
The next morning, the fort had become a small town with a watchtower at its center. Two days later, there was only a low wall protecting a woven matting of driftwood sticks. Oliver imagined an art student practicing, seeing what things looked like as he or she made them.
On Sunday, Oliver had breakfast at six. The park was empty when he arrived. The leaves were damp and thick on the ground except for a few coppery oak leaves, always the last to fall. Tough stuff, oak, Oliver thought. He stopped to look for the latest sculpture. At first, he saw only random driftwood. It was as though a storm at high tide had leveled all traces of beach-goers. It was a loss. He had begun to connect with the anonymous arrangements; he looked forward to seeing them.
His attention was drawn to a protected spot below an eroded bank. Beach grass hung forward over the edge of the bank. A semicircle of thin flat stones stood upright in the sand. Oliver approached. They stood like Easter Island miniatures, thin sides facing the ocean. Oliver's imagination shrunk and stood on the stand looking up at them. Just then, the sun rose. Golden light swept over the ocean, up the beach, caught in the overhanging bank, and leaped on across the continent. The stone people were the first to see it.
"Oliver?"
He jumped. Someone had come along the path. Francesca! "Oh, hi!" he said. "You scared me. Look at this." He motioned her over and pointed. "The Early People—they've been waiting for the sun."
"So have I," Francesca said. She was wearing tan jeans and a long gray sweatshirt. "Brrr."
"Somebody keeps making sculptures here," Oliver said. "I started noticing them this week."
"Do you come here often?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"I try to walk here on Sunday mornings. Conor takes care of the girls, and I get some time to myself."
"It's so beautiful, here. Any time of year," Oliver said. Francesca bent over.
"Cute," she said. "Did you see the little ones?" She put a finger in the sand behind one of the Early People. There were three very much smaller stones imitating their elders.
"Pretty good," Oliver said. "I didn't see them."
Francesca straightened. "Let's walk."
Oliver fell into step beside her.
"I haven't seen you in ages," she said.
"I know. How are the girls?"
"Maria has an earache, but it's getting better. They're fine." She gave him an encouraging look.
"I made something for you—a present."
"Oooo . . ."
"I was going to mail it, but I didn't want to embarrass you."
"It's been a long time since I was embarrassed."
"It's a valentine."
"Now I'm really curious," she said. What am I doing? he asked himself. Too late now. Francesca rubbed the end of her nose with her palm. "You could bring it to me next Sunday."
"Yes. Oh, damn! I'm leaving on Thursday; I won't be here."
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to Hawaii. I'm going to try and find my father. I've never met him. He's Japanese. I am too, I guess. Half."
"Caramba!" Francesca said.
"So I can't be here, Sunday. I wish . . ."
"Mail it," she said. "I could use a valentine."
"O.K. Will just 'Cape Elizabeth' get to you?"
"Old Toll Road, 420," she said. A lobster boat started its engine in the distance.
"How tall are you?" Oliver asked.
"Six feet, even."
"I'm five, two. Funny thing is—I don't feel short around you. I did when I first saw you in Becky's, but now I don't." A quick smile crossed her face. She turned her head toward the water.
"Careful," she said quietly. He barely heard her. "When will you be back?" she asked more loudly.
"Don't know. Couple of weeks, I think. Maybe I'll see you out here?"
"Until the snow gets too deep," she said.
"I'll see you, then," Oliver said, stopping. "I'll leave you to your peace and quiet."
"Be safe," she said. Oliver waved and walked back the way they had come. The sun was clear of the horizon, promising warmth.
"Yes!" he said. The Early People had an air of being off duty. They had waited for the sun, welcomed it, and were now free to enjoy it.
9.
Oliver changed planes in Chicago and landed in Oregon at one o'clock,Pacific time. "Funny thing," he said to a cab driver. "I always thoughtPortland was on the ocean. It's a river port."
"The Columbia," the driver said. "Where you from?"
"The other Portland—in Maine."
"Back east. I'm from Worcester, Mass, myself. Long time ago."
"You like it out here?"
"It's all right. Beats shoveling snow."
"It feels a lot milder," Oliver said. "We could get snow anytime inMaine."
"Friggin snow," the driver said. "Here you go."
"You want to wait a couple of minutes—off the meter? I'll need another ride."
"Where to?"
"There's supposed to be a big Japanese garden up on a hill. . ."
"I'll wait."
"Be right out." Oliver checked in, left his bag in his room, and came out feeling light-footed. He had a map in one pocket of his bush jacket. He unfolded it in the cab. "So—where is it?"
"Washington Park, Kingston Avenue."
"I see it. Great. Let's go." They drove into the city and climbed through a residential district. The driver stopped at the entrance to the garden.
"You can get a bus downtown on that corner over there," he said, pointing.
"Thanks." The cab rolled away down the hill. It was quiet. The neighborhood trees and hedges were lush. A layer of cloud imparted a soft gray tone to the buildings and the streets stretched out below.
Oliver entered the park and strolled along paths that were nearly deserted. He walked up and down through trees, past tiny ponds, mossy rock faces, handmade bamboo fountains, patches of flowers, and unexpected views. The effect was both wild and intensely cultivated. The garden was an homage to nature, a carefully tended frame within which blossoms fell and birds flitted in their own time.
A light drizzle began to fall. Oliver sat on his heels, warm enough in his jacket and his canvas hat. The live silence of the garden gradually entered him, replacing an inner deafness. When he stood, his knees were stiff, but he had become otherwise more flexible. His plans were not so important—they mattered, but not to the exclusion of what was around him.
He caught a bus downtown and wandered through an area of mixed industry, galleries, and restaurants. He spent time in a leather shop that sold skins and hides. Oliver had never seen an elk hide. He bought a rattlesnake skin, five feet long, that had intricate brown and black diamond-shaped markings. The clerk rolled it in a tight coil and put a rubber band around it.
Oliver ate in a Japanese restaurant. A scroll hung in an illuminated recess at one end of the room. The characters were bold, the brush strokes fresh and immediate. Stringed music twanged of duty, consequence, and the inevitable flow of time. The waitress, middle-aged and respectful, brought him dinner with a minimum of talk. Oliver ate slowly, feeling no need for conversation. Hewasconversing, he realized, with each move of his chopsticks, each glance around the room.
The cab ride and the hotel seemed loud in comparison. He turned the TV on and turned it off. It was better to lie in bed and revisit the garden. Tomorrow was coming. Another long flight.
In the morning, Oliver's spirits rose as the jet cleared the coast, high above the ocean. "Here we go," he said to the slim woman seated next to him. She smiled and resumed reading what appeared to be a textbook. He had a glass of Chardonnay with lunch, but he was too wide awake to sleep afterwards. The plane passed above slabs of cloud and intermittent vistas of empty ocean. Once, a jet slid by below them, several miles away, flying in the opposite direction.
Hours later, as they descended toward the islands, a general excitement spread through the plane and the student became talkative. "There is tourist Hawaii," she said, "and military Hawaii, and everywhere else—the real Hawaii."
"I'm staying in Waikiki," Oliver said. "I guess that's tourist Hawaii."
"Yes," she said. "But the buses are good. You can get out, go around the island."
"I will. I'm going to try and look up family I've never met."
"Where do they live?" Oliver had found a listing for Kenso Nakano in a phone book at the airport.
"Alewa Heights," he said.
She laughed. "Ah—LEV—Ah . . . That's the real Hawaii."
"Look at that!" The plane was banking over a large crater with a grassy center and steep green sides.
"Diamond Head," she said. She wiped away a tear.
"Diamond Head? I didn't know it was a crater. I never saw a crater before."
"It nice and green, this time year," she said in a different voice, intense and musical. The tires jerked and the plane slowed with a rush of engines. They taxied to the terminal. Passengers unlatched overhead bins and waited in the aisle for the door to open.
"Goodbye," Oliver said to the woman.
"Aloha," she said, "good luck, huh."
"Aloha," Oliver said, for the first time without irony. The word felt good in his mouth.
He stepped through the door into a perfume of flowers and burnt jet fuel. White clouds ballooned over green mountain ridges. Heat waves eddied on the tarmac. The passengers moved quickly into the terminal and dispersed.
A young woman with brown skin and black hair, dressed in shorts and halter top, held a sign that read: Polynesian Paradise Adventures. She put a lei around Oliver's neck and directed him to a bus where he waited half an hour while other vacationers collected their luggage and boarded in small groups. The flowers in his lei were white with yellow centers. They had the same sweet smell that had greeted him at the airplane door. "Plumeria," the hostess told him.
The bus passed through an industrial area and then along the shore by several blocks of downtown business buildings, a marina, a park, and a large shopping mall. They entered an avenue congested with high-rise hotels and condominiums. "Waikiki," the hostess announced. The bus stopped in front of a nondescript hotel, and the hostess wished them a good vacation. "You have your discount coupons," she said.
"Where's the beach?" someone called.
"Over there." She pointed across an avenue choked with cars, taxis, and buses. "Two blocks."
Oliver's room was spare. The walls were made of concrete blocks painted a light aqua color. Sliding glass doors opened on a tiny porch. He went out and sat in a white plastic lawn chair for a moment. He was on the tenth floor, overlooking a side street. There was a building directly in front of him and more buildings in the direction of the beach. In the other direction, he could see a strip of mountain and what appeared to be a canal a few blocks away. It wasn't Paradise, and it wasn't particularly Polynesian, though there were palm trees by the canal.
The map that he had been given showed tourist attractions and how to get to them. He bought a decent map in the lobby and walked over to Kalakaua Avenue and down to the beach. It was a pretty beach, a gentle crescent that curved along a green park. In the other direction, back the way he had come, the sand fronted a strip of hotels. The waves were quiet, though larger than they had been in Atlantic City. Diamond Head guarded the far end of the beach. He felt differently about the postcard view now that he knew its secret. There's a crater in there.
He took off his shoes and socks and walked to the Diamond Head end of the beach, turning back at a small cluster of expensive houses and condominiums. The sand underfoot made him feel like a little kid. He retraced his steps and stopped by the first hotel that he reached on the beach side of Kalakaua. It was older than the others. A huge tree shaded a polygonal bar and a courtyard paved with stone. He ordered a Glenlivet.
"Some tree! What kind is it?"
"Banyan," the bartender said.
"Oh." Hanging roots, dense green leaves, and thick nearly horizontal branches created an inviting world. Oliver imagined a tree house. He took a table in the shade and looked out over the ocean. Maybe he should just be a tourist and forget the whole thing. He'd gotten along without his father this long; what difference would it make to meet him now? He didn't know. That was the problem. That was why he had to look up Kenso Nakano—Ken—on Alewa Heights. Chances were good that Ken was his uncle.
Oliver rolled the whiskey around in his glass. A very tall man in shorts trudged past on the sand. He was a foot taller than a tall man. Long legs held his upper body high in the air. Like a heron, Oliver thought. Holy shit! Wilt Chamberlain! Wilt looked patient, proud, and tired. A sports king, still holding his head up. He scored a hundred points once. No one could takethataway from him. A familiar pang squeezed Oliver. The nothing pang. What have you done? Nothing.
Scotch trickled down Oliver's throat. Wilt kept a steady pace down the beach. Oliver thought of getting a ticket to another world—the Philippines, say—and disappearing. He could go to a village on a remote island and live until he ran out of money. It would be perfect for a while, and then, to hell with it, he would get kidnapped or lost in the jungle; it wouldn't matter.
No use. A force inside him would not let go. His spirit assumed a stone face. Forward.
He awoke the next morning at 4 a.m., out of synch from jet lag. Half an hour later he gave up trying to get back to sleep. He dressed and walked toward the shopping mall, stopping at a Tops Restaurant busy with cab drivers, early risers, and night owls winding down. He had half a papaya, served with a piece of lemon. Delicious. Eggs came with two scoops of rice. Eggs and rice? Not bad. Full daylight came as he finished a second cup of coffee and looked at his map.
Alewa Heights was on the other side of the city. He could find a bus that would get him close, no doubt, but it was early to be visiting. Should he call? No. That was too much of a commitment. He wanted to walk to the address and see how he felt when he got there, leaving open the chance for a last-minute escape.
He decided to wait a day. Look up Kenso Nakano tomorrow, he told himself. He walked back to the hotel by a different route and fell asleep easily.
Later that morning, he walked to Tops again and on to the Ala Moana Shopping Center. Acres of parking lot surrounded two decks of stores—mainland chains and local names. There were fountains and sculptures, a mix of tourists and islanders, and, at one end, a Japanese department store named, "Shirokya." He spent an hour in Shirokya admiring the packaging and design, listening to Japanese music, and feeling proud of the evident care taken with details.If you're going to do something, do it well.
He crossed Ala Moana Boulevard to the yacht harbor where rows of large sailboats were moored behind a stone breakwater. "Salty boats," he said to a guy who was smoking at the end of a long dock.
"Better be. It's a mile deep right out there." He looked down atOliver, amused. Oliver was evidently too short for the Pacific.
He spent the rest of the day poking around Waikiki and considering his visit to Kenso Nakano. The next morning, he caught a bus to the other side of the city.
He walked up Alewa Drive in bright sunshine, enjoying the view of the city and the ocean which grew in immensity as he climbed. The higher he got, the more vast the ocean became and the smaller the island, until he began to sense that he was standing on a happy accident, a green miracle in a marine world. The planes taking off from the airport below him looked puny. It was an added pleasure to turn away from the Pacific to the street, to the plumeria, the bougainvillea, and the different shades of green. Doves called. There was little traffic.
The street bent higher around a switchback curve. A pickup was parked in front of a wall and a gate which bore the number Oliver was seeking. Two heavyset men wearing shorts, T-shirts, and baseball caps were easing a boulder from the truck bed onto an impromptu ramp of two-by-sixes. A woman with trim graying hair and tanned cheeks watched. The planks sagged ominously.
"She hold?"
"Plenty strong."
"Damn—stuck. Excuse me, Mrs. Nakano."
"I've heard worse," she said. Oliver approached and braced one shoulder against the rock.
"What is this?" one man said. "Who you?"
"Superman," Oliver said.
"You shrunk." There was a cracking noise from one of the planks. "Watch it!" The other man got both hands under one edge of the boulder, bent his knees, and heaved. The boulder rocked and began to slide down the planks. They bowed farther but held as the three of them guided the boulder to the street.
"One good moss-rock, Mrs. Nakano. Kind of small, though."
"I know you guys like a challenge," she said.
"Where you want it?"
She pointed through the gate.
"We better do it. This start down the road, it end up in somebody's living room." They walked the boulder through the gate and to one end of a flower bed. It took three of them to move it without using crowbars; Oliver helped until it was in place.
"Hard to find a good moss-rock these days," Mrs. Nakano said. "How about a soda?"
"Too early for anything else," one said. "Sure."
"Thank you so much for helping," she said to Oliver. "Are you thirsty?"
"Yes. I was looking for you. I think. Actually, I'm looking for MuniNakano who has a brother—Ken?"
"Oh," she said. "Muni is my brother-in-law."
"My name is Oliver, Oliver Prescott."
"How do you do, Oliver. This is Jimmy. This is Kapono." The others nodded, and she went inside.
"Superman without a license—serious offense," Jimmy said.
"Batman worse," Kapono said.
"Still—he pretty strong for a midget."
Oliver grinned and brushed the dirt off his hands. There were times tokeep your mouth shut. Mrs. Nakano returned and handed out cans ofPepsi. "This was good of you guys." She turned to Oliver. "I'm sorry.Ken is on a trip. Can I help you?"
"Oh." Oliver thought. "I need to find Muni."
"Ken will be back the day after tomorrow. He is coming in tomorrow night—late."
"I'll call on the phone, then, the day after tomorrow? Maybe around nine in the morning?"
"That will be fine."
"Thanks," Oliver said. He drained his soda and gave the can back toMrs. Nakano. "Good," he said. He waved and started out the gate.
"You want a ride down the hill?" Jimmy asked.
"No need," Oliver said.
"He fly," Kapono said.
When Oliver got back to Waikiki, he had lunch at the banyan bar and thought about what had happened. Mrs. Nakano was nice. The moss-rock delivery duo had been most respectful. The house was in an upscale neighborhood. Ken Nakano was well established, for sure. You couldn't tell much from the house; like the other houses near it, the side facing the street was simple, almost anonymous. What was individual was out of sight. He was glad that he hadn't given Mrs. Nakano his middle name. Who knows what Jimmy and Kapono would have thought? They were pretty sharp.
The following day, he took TheBus around most of the island. That's what it said in big letters on the side: "TheBus." Mountains three thousand feet high separated the leeward and windward sides. The windward side was cooler, breezier, and less touristy. Steep sharp ridges radiated out to a coastal plain. Deep valleys disappeared into mysterious shade, wilder than he would have thought, so close to a city. TheBus returned across a central highland between two mountain groups. They passed a pineapple plantation, long rows of spiky bushes in red dirt, and a military base, Schofield Barracks. Pearl Harbor spread out before them—large, calm, and silver, warships moored at docks, small boats moving about. Then they were back in traffic, back in the city. He got out at the shopping center and walked to Waikiki.
It had been cloudy most of the day. The wind had begun to blow hard. Gusts caught the hair of young women and whipped ebony parabolas three feet over their heads. The women turned their heads like wild mustangs, laughing—counterpoint to their Asian composure and perfect make-up. This is it, Oliver thought. I could die right here. I'll never see anything more beautiful.
He ate dinner in a Thai restaurant. His waitress was another knockout. Across the room, someone who looked like Gomer Pyle was eating and joking. ItwasGomer Pyle—Jim Nabors. Wilt. Gomer. Gorgeous women. Oliver began to feel that this was the way things should be, that it was his due. He was Oliver. He had family on Alewa Heights, he was sure of it. Tomorrow would tell.
At nine the next morning, Oliver called the Nakano's number.
"Hello?" A quiet male voice. Island.
"Hello, this is Oliver Prescott. Are you Ken?"
"Yes."
"I'm trying to find Muni."
"Michiko told me you helped with the moss-rock."
"Not much. Those guys were pretty big . . ."
"They my football coaches, phys-ed teachers," Ken said.
"Aha."
"Do you have business with my brother?"
"Not business, exactly. My mother knew him a long time ago. Did he ever mention Dior Del'Unzio?"
"Mmmm . . ." Silence. "Thatwasa long time ago."
"My middle name is Muni. My mother told me that Muni was my father and that he had a brother named Ken. I think you are my uncle." Ken made a sound deep in his throat.
"Mmmm . . . What year were you born? Do you have identification?"
"1958. Yes, I have I.D."
"Mmmm . . . Muni lives in Japan, but he is in California, now. I will try and contact him. I will give him your number."
"Thank you." Oliver gave him the hotel and room number and the name of the hotel in Eugene where he would be staying for a few days the following week. "I live in Maine. He could reach me there, after that." He gave Ken the address.
"I'll see what I can do," Ken said.
"Thank you."
"It may take a while. Muni unpredictable sometimes."
"I'll wait," Oliver said.
"O.K. . . . Maybe we get together sometime."
"I'd like that," Oliver said.
When Ken hung up, Oliver felt truly disconnected. Ken had sounded like a decent guy. Made sense, with a wife like that. My coaches . . . He must be a principal or a superintendent in the school system. Having finally made contact, Oliver wanted more.
But no one called the next day. Or the next. Oliver thought about visiting another island, but he didn't want to be away from the hotel that long. He couldn't sit by the phone for four days, so he explored the city, checking back for messages at least once during the day.
Honolulu was interesting. With the exception of Waikiki and the downtown district, it was a residential city. There were distinctly different neighborhoods in each of the narrow valleys that stretched two and three miles back into the mountains. Other areas, like Alewa Heights, were built on the faces of the ridges; at night their lights reached with sparkling fingers high into the dark. He found formal gardens, temples, and a red light district with hustlers of every race and description. He found a dirt alley with mud puddles, wandering chickens, barefoot children, and a grandmother with two gold teeth. He discovered small factories and, incredibly, in the middle of the city, a watercress farm.
He readThe Advertiserevery morning in Tops. He got to know the city as well as he could in a few days. But no one called.
At the end of the week, he took a city bus to the airport, preferring not to travel with the vacation group. He was sad when he boarded the plane. He sat next to the small oval window and buckled his seat belt. The buckle clicked together with a finality that seemed to say: that's it; you did what you could.
The tour package had originated in Eugene. Oliver had chosen to return there instead of Portland. The cost was the same, and he could see another part of Oregon. He slept most of the way to the mainland. As he rode to his hotel in a light rain, shivering a bit, he thought, Hawaii made me soft. Good place, though. "Aloha," he said, thinking of Ken and Michiko.
10.
The hotel registration clerk reached under the counter. "Message for you, Mr. Prescott." He handed Oliver an envelope.
"Thanks." Oliver took his bag to his room and sat on the bed.
Message for: Oliver Prescott
Received by: Jack
Time: 2:15 p.m.
Oliver—I have heard from my brother, Ken. I will be at The Devil's Churn parking area, tomorrow, Monday, at 10:30 in the morning. Route 101 on the coast, 20 miles north of Florence. Muni
Where the hell was that? He would have to rent a car. How far was it? Oliver's heart raced. He went back to the lobby and borrowed a map from the desk clerk. Florence seemed about two hours away.
"Could I drive to here in two hours?" He pointed out the location.
"No problem."
Oliver went back to the airport and rented a car. He could leave earlyfrom the hotel, stop for breakfast on the way, and have plenty of time.He was still functioning on Hawaiian time; he stayed up late, watchedTV, and wondered about his father. Unpredictable, Ken said.
In the morning, it rained off and on as he drove over the coastal range. The road curved and swooped through steep-sided valleys. Douglas Firs grew straight and pointed on every slope; their branches trembled with moisture; the light was luminous. There was an occasional burst of dazzling sun and then the clouds rolled in again. Logging trucks owned the road. Only a few smaller roads met the highway. What would life be like ten miles to the left or right? A gas station? A tavern? Another world.
The coastal highway was wide open, almost barren in comparison to the lush woods. Rain swept in from the ocean. A TV forecaster in a truck stop spoke of the first winter storm. Lucky Oliver. The windshield wipers worked well, though, and the rain let up as he eased into a parking area on a rocky headland. The Devil's Churn. No one else was there. It was 10:05. He put his head back and closed his eyes. Francesca came into his mind, tall and calm, and he wished she were there so that he could introduce her to his father. He had an urge to start the car, to leave quickly. Francesca looked sorrowful. "O.K.," he said. Shewasthere, in a way. A car much like his turned off the highway.
A short man wearing black pressed pants and a gray windbreaker approached his car. He was wearing a baseball cap that said, "San Francisco Giants." Oliver got out. The man approached and looked at him closely. He was clean-shaven, darker than Oliver, thinner, and more severe. They were the same height.
"You early," his father said.
"You, too." Oliver smiled.
"Come." He turned and motioned with his hand toward a set of wooden steps that led to the rocks below. Oliver followed him to the steps and down. Near the bottom, the steps were damp and slippery. A sign warned them not to go farther:Danger! Large Waves Come Without Warning!His father ignored the sign and walked to the edge of a deep fissure in the dark rock. It was twenty feet wide and thirty yards long, narrowing as it approached a circular grotto eroded into the base of the cliff.
Farther out, a wave broke and raced up the fissure like a suicide express. Water slammed between the rocky edges, wild and frothing, seething, lurching, hissing, and sucking. Gradually, it receded. Oliver's father pointed to the other side and walked to the end of the fissure where they could look down into the round pool that had been scoured into the rock. Shiny polished stones waited in its bottom for the next wave.
His father continued around the pool and then along the opposite edge on a path six inches wide. The rain had started again. Oliver followed across a steep bank of short wet grass. The next train roared in, just a few feet below them. He was terrified. If he slipped, there was nothing to grab. Anyone who fell in would be torn apart in seconds; there was no chance of surviving the furious water. There was a malevolent feeling to the place. Bad things happened here.
His father walked steadily on. Oliver dropped to his hands and knees and crawled to the end of the path, trying not to look to his left. He scrambled down to a rocky shingle near the mouth of the fissure. His father waited, watching him. Oliver stood up, swallowed, and wiped mud off his hands. "Scary place," he said.
"You not scared there, you an idiot," his father said.
"Shit," Oliver said.
"What's the matter?"
"I just realized that we've got to go back the same way."
"How is your mother?"
"She's fine. She gave me your name—Oliver Muni Prescott."
"Ah," Muni said. "I am glad she is well. She was a beautiful woman.Smart, too. Didn't stick around to marry me."
"She married Owl Prescott, an English professor. They had a girl,Amanda. Owl died. Then she married a guy named Paul Peroni from NewHaven, a good guy, a marble worker." Oliver paused. "Ken told me thatyou live in Japan."
"Near Kamakura. We have a son and a daughter, grown up, not quite your age. You are—35."
"Yes," Oliver said.
"You married?"
"I was. For four years."
"You have children?"
"No."
"Mmmm . . ."
"Large waves come without warning," Oliver said, looking out at the gray ocean.
"Beautiful here," his father said. Oliver nodded. For the first time, a suggestion of a smile crossed his father's face as he waved at the wild shore guarded by The Devil's Churn. "Most don't get this far. What kind of work you do?"
"I program computers. Used to teach math. I like to make things out of wood sometimes." That seemed to sum it up. Not a very big sum, Oliver thought.
"You know George Nakashima? Made furniture?"
"No."
"Mmmm . . . He lived in Pennsylvania, died two, three years ago." His father reached inside his jacket and handed Oliver an envelope. "This yours," he said.
"What is it?"
"Small present. Maybe it help."
Oliver folded the envelope and put it in a safe pocket. "Thank you," he said. "But, you don't need to give me anything."
"You only as rich as what you give away."
They stood, not minding the rain. "What are you doing in the States?"Oliver asked.
"Teaching one seminar at the University of California, Berkeley. I go back, now." He turned toward the path.
"Teach?"
"Architecture. Japanese kind." His father climbed up onto the path and walked along the edge, not hurrying, not hesitating. Oliver went to his hands and knees again. The express exploded past, but he forced himself to look straight ahead. He was limp when he reached the wooden steps. At the top, his father was waiting as if nothing had happened.
Oliver exhaled and took a deep breath. "Well . . ." He didn't know what to say. His father's eyes were sparkling.
"Maybe you come see us in Kamakura. I will be back there in one month."
Oliver nodded in the Japanese way. His father bowed and walked back to his car. Oliver watched. He waved as his father drove toward the road. His father waved back. Oliver thought he saw a smile, and then his father was gone.
He was getting wet, he realized. He stopped in Florence for a cup of coffee. There was no sign of his father. He drove back to Eugene and took a long hot shower. The envelope lay unopened on top of the table by the TV.
Oliver took a nap and went out for dinner. He sipped Glenlivet, a bit disappointed—he had learned so little about his father. Also, he was depressed because the meeting was over; he had accomplished what he set out to do, and now what? His father was controlled, impressive. Oliver felt good about that. If he hadn't found out many details about his father, he had learned something about himself. There was a sternness in his father—an inner honor—that Oliver recognized immediately. Same as me, he thought. His father helped put a face on it, made it more accessible and more acceptable.
But what did his father think ofhim? I didn't wimp out or fall in and die, anyway, he told himself. Muni had seemed guardedly approving. Hard to tell. Perhaps Muni had felt himself on trial, as well. He hadn't shown it. An architect—that was interesting. Oliver had a strong visual sense that had never found a satisfactory outlet. His work had always been secondary in some way. Teaching math and programming had kept him going, but he felt unused, wasted. Maybe he should have been an architect. At least, now, he knew where his visual ability came from.
Oliver mused over his drink and avoided opening the envelope in his pocket. He ate a piece of salmon grilled over alder chips and drank a glass of Oregon Sauvignon Blanc. The waiter brought a double espresso. Oliver opened the envelope with misgivings.
There was a check and a note:
Oliver, if I give this to you, it is because you are my son. I can not know until I meet you. I plan to be back home in Kamakura after the first of the year. Maybe you will visit. Years after 50 are extra. Who knows what will happen? My thoughts are with you. Muni
The check was for $72,000. Oliver stared at the numbers. Seventy-two thousand dollars? A lot more money than he'd ever had before. But the moment that he accepted the amount, he realized that the money was his only in the sense that he had control of it. He had it because his father had saved it. How could he just spend it on himself? The money wasn't his; it was theirs—his and his father's and probably his father's parents as well. He replaced the envelope carefully in his pocket. A door opened in his heart, and another door closed.
It would take time for these new feelings to sink in, but Oliver knew that something had changed for good. He lingered over the espresso. An awakened sense of time knocked in his ears and made the present moment more intense. University students at a corner table might have been figures on a screen or spread around a vase. It wasright now, Eugene, Oregon. He wanted to shout: "It will never be this way again. We're here! We're alive!" He smiled as he imagined a full moon appearing from behind a cloud. Francesca was standing on Crescent Beach, looking up at the moon, her hands clasped behind her. Oliver stood and bowed slightly to the waiter and to the room.
The next morning he called Porter and told him when he'd be back. He took a bus from Eugene to Portland. The Willamette Valley was green and fertile, a nice after-image on the following afternoon as the plane lowered over the brown Maine woods and the steely blue Atlantic. He took a cab to State Street and had a reunion with Verdi. Porter had left the apartment in tidy shape. There was a letter from Francesca. She had received the box and the heart.
11.
Francesca's note was written on a 3X5 card:
Thank you.
Warmth rushed through Oliver as he stared at her writing. Francesca was answering in kind; she had accepted his valentine. "What do you think about that, my friend?" he asked Verdi. "What do you think about that?" Verdi bumped against his ankle, a sign of high satisfaction. It was good to be home.
Oliver looked around the living room. The mantle was empty without the walnut box. He wished that he had a picture of Francesca to take its place. He unrolled the snakeskin and pinned it vertically to the wall by the steps, admiring the silver and ivory colors and the dark diamonds that had curled around the snake.
He went early to bed and spent a long time looking out at the night and remembering the trip: the gardens and the Japanese restaurant in Portland, Michiko standing by her moss-rock, Diamond Head, The Devil's Churn, his father's face—there had been much to see and few words. What was there to say about these things? Owl had cautioned him more than once: "Listen to what people say, but pay more attention to what they do." What would hedowith the treasures of this trip?
Treasure, literally. One thing he could do was to put his father's money to work. He decided to open a stock brokerage account. He needed to get a programming project, so that he wouldn't start spending the money. And he needed to see Francesca. She was more fun to think about than job interviews; he drifted to sleep remembering her on Crescent Beach.
In the morning, he answered two job advertisements that were in the paper and then ate breakfast at Becky's. The day seemed to have started without him—jet lag. The booth where he had first seen Francesca was empty. He imagined her there and felt better, more centered.
He walked to Monument Square and entered one of the big name brokerages. He left quickly, put off by slick advertisements on the walls and expensively dressed men exuding earnestness. Farther along the Square, he found a local firm staffed by a short man with a tired expression. The top of his head shone. Brown graying hair started just above his ears, swept back, and hung loosely over the back of his shirt collar. He was eating a bagel. A grandfather clock stood in one corner.
"I'm thinking about opening an account," Oliver explained.
The man swallowed and raised his coffee mug. "Why?"
"I like your clock." The man gave him a longer look and sipped coffee.
"I bought it at an auction. Never been sorry. Sometimes, you've got to pay for quality; sometimes you get a deal."
"I like auctions," Oliver said.
"My name is Myron Marsh. I've been called, 'Swampy.' I've been called,'Mellow.' I prefer, 'Myron.' "
"What! No 'Shorty?' '' The corner of Myron's mouth twitched, but he said nothing. "O.K., Myron. I'm Oliver Prescott."
"You live around here, Oliver?"
"State Street, near the bridge."
"You know anything about investing?"
"No."
"What kind of money are you talking about?"
"Seventy-two thousand."
"Not a bad start," Myron said. "We could get some good balance with that." He opened a filing cabinet and handed Oliver a form. "Tell you what," he said. "Why don't you fill this out and come back with a check when you're ready. Then we can talk about where you want to go with this and what we might do."
"Thanks," Oliver said.
"Here's a booklet that explains our fees and general setup."
Oliver went home and read the material. The application provided for joint ownership of the account. An idea formed. He didn't have a will. If he died, his money would go to his mother. She didn't really need it. Why not make Francesca joint owner? Then, if he died, she could use it for herself and her girls. If she needed money for an emergency, it would be there. She wouldn't have to do anything, just sign the form and know that the account existed. She might not like the idea, might be afraid of strings attached. But there weren't any, really—all she had to do was sign the form and forget about it.
The idea made him feel good. He filled out the form with everything but her signature, her mother's maiden name, and her social security number. He called Myron to check about joint ownership. Either owner could control the account, but he would be the primary owner, responsible for taxes. Monthly statements could be sent to each owner. "No need for that," he told Myron, "just one would be enough." They set a time to meet on the following Monday. Oliver was assuming that he would see Francesca Sunday morning on the beach.
On Saturday night, the weather forecast was for light rain and fog. Oliver could barely see the bridge when he woke up. He made a pot of coffee, drank one cup, and saved the rest in a large thermos which he put in his shoulder bag along with two mugs, half a quart of milk, and a manila envelope containing the account application. Forty minutes later, he was sitting on a driftwood log near the spot at the beginning of the beach where he had last met Francesca and where The Early People had waited for the sun.
It was warm for November. The tide was out. The water was gray, stippled and flattened by light rain. The air was fertile and salty. Mist blurred the rocks. A dog barked somewhere beyond the other end of the beach. Francesca appeared suddenly, holding a black umbrella over her head. When Oliver could see her smile, he stood and smiled back.
"You made it," she said coming closer.
"Quite a trip," he said. He wanted to hug her, but jackets and hats and her umbrella made it awkward. "How about some coffee?"
"Coffee? Superb!"
Oliver sat down on the log and poured them each a mug. "Milk?"
"Mmm."
"Say when . . ."
"When."
He handed her the mug. She sat beside him and shifted the umbrella to partially cover him. "I love my valentine."
"Good. My friend, George, is an artist. He showed me how to cast it.What did you do with it? Not that it's any of my business."
"Hid it." Francesca giggled. "Where did you get the box?"
"Made it."
"I wondered," she said. "It's beautiful. Did you find your father?"
"I did." He told her about Hawaii and meeting his father at The Devil'sChurn in Oregon.
"Dramatic," she said. Her eyes were soft.
"It was. It was the way he wanted it."
"Did you feel that he was your father?"
"Yes. We're different. I'm American, and he's Japanese-American, more Japanese—he lives in Japan. But we were the same underneath—same kind of seriousness or intensity or something."
"What does he do?"
"He's an architect. He was teaching a class at the University ofCalifornia, Berkeley, until the end of the year."
"Is he married?"
"Yes. Two children—a boy and a girl, grown."
"Oliver, you have a half brother and a half sister!"
"It's true. I haven't absorbed it yet."
"Did you like him?"
"Yes. He was pretty impressive. Disciplined. Didn't say much. He gave me some money—said you were only as rich as what you give away. What's your mother's maiden name?"
Francesca stared at him. "Boisverte," she said.
"How do you spell it?" She told him and he repeated the letters to make sure that he had them right. "French," he said.
"Mais oui. Maman married Frankie, and here I am."
"They did nice work. You want more coffee?" He refilled their mugs and put away the thermos. "Francesca . . ."
"Yes?"
"You're probably going to think I'm nuts. I hope you won't be mad at me." He took a deep breath. "I'm putting the money my father gave me in a brokerage account. I want you to be joint owner, so that if anything happens to me you'll have the money. Or, if you need some for an emergency—it will be there." Francesca took a swallow of coffee and stared out to sea.
"You're a good one," she said. And then, "I'm married to Conor."
"You wouldn't have to pay any taxes on it. I do that. You wouldn't get statements or anything. It would just be there if you need it. It could be backup for you and the girls, security . . ."
"Independence?" she teased.
"Well—yes, if you want it." The fat was in the fire.
"Jacky said you were a sweetheart."
Oliver's jaw dropped. Francesca laughed. "She said that she checked you out. She had hopes for you, but she said that the two of you were incompatible for the long run."
"Uh—she's right."
"Don't be embarrassed," Francesca said. "How else were you going to find out? Look, I love Jacky, but I wouldn't want to be married to her."
The image of Jacky attempting to intimidate Francesca with a whip made Oliver burst out laughing. "No," he said, sputtering, "no." Francesca gave him a curious look. "Good looking woman, though," he went on. "Not as beautiful as you."
She accepted this without comment. It was a quality Oliver liked in her. Francescawasbeautiful. She knew it and didn't make a fuss about it.
"I want the money to have a purpose outside myself," he said. "Seriously—it would help me. It makes me feel better. I'm going to get some work as soon as I can, so that I don't spend it. I have the form right here." He held his bag under the umbrella and pulled out the form. "If I can keep it from getting soaked . . ." He reached into his pocket for a ballpoint pen. "Can I write on your back? I mean, use your back? 'BOISVERTE.'" He said the letters as he wrote them. "What's your social security number?"
She hesitated and then told him. "A very nice number," he said.
"I've always thought so. It will be especially nice if I make it to retirement age."
"All you have to do is sign," Oliver said. "Here." He handed her the pen and swiveled his body so that she could use his back.
"Yi! What am I doing?" The pen moved firmly across his shoulder blade.
"A good thing, that's what you're doing—what we're doing," Oliver said, putting the application in the bag.
"Cute pen," she said.
"It's a space pen—writes upside down or in zero gravity. NASA uses it."
"My father worked for NASA."
"Oh, yeah? What did he do?"
"He was an engineer, called himself a launch pad maintenance man. He and my mom live near Daytona. He's retired."
"You don't have a southern accent."
"I grew up in Brunswick, just down the road from Bowdoin. My dad worked on the base for years. He's from upstate New York."
"And your mother?"
"Local gal. She's gotten used to Florida. I don't know if I could. I mean, you can get used to just about anything; but . . ."
"Nice in January," Oliver said. "I know what you mean. I grew up inConnecticut." A harder shower passed over them.
"I love the rain," Francesca said.
"Me, too." They sat and finished their coffee, watching the rain and absorbing their conversation.
"Bye, Oliver," Francesca said finally, standing with the umbrella."You're going to get wet."
"I won't melt." She smiled quickly, understanding it as he meant, that he would be there for her dependably. She walked back the way she had come. Oliver stayed, enjoying the calm. Francesca had that effect on him. When he was with her, he felt that there was nowhere he needed to go. He was already there, at the center. The world spread around them at greater and greater distances.
Jacky! He felt a stir of affection and shook his head. He should have known she would tell Francesca—the big picture, anyway, if not the details. He hoped Jacky would find someone soon. She wasn't bashful. There was bound to be somebody in Maryland who would love to oblige her. Whoever he was, he was going to get a workout—and good crab cakes. Jacky had been straight with him. Oliver appreciated that. And he'd been straight with her. Maybe that was why he had a warm feeling when he thought of her; there was no residue of guilt or things held back.
He stretched and walked to the main road, taking the track along the rocks and then though the woods. He had left the Jeep in the approach area by the gate-house; the park was officially closed. A piece of paper was folded under one windshield wiper. It had a heart on it, drawn in pencil. When he got home, he taped it over the mantel.
Myron read through the application the next day and tapped his desktop slowly. "The co-owner," he said, "will have full privileges."
"Right."
"If she calls and identifies herself and says, "Myron, sell everything and send me a check," that's what I'll do."
"Right."
"Very good," Myron said dubiously. "Just making sure." He put the application and the check in a folder. "So, how quick do you want to get rich?"
"That's a trick question, I bet," Oliver said.
Myron appraised him again. "It is and it isn't," he said. "Rewards are what you get for taking risk. If you want a big reward right away, you have to take a big risk. Over a longer period, you can take smaller risks—the smaller rewards add up; the smaller losses don't wipe you out. But there's another consideration." He drew a double headed arrow on the top of a yellow pad. "People have different senses of time."
Myron darkened each arrowhead. "Some live for the future; some live in the moment; some—most—are in the middle. It's a natural thing. As far as risk/reward goes, we can keep a given balance in any time-horizon. We can be risk-adverse, say, short-term or long-term." Myron underlined the arrow.
"What we don't want to do is mix up the two. Short—term and long-term investments are different. Not only are the investments themselves different, but someone who is patient and looks far ahead won't be happy with in-and-out activity. Someone who is action-oriented, who is used to seeing results right away, won't wait years for a company to develop or for interest rates to drop. You see what I'm getting at?"