Chapter Three

Saturday morning, Raymond got up and slipped out of the house before his mother could chain him to a mop. All day Friday she'd nagged, "No beach until all the work is done." It reminded him of the first few post-divorce Christmases, when she wouldn't let them read their books or play with their toys until all of the wrapping paper was folded and the ribbons and bows gathered. But she was asleep when Raymond quietly pulled the screen door shut and walked through the dewy lawn. The sky was just turning from black to blue. He cut across the church lawn, crossed the highway, and entered the rusted chain-link "hallway" that tunneled through the hundred yards of matted jungle between two beach front homes and opened onto a breathtaking strip of sand. The beach began at a rocky peninsula a quarter mile to the left and swept in a gentle bay, curving around to where the shore doubled back behind itself. Raymond stood leaning against the side of the passageway, squeezing the rusty chain links between his fingers, stunned by the postcard-perfect scene in front of him. The sun was just edging out of the ocean, igniting the clouds and water with tentative light.

He paused at the edge of the grass, then stepped reverently onto the sand. Avoiding clumps of washed-up seaweed, he moved through the powder down to the firm, wet margin. A wave washed up and soaked his mud-stained sneakers. Another one darkened his cuffs. He slipped off his shoes and waded in, feeling the water rise in his pant legs, enjoying the sensation of sand between his toes. Twenty feet out, he stood waist deep, shivering and smiling as he watched the sun ease slowly out of the ocean.

Squinting, Raymond caught sight of a shiny object bobbing in the waves. As it got closer, he could see it was round and translucent blue-green, about the size and shape of a tennis ball. He sloshed out until the waves lapped his chest, and caught hold of the round glass ball.

It was crusted over with green and gray algae that rubbed off on his fingers. Raymond slogged to shore and scrubbed it on the wet sand, then rinsed it off in the surf. Sitting down, he watched the rest of the sunrise through the glass, seeing the sun free itself from the cold water and float aloft, a sick, pale disk of distorted green light. Then he shoved his feet into his shoes and walked home. He knew he had to get out of his sopping jeans before they gave him a rub-rash.

* * *

Raymond's mother wouldn't let him in the front door. "You're not dripping sand all over my clean carpet." She made him take off his jeans in the back yard, rinse off with the hose and dry off his feet and legs before she let him dash barefooted into the bathroom. He was shaving with his sister's disposable razor when his mother pounded on the door with her fist. "SOMEBODY'S HERE FOR YOU!" she screamed over the running water. Raymond yelled at her to tell him who it was, but she just pounded again and told him to "JUST HURRY UP!"

He dashed to his room, stuffed himself into a pair of shorts and wandered into the living room. A white guy about his own age was standing in the doorway looking bored.

Raymond smiled an apology. "Just showering."

The guy waved from the doorway. "I'm Ed Cullen." He shrugged. "My dad works with a guy that works with your mom, so I thought I'd come over and say hi. I just live down the street a ways. We're in the same grade."

Mrs. Harmon poked her head in from the kitchen. "Who is your father?"

Ed came to attention, dropping the put-on apathetic casualness. "Er, that would be Edward Cullen, Senior. He's a phyzzi sci teacher over at North Shore College and my mom teaches math, and they're both friends and all with Mr. Cosby. My dad sometimes brings his classes up there and stuff."

Raymond made a quizzical face. "Mr. Cosby?" All he could picture was the goofy guy from television.

"Dr. Donald Cosby," Raymond's mother explained. "He's director at the windmill project--you know--Trade Wind Power."

"My mom and dad call him Don Quixote," Ed said. He grinned—apparently proud that he got the joke.

"How nice," Mrs. Harmon said, probably not intending to sound as patronizing as she did.

Ed looked around the room, then checked his watch. "Well, I've got to get going. Stuff to do before work." Then he turned back. "Oh—by the way …"

"Yeah?" Raymond said.

Ed pointed through the open door, at the curb across the street. "The school bus stops right there in front of the church, but you can ride in my truck if you want. Monday, I mean. I haul seven or eight people a day, but there's plenty of room."

"Where do I meet you?"

"I'll pick you up and show you where I live. Be ready at about seven-thirty."

"See you, Ed." Raymond said.

"See you." He closed the door behind him.

Raymond turned around to see his mother standing at the kitchen table, looking at him strangely. "Something wrong?" he asked.

She blinked, like she didn't realize he was talking to her, then shook her head. "No, nothing. Come and have breakfast so we can get to work. We have walls to wash and we have to move Sarah into her dorm this afternoon."

Raymond sat down and began on his French toast. "I was wondering," he said between mouthfuls, "what's wrong with the walls?"

His mother looked up from her instant coffee.

"I mean, what's wrong with them? They're white. They're not dirty. They were probably just painted. Why do we have to wash them?"

His mother pushed at the bags under her eyes with the tips of her fingers. "We just moved in, Raymond. It's good to get a clean start."

He drained his milk. "But even at home—even back in Arizona we washed the walls every month. It's not like we eat on them."

"Don't be a jerk, Raymond."

* * *

Raymond had already scrubbed the kitchen walls and the floor beneath the refrigerator when the phone rang. He heard his mother answer it in the other room. "It's for you, Raymond!" she hollered. He rinsed his hands and dried them on his shirt, wishing it was Tom or Myles, hoping it wasn't who he figured it must be.

"Raymond!" her voice cried when he said hello.

"Yeah." He leaned into the hall to see if his mother was eavesdropping. She wasn't.

"Raymond, it's me!"

"I know."

There was a pause.

"Is that all? 'I know'?"

"Listen, what do you want me to say?" Wedging the telephone between his ear and shoulder, he walked around the bar, opened the fridge and tiredly surveyed the small pickings.

"Raymond?"

"Still here." He took out a loaf of bread and a tub of margarine.

"I can't believe this!" she gasped. "You're thousands of miles away from me and I haven't seen you in over sixty-eight hours and all you have to say is 'I'm still here'!"

"Okay, I'm sorry." He used his sincere voice—the one he always felt guilty about. "How are you?"

"Not good. I miss you."

"Yeah, well, I miss you too. I've thought about you a bunch." He looked over his shoulder guiltily, making sure Sarah wasn't standing there listening.

"I think about you, too," she said. "Every minute of every day. Even when I sleep, I dream of you."

As she went on, Raymond took a knife from the sink drainer and spread the butter with angry swipes. See? he scolded himself, See what happens when you go steady with a sophomore?

"How's school—still the same?"

"Nothing's the same here without you here. The whole school seems empty. I miss you. We all miss you. Oh, and everybody said to tell you hi."

Everybody? Raymond wondered. He didn't recall being friends with everybody. "Well, tell them all I said hi back." He paused for effect. "Hi back." She giggled. He rolled his eyes.

He took a bite of bread and butter as his mother wandered into the room. She had a hammer and a handful of tacks, and proceeded to hang her "Bless This Mess" sampler and the quintessential kitchen memo chalkboard.

"By the way—how'd you get our number so fast?"

"I just called Hawaii directory assistance and asked for a new listing for Harmon. You don't have to be a genius to figure that one out."

"Oh."

His mother's hammering drowned out Julie's next sentence. All he caught was "… Aren't you?" He waited for her to repeat it.

"Well aren't you?" Julie whined when he didn't respond.

"Aren't I what?"

"Mad at me!"

"Of course I'm not mad at you."

In a sudden burst of inspiration, Raymond took the chalk from the little holder and scrawled in white: "Please Nag!" He tapped his mother on the shoulder and pointed.

"Then why are you being so cold?" Julie sobbed. Raymond chalked lines under his words, underscoring his urgency.

His mom was a sport for once. "Raymond, get off the phone," she droned, smiling. "We've got work to do."

"Listen, Jule, I've got to go. I've got walls to clean." For once, Julie stayed silent. "I'll write you a letter, okay? I've got one started already, so I'll just finish it and drop it in the mail."

"I wish you wouldn't be mad at me," Julie whined.

"I've really got to go. I'll get a letter out to you today, alright? You write me a letter, too, okay?"

"I love you, Raymond."

"I know. Good-bye, okay?"

"Raymond, I miss you!"

"Okay. 'Bye." He hung up, knowing she was still hanging on.

"You owe me!" his mom called after him as he went into his room.

He hadn't been lying when he'd told Julie he'd started a letter to her. On the plane, he had ripped a page from his mom's planner and started a note. He fished it out of his knapsack and stared at what he'd written. It read:

Dear Julie,

The two words and one comma seemed to sneer at him. Easiest part of the letter, he told himself. Ask her about the weather. Ask her about her health. How cold would it be in Phoenix right then?

He clicked the pen and added the word "I."

Dear Julie,

I

                —I what ? "I miss you"? "I liked hearing you on the phone"? "I don't ever want you to call or write again"? How about "I wish you'd get a life"?

Ray wadded up the paper and threw it in the corner where the wastepaper basket should have been. After a moment's thought, he went into his mother's bedroom and opened a few cardboard boxes. A little rummaging turned up the telephone answering machine. He took it back into the kitchen and hooked it up, but just the same he hoped Julie wouldn't call again.

* * *

That afternoon, Mrs. Harmon granted her children permission to go to the beach. Sarah put on her bathing suit and helped Danny into his new trunks.

"So what do you think, Sarah?" Raymond asked as they walked across the church lawn. "What are we doing that's getting the walls so dirty?"

"Come on, Raymond …" Sarah said.

"Isn't it interesting that we never washed the walls before Dad left, but now we wash them every month. I guess Dad must have had some sort of antiseptic effect on vertical surfaces."

Sarah growled and gathered Danny into her arms, even though he was really too big for her to carry. "Tell your brother he's a silly boy," she said.

"You're a silly boy, Ray." His grin showed gaps.

Raymond raised one eyebrow, then the other—a trick guaranteed to make his brother laugh. "Thanks," he said, "but I'll wait and get a second opinion."

They reached the chain-link tunnel, and Sarah shielded her eyes and examined the sky. "I can't believe I've been in Hawaii this long and haven't been to the beach yet."

"Finally Sarge gives us shore leave."

They trudged to the end of the passageway, and Danny squealed and scurried for the water. Sarah joined in his splashing and sand-throwing, while Raymond lay on his towel for a while, enjoying the sunshine. He closed his eyes and listened to Danny and Sarah playing. Gradually, their shouts and laughter grew softer and softer, and when he suddenly realized he couldn't hear them any more he bolted upright just in time to see them disappear around the curve of the beach.

He lay there for a while, almost dozing, checking occasionally for his sister and brother. The third time he looked, they still weren't there. He stared vacantly at the water. The ocean looked as complete in its restlessness as he felt in his lethargy. It took him a minute before he saw the small, bluish bubble.

From the beach, it looked just like the glass float he'd found that morning. He couldn't believe his luck. Taking a running start, he dove under the waves, his eyes closed, gliding to where he figured the bubble was floating. As he pushed against the sand and emerged from chest-deep water, he felt something tangle around his arm. A burning sensation spread across his chest and biceps, and he wiped the water out of his eyes with his other hand and looked down to see—not a glass float—but some sort of animal, its blue bubble-body stuck to his chest, its tendrils wrapped around his arm. The searing pain was increasing, and he couldn't help but cry out. He sloshed toward the shore, not daring to touch the blue bubble, too surprised to know what to do.

He didn't see her approach—she was just suddenly there. She pinched the bubble between her fingers and carefully unwrapped the tentacles. It hung from her hand, like a dripping blue loogey, looking almost obscenely silly. Getting down on one knee, she scooped a hole in the beach, dropped the creature into it, and covered it with a handful of sand. It produced a muffled pop.

"You all right?" she asked. Raymond looked at her in disbelief. He had half-expected some sort of accent. She was high school-aged, stood a couple of inches over five feet tall, and had a pleasant Oriental face and a body built for a swim suit. Her leopard-skin one-piece clung to her like a skin graft. She stepped closer and ran a finger along his chest. Thick red welts were forming where the blue tendrils had touched, beginning on his chest and spiraling down to his elbow, making his arm oddly resemble an old-fashioned barber pole.

"That was one mother of a man-o-war. You should use some meat tenderizer on that, or fresh papaya if you've got it. It'll get rid of the swelling."

He stared at her for a moment. "Okay," he said.

She smiled. "There's some folks who say peeing on it does the same thing, in a pinch."

"Really?"

"That's what they say." With a delicate finger she hooked her short, straight hair behind her ear, getting it out of her face. "You live here, or what?"

"Uh, yeah. Do now, anyway. Just moved." Talk in sentences, Raymond scolded himself. Don't be an idiot. He started to reach up to brush his bangs out of his face, then stopped, not wanting to look like he was aping her.

She said, "So—what—you going to NSC?"

He didn't realize he looked that old. The initials stood for North Shore College, where his sister was enrolled. "No, I'm supposed to go to some high school. Waimea or Wailulu or something." He didn't mention that he had no intention of actually attending.

She grinned at him again. "Waimea is a bay. Wai-lele is the school. I go there too—maybe I'll see you around."

"Guess so."

She seemed to have a surplus of smiles. "Cool. What was you name again?"

For lack of anything better to do with them, he crossed his arms, careful of the welts. "I'm Raymond Harmon. From Phoenix, Arizona. Actually Mesa."

She giggled. "Well, I'll probably see you at school, then. Remember: papaya or meat tenderizer."

"Or pee," he added.

"Whatever." She walked past him, toward the chain-link tunnel.

"What's your name?" he called after her.

She turned and walked backwards for a few steps. "Larissa," she said. Then she disappeared. Raymond's view of her retreat made him regret for one moment that he was going to be leaving the islands. But just for a moment.

* * *

Raymond hosed himself off outside before coming in so his mother would have nothing to yell at him for. He took a quick shower, pulled on a pair of shorts, and went into the kitchen. His mother, who was reading in the living room chair, didn't acknowledge him.

"I don't suppose we have any meat tenderizer, do we?"

It was a few seconds before she responded. "You know, Raymond, I don't believe I've ever had any."

"How about papayas? Do we have any of those?"

"No—no papayas." She didn't take her eyes from her book. "Why the sudden interest?"

He stood on the border between the kitchen tile and living room carpet. Eventually she looked up and saw the spiraling welts. "Oh my stars! What in the world happened?"

"Some paradise, huh? The beaches bite."

"I think there's some ointment in the medicine chest."

He got some and spread it on, even though it had expired five years before and was intended for treating diaper rash. It didn't seem to help, much, but he wasn't about to try the urinary alternative.

"Where's Sarah and Danny?" his mother called from the other room.

"Still at the beach," he said, "unless the sea creatures have got them."

"That's not funny."

Raymond wandered into the living room. "Yep—I'm beginning to really love this place. We've got Local Bloods on land and man-o-wars at sea. Or should it be men-o-war?

"What are 'Local Bloods'?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," he said as he flopped onto the couch. "There's some kind of Polynesian gang terrorizing the, uh, Wailulu High School. Sounds like a great environment for getting a quality education."

His mom closed her book angrily. "Look, Raymond, I'm sick to death of your complaining. It's really beginning to get quite old. Why don't you just shut up and deal with it?"

He didn't answer, considering her question rhetorical.

"You know, Raymond, I'm beginning to regret bringing you. If that's your intention, it's working."

He smiled with the knowledge that he knew something she didn't. He smiled again with the sudden thought that his English teacher in Arizona would have pointed it out and called it "dramatic irony." Then he threw on a shirt and his permanently soiled sneakers and officially made up his mind. This was it. He wanted out—not in two weeks, but now. "I'm going out," he said to the freshly-scrubbed walls of the living room. His mother made no comment. He let the screen door bang behind him as he left. This time he didn't run. He knew where he was going—kind of.

As far as he could tell, the town of Kalohe's had made a single concession to mainstream American culture: a McDonald's along the highway. Raymond had seen its familiar golden arches as they'd driven in from the airport, but he didn't go there now looking for burgers or fries. He simply wanted a pay phone.

Turns out there was one in the lobby, between the bathrooms. He picked up the receiver and dialed O. An operator greeted him, thanked him in advance for using whichever telephone network he'd happened to dial into. "I'd like to place a collect call to a Mr. Stu Harmon from Raymond Harmon." He gave her the number and she dialed it. His father accepted the charges.

"How're you doing, guy?" his dad asked good-naturedly.

"Not so good. I—um—called to talk about our arrangement."

"What arrangement?"

Raymond's heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean, 'What arrangement'? I talking about me putting up for two weeks and then you getting me out!"

"Oh, of course. Actually I've been doing some serious thinking about that."

Raymond hesitated slightly. "Dad, I hate it here. Completely hate it. There's gangs at the high school, and stinging men-o-war in the ocean and mom's being a complete, absolute bitch. I've got to get out now." A few patrons looked up from their Big Macs and McNuggets. Raymond lowered his voice. "I don't think I can survive for two whole weeks!"

His dad cleared his throat. "You know, Ray, we talked a few times about you coming back here to stay with me, and I've been over and over it with myself. But now that I really think about it, I'm not sure it's such a good idea."

Raymond actually held the phone up and looked at it, as if something was wrong with the device.

When he put it back to his year, his dad was saying: "… your mother has custody, son. Knowing her, she'd probably call the police and accuse me of kidnapping. Who knows what she's capable of. Either way she'll fight me for you, like she did during the divorce. You know how she feels about breaking up you kids. I'm just not sure if I should be interfering with something that should be a purely family matter. Does that make sense?"

Silence.

"Raymond, my hands are tied, here."

"After all," Raymond said, "it's not as if you're my father or anything."

"I really am sorry."

"I thought we had a deal."

"Actually, if you think back you'll recall that I said I'd 'see what I could arrange.' Now I see I can't arrange it. And I know this upsets you, but I've gone over and over it and I think this is definitely for the best."

"No problem," Raymond said, feeling as if he were about to explode. "Thanks for being there for me when I needed you."

His dad protested: "Now that's not very—" but Raymond hung up before he started screaming, right there in front of Ronald and everybody. He was too angry to cry. His insides ached as he retraced his steps back home. Home … Anger boiled inside him as he saw the house in the distance, nestled among the coconut trees and everything so sickeningly green. He wanted to scream or smash something but he just walked up the driveway, opened the door and went into his room without saying anything to anybody.

Before long the inevitable happened: his mother appeared in the doorway.

"Your father just called," she said after a moment.

"I figured he would."

"He told me all about your plans." She paused, to let him say something in his behalf. He didn't give her the satisfaction. "I guess I don't need to tell you how disappointed I am that you went behind my back. Both you and your father."

Raymond nodded.

"Son, all I ask is that you give it a chance. Give it a couple of months, and I'm sure this place will grow on you."

"And if it doesn't? Then what?"

"Then nothing. I've got custody of you kids, not your dad. Nothing there has changed. If you can't be happy here, then I guess you'll be miserable here—it's up to you to decide. I suggest you make the best of it."

She turned and went into her own bedroom, closing the door. Raymond had a feeling she was crying in there. And—in his misery—he really didn't care.

© Copyright 2002 by David S. Baker