That meant so much to him that he didn't say anything more. He only wished to hold that thought.
"He wants to marry me," she said. "He gave me an ultimatum."
Lionberg sighed and looked around his room and was reproached by every object he saw.
"Hey, I have to go to work," she said. "I'm on nights. Gotta go."
"I love you, honey," he said in a terrified voice, but there was no reply. She had not heard it.
In bed that night, after the first brief wave of sleep had curled over him and he woke again, he thought: Marriage? She has her whole life ahead of her. That was part of his desire, that she had so much life in her. It also appalled him — the very thought of her setting off down the long road. Love is a girl.
Lionberg's sense of peace, formerly unshakable, standing like a bronze on a plinth, had been whipped from him, and the world that had seemed so manageable before was now vast and shadowy and without symmetry. He was lost in his house amid the jumble of everything he owned. He thought of going to Nevada. It was not a long trip from Hawaii; planes left for Las Vegas all the time. He devised an itinerary, he went through each stage of the journey, but he could not get beyond seeing her. And what of the boyfriend?
The damage was done. Lionberg had never been discontented before. She had created that — or had he? She had touched him and unwittingly made a promise that could never be kept. She had shown him what he would never again see. Though she had been innocent the whole time, she had destroyed him.
He called his ex-wife in Mexico at an ungodly hour, waking her, confusing her. The line was bad, adding to the confusion, for everything he said had to be repeated. And he frightened her by begging her, saying "Please forgive me" in a voice of such sad atonement the poor woman began to cry.
He knew he would see Rain, but what was in his heart would probably horrify her and speak to him of death, for she was no cure for his sickness. There was no cure at all, but only a ruinous knowledge of what he wanted, and that it was impossible, and the denial that he would taste for the rest of his life. What appalled him was not the thought that he would never possess her but that he would have to live with what she had rearranged in his past, for what was worse than the uncertain future was the realization that his previous life was blighted. He had once believed that he had been happy, but he had lost even the memory of his happiness. Though it seemed that nothing had changed, that his life was sweeter than ever, he was drowning in misery — suffocating, so he told me.
56 Drop-In
A wild-haired man, thirty or so, entered the hotel sideways one blustery afternoon like another feature of the bad weather, blown there by the gusting trade winds. I was at Reception, filling in for Lester Chen. The drop-in looked local but was paler than he should have been, and vague: he seemed like someone from much farther away. He claw-combed his hair with his dirty fingers. He rocked a little in his rubber sandals, as though trying to form a sentence with his feet. He finally asked, "Sweetie 'round?"
It was plain he didn't know we were married. Sweetie was out picking up Rose at school, stopping at Costco on her way back, though I didn't say so. He was too fidgety and furtive a man to trust with any personal information.
"Maybe I can help you?"
"Looking for a room. Except for I gotta get a discount."
You gotta get? No, it was wrong to reply sharply to this dropin. I could not read anything behind his smirk. He was muscular, in a T-shirt and shorts, waxen rather than the hue of fruitwood he should have been. He had that Aztec look of a part-Filipino, bright eyes, bony face, but too twitchy to be handsome.
"If you've got a valid Hawaii license, I can give you the kama'aina
rate."
"I don't have no license."
Never mind the grammar, that was a fact to remember.
"Maybe some kind of ID?"
"What would that get me?"
I told him the rate for a single.
"Then we got a problem."
I smiled, not amused but swelling with the urge to say We? Yet in literal-minded Hawaii, sarcasm was not useful on inarticulate people. Many slow-speaking and stammering islanders were aggressive out of pure frustration. They squinted instead of replying, or grunted, or gaped like fish — all threats. Wordless people can be dangerous, for no other reason than that they are wordless. Chatter to them and they are provoked.
He darkened, rocking in his rubber sandals again, and said, "Maybe I come back a little later."
"The rate will be the same when you come back."
I was pushing my luck saying this, but I could see he was a dim prospect. Anyone asking for such a discount at the outset is unlikely to be a lavish spender later on.
"We see."
It was a hopeless moment in which I knew I was being perceived as an undifferentiated howlie, and now I just wanted this babooze to leave my hotel.
A screech of greeting made me look up. Puamana was rushing toward him, and his face had been transformed into a smile. I had never before seen Puamana look so bright or greet a guest in this effusive way. They must be related, I thought, for relatives have the ability to stimulate expressions like no one else.
"Kalani! How's it? You come back, yah? Sweetie at the school, picking up her keiki. She be here soon, yah?"
They embraced, groaning with affection, a sound like hunger, my mother-in-law and this scruffy stranger patting each other on the back while I stood by clicking my ballpoint pen.
"Puamana, you look so great, seesta."
Just an expression — she was certainly not his sister.
Sweetie returned as they were complimenting each other. Rose ran past me to the back of the lobby where she saw Puamana's cat sleeping on the rattan sofa. Sweetie visibly hesitated before going forward, as though trying to determine in those seconds how I figured in this. But Puamana snatched at her.
"Here she come! Sweetie, look at dis!"
Another hug, more grateful groans. They all kissed once more, then smiled and just laughed instead of speaking.
"I see you already met the family," Sweetie said.
The three of them stared at me, the ineffectual alien.
"And that's Rose," Sweetie said, nodding at Rose, who was tormenting the cat.
"Hey, brah!" Now the man was friendly, more than friendly, greeting me with a handshake and a hug, as though I had just been joyously inducted into the family.
"You related?" I asked.
"Yeah, I wish." Kalani turned to Sweetie. "I was asking you husband for a rate."
Turning to me, Sweetie creased her face in an imploring way.
"Coupla-three nights. I'm on my way to Hilo."
He stood very close to Sweetie. Puamana was still beaming proudly at him. When had she ever beamed at me?
I gave him the rate. He thanked me without turning to face me. Sweetie looked happy, embarrassed, awkward, but she and her mother were clearly pleased to see this man.
"Maybe Keola can help you with your luggage?"
"I got nothing!" he said, which caused Sweetie to smile and Puamana to scream with delight.
"What about dinner?" Puamana said.
I interrupted, saying there was a movie I wanted to see. Sweetie hesitated, then agreed to go with me. It was Howards End, at the Varsity Theater. She hated it, and as soon as she finished her box of mochi crunch and popcorn, she fell asleep, and she cursed when I woke her. Back at the hotel, though it was late and we both had an early shift, I made love to her suddenly, subduing her, possessing her, like a slaver with a whip. My abruptness alarmed her. She resisted, but that provoked me by making me desperate. I still was not finished. I turned her over onto her stomach, and when I held her down I could feel her whole body trembling.
"Go easy." She whimpered like a child about to cry.