Tapping the source, p.12
Tapping the Source, page 12
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Come home with me and I’ll make us some.”
Though he did not much care for coffee, he said okay. It seemed like the right thing to do. He pulled on his shirt and they went down the steps. There was a heavy overcast outside. The air was cool and smelled of the sea. It felt earlier than he had first thought and on the drive to her house they passed only a couple of cars.
When they got to the duplexes, the first thing he noticed was Morris’s bike standing at the curb. Morris was just coming down the walkway as they pulled up and got out of the truck. Ike thought that Morris stared at him for a moment with some surprise, then he looked back at Barbara. “The only thing they got him on now is drunk and disorderly,” Morris said. “They want him on the knifing, but nobody seems to be talking. I didn’t see it myself. I was at the other end of the bar. Frank and Hound were right there, but they ain’t said a word to the pigs.” He shook his shaggy head. “I don’t know,” he said. He looked tired and hung over. The sun was starting to burn through the overcast and it was starting to turn sticky. Ike could see the lines of sweat making trails across Morris’s big greasy face. There was a moment of slightly awkward silence. “I was going to make some coffee,” Barbara said. “Do you want any, Morris?”
Morris shook his head. “Just come by to let you know what was goin’ on,” he said. “Just thought you might be interested.” Ike thought he noticed a slightly sarcastic tone in Morris’s voice and he was beginning to get the idea that Morris thought there was something funny about Ike and Barbara being together at this time of day. Morris stood for a moment longer, then turned and swaggered off in the direction of his bike. Ike watched him go, then walked the rest of the way to Barbara’s door. But all of a sudden he just felt too funny being there. He didn’t want to go inside. “I think I’ll skip it this time,” he said. “I should check with Morris, see if he needs any help at the shop.”
She shrugged. “Okay,” she said. “But thanks. I needed to be around someone last night, somebody I could trust.” Then she went inside and closed the door.
He ran back down the sidewalk to see if he could catch up with Morris. He was too late; Morris was already pulling away as Ike reached the street. Ike suddenly felt very grimy and tired, as if he hadn’t slept at all. He decided to skip the shop and walked instead back to the Sea View apartments. The mailman was just leaving as Ike got there and Ike found that there was a letter in his box. It was the first piece of mail he had gotten and it was from San Arco. He carried it up to his room and read it seated by the window. The letter was from Gordon. Ike recognized the big, familiar scrawl right away. Gordon had apparently written a couple of letters, one to Washington, D.C., and the other to the American embassy in Mexico. Apparently there were no records of an Ellen Tucker having been found, either dead or in jail. Gordon wasn’t sure what this meant, but he said he figured Ike might want to know. That was it; Gordon not being much for small talk. Near the bottom of the page he told Ike to take care of himself.
Ike read the letter several times. When he was done, he folded it, slipped it back into the torn envelope and placed it near the scrap of paper with the three names on it. After that he walked to the window and rested his fingertips against the glass. He looked toward the ugly line of buildings that hid the sea and he imagined her here, in this town, walking the streets he walked now, seeing the same things, and thinking . . . what? He might have guessed that once. Because they were so alike then. It had been in fact one of their games—guessing what the other was thinking. Only it was somehow more than guessing, it was knowing and it was a special thing. He thought, as he had so many times before, how things had changed after that night on the flats. And how, when she’d left for the last time without bothering to say good-bye, he had by chance come to the front of the market and seen her go, in broad daylight, a ragged suitcase at the end of one arm, sun-bleached denims and red boots wading into those ribbons of dust and heat while he’d stood there on Gordon’s sagging porch, scared shitless of the loneliness to come.
He stood for a long time by the window, his fingers against the glass until the glass had gone warm and moist beneath them. He was struck by a sense of something he could not quite articulate. But it was connected to the way he had once felt in the desert, with Ellen, that he had helped to set something in motion—a chain of events he was linked to but unable to control. And it was like that again now, he thought, here, and he knew that Gordon’s letter had changed nothing, that he would not do as Preston had asked. He was reminded of those desert windstorms, a whirlwind kicked across the desert floor, only he could not say if the storm was outside himself, pulling him in, or inside himself driving him forward, just that he was locked in and that there was suddenly something more at stake here than his search for his sister. He could see that now for the first time. It was not only Ellen Tucker he pursued. It was himself as well. He stared out the window, across the small yard toward the ragged skyline of Huntington Beach, hearing once more in the dark recesses of his own mind the high electric whine of those neon letters above the Club Tahiti. And he saw again that dark stare he had been unable to meet.
PART II
17
Mazatlán, San Blas, Puerto Vallarta, Cabo San Lucas. The names had magic in them. They hung in the smoke-filled air like some religious chant. Ike listened. He imagined tropical waters, steaming jungles split by rutted roads where green lizards curled in the shade.
When he opened his eyes, Hound Adams was looking at him. They were seated around a map spread on the living room floor. Michelle was by his side. She had locked her hands around his arm and was resting her chin on his shoulder. Hound Adams had at last thrown his party, and Michelle and Jill had been invited. Michelle had brought Ike. Now it was very late, or very early. Beyond the window Ike could see the sky beginning to lighten.
It had been a noisy party, but by now most of the guests had gone, leaving a small circle of admirers to sit on Hound’s living room floor, around the map upon which he outlined plans for the winter’s surf trip. The winter, like Preston had said.
Terry Jacobs was not at the party. He was still, after nearly a week, in intensive care at the Huntington Beach Community Hospital. The fight, however, had been a prominent topic of conversation during the party, and there seemed to be some confusion as to how it had started. Every story Ike heard was different. The only thing certain was that Preston Marsh was a marked man. Apparently Terry Jacobs had a bad family, some of whom had already arrived in Huntington Beach from the islands. Ike had had them pointed out to him, several hulking strangers in flowered shirts, quiet and dark.
Ike had seen Barbara only once since the night of the fight. She had stopped by briefly one afternoon to let him know Preston was still in jail, that there were still no witnesses to the knifing. Ike had thought then about Hound’s words, what he had said about wanting Preston on the street, and he thought about them again now as he observed one of Terry’s ominous-looking relatives draped over the couch.
He had not seen Morris since the morning after the fight, and he had put off going by the shop. He’d spent most of the week keeping to himself, thinking, watching the oil well, the dead grass, and the small brown birds beneath his window. And then Michelle had come by and invited him to the party.
• • •
The party had provided Ike with his first chance to observe Hound Adams at close range, and he had watched as Hound circulated among his guests, greeting some with a soul-brother handshake or an embrace, others with a cool nod. Hound seemed pleased that Michelle had come and more than once Ike had noticed Hound putting his hand on Michelle’s shoulder or back as he passed, or paused to say a few words, and Ike was beginning to believe that maybe Jill and Michelle had been right; Hound did have an eye for Michelle. Also, more than once Ike had looked up to find Hound Adams staring at him. He did not think it was his own paranoia. And now, sitting Indian style above the spread maps, his yellow hair gleaming in the dim light, Hound Adams was staring at him again.
“Todos son hermanos del mar.” Hound was looking at Ike as he spoke. Ike had no idea of what was said. There was a silence and Ike did not know how to fill it, though it seemed to be expected of him. At his side he could feel Michelle pressing against his arm. He could feel the sweat prickling at his neck and down the center of his back. Hound was smiling at him with his mouth, but his eyes were like stones.
Ike grinned back and shrugged, trying to say he did not understand.
Hound laughed. “We are brothers of the sea, no? It is what the people of the village say.” His finger rested on a spot of the map. Ike felt some relief. He looked with great interest at the map.
“It is a small fishing village,” Hound continued. “A beautiful spot.”
When Ike looked up, he found Hound still looking at him. “I hear you’re a surfer,” Hound said. Ike did not know if it was a question.
“I’m just learning.”
“We are all just learning.”
Ike looked into the dark, humorless eyes and he did not get the idea that Hound was joking with him. For a moment, as he had done on the street outside the club, Ike held the stare, studied the face. He had noticed in the course of the evening that it was a face that seemed to vary in age depending upon the distance from which you viewed it. Hound’s hair was more like a boy’s, or a young woman’s, rich, yellow, in places bleached white by the sun. The combination of flashy hair, the tanned skin, the athletic build, gave Hound the appearance of many of the young surf jocks you found around the pier, in the shops along Main. From a distance you might have thought he was in his late teens or early twenties. But when you saw him close up, you noticed other things, the wrinkles that spread around the eyes, the thin white scar above the bridge of the nose, the slightly yellowed teeth. Up close it was not a young man’s face. It was serious and cunning and more than once tonight Ike had felt that he was being toyed with.
“I hear you’ve got a good teacher,” Hound said.
Ike stopped short. The tone of Hound’s voice, like his eyes, gave nothing away. Was this it? Had Hound been baiting him for this? On the couch one of the big Samoans pushed himself upright and pulled the ring on a can of beer. Ike shifted his weight, thinking of a way to reply.
But it was Hound Adams who broke the silence with a short laugh. “That’s all right,” he said. “Everybody needs a teacher. The trick is in choosing the right one.” There was a pause. “Where are you from, Ike?” Hound asked. It was such an abrupt turn in the conversation that Ike felt suddenly off the hook. “The desert . . .” he began, then let his voice trail away, waving with his hand toward the far side of the room, as if the desert were just beyond the wall. “There is an energy in the desert,” he heard Hound say after a period of silence, “as there is an energy in the sea.”
• • •
Later, they stood outside on the wooden porch as the sun rose above the town. Hound had already gotten into his trunks and vest. One of the Samoans was waxing a board in the front yard. After a night of partying they were going down to surf the pier. Ike stood with Michelle at his side. It was funny how he’d gotten used to her being there in the course of the night, funnier still how it made him feel. She had been uncharacteristically quiet, supportive in some important way, and he was both grateful and puzzled at the same time. He was also bone tired and hung over. He did not understand where Hound Adams found the energy to surf.
“Maybe you would like to join us?” Hound asked suddenly, jerking Ike out of the daze he had slipped into. And for a moment Ike was at a loss for words. “I would like to,” he said, “but I can’t.”
“He lost his board,” Michelle put in. “Somebody ripped it off.”
Hound nodded, head slightly cocked, staring once again at Ike. “There are other boards here.”
“I guess not this morning. I’ve got to work in a few hours. But thanks.”
Hound Adams nodded. “Another time,” he said. “Come back, both of you.”
Ike and Michelle were nearly back to the sidewalk when Hound called Ike’s name. Ike stopped and looked back. Hound Adams was standing at the edge of his porch. He looked tall and hard, like one of the columns that supported the roof above the house. “Why don’t you come by the shop,” he said to Ike. “You shouldn’t be without a stick. Maybe we can work something out.”
• • •
Ike felt slightly numb as they walked back along the deserted sidewalks. His head still rang with the beer and dope, and the concrete beneath his feet seemed at times to be very far away. He glanced at Michelle and could not help but think how different she seemed to him after the party. It was very puzzling.
The morning was cool, drenched in a rosy light. A few scattered clouds, luminous and metallic, floated like great airships far above them. The sky was turquoise streaked with orange and red. “This sunrise reminds me of the desert,” Ike said.
“I’ve never been to the desert.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“It’s true. My dad left us when I was small. My mother never goes anywhere. I haven’t been anywhere. It was one of the reasons I ran away.”
“Well, imagine the ground as empty as the sky, as full of color.” He stopped and looked at Michelle. They were practically the same height and he looked directly into her eyes. He could see she was paying attention, but he did not go on. He shrugged it off. “It’s best in the spring,” he told her.
“You’re different,” she said. He met her eyes for a moment, then looked away.
“I mean it. You’re not like the other guys around here.”
“Maybe it’s because I’m not from around here.”
“So tell me about the desert.”
He shrugged again. “There’s not that much to tell.”
“What about your school? What were the other kids like?”
He laughed, thinking about the single row of white portable buildings that had served as the school, small tinny rooms so hot there were days when the instructors ran sprinklers on the roof to cool them down. “Most of the kids there were Mexicans,” he said. “But I didn’t make a lot of friends. I don’t know what they were like, to tell you the truth.”
“You didn’t have any friends?”
“My sister. We were friends.”
“Your sister?”
“Yeah.” He hesitated, it always made him uncomfortable talking about it, about his family—if that was what you could call it. “You see, my old lady just dropped my sister and me off one summer and split, left us with her mother and her brother and never came back.”
“What about your father?”
“I never knew him at all.”
She seemed to think about this for a moment. “So it was just you and your sister,” she said. He thought that now she would ask something more, about his sister, but she didn’t. They had been holding hands as they walked and he was aware of her palm, damp and warm against his own. “Maybe we can go there sometime,” she said. “You can show me what it’s like.”
“Maybe,” he said, though he felt funny saying it and was not sure why.
Back at the Sea View apartments, they climbed the stairs and he stood with her in front of her door. The door was open and inside he could see Jill sprawled on the couch, still clothed. Michelle looked in at her roommate then back at Ike. She wrinkled her nose and smiled. “You could come in,” she said. “I have my own corner. Or do you have to go to work?”
Ike stood looking into the small cluttered room. “I lied. I have to go to bed. I’m really tired right now.”
“Will you surf with them sometime?”
He shrugged.
She stood with her back to the door, her hand resting on the knob. He looked at her and he could see she was waiting, that he was expected to do something besides say good night. He would have liked that as well. There was an odd kind of charged moment as her eyes held his in which he might have moved toward her, touched her, but he allowed it to pass, or rather he waited too long so that to have gone to her would have seemed awkward and clumsy. He turned back toward his own door, and then turned to face her again from a safer distance. “Maybe we could do something tomorrow,” he said. “Go to a show or something.”
“Okay,” she said. “Come by after I get home from work.” She waved at him and he waved back.
Once in his room, he sat on the bed and thought back over the evening. As he undressed he kept thinking about those questions Hound Adams had asked him. The questions implied a certain amount of knowledge on Hound’s part, and yet Ike had the impression that he was fishing a bit too. What did Hound Adams know? And what about that offer to come to the shop? It was a tricky proposition, he thought, no matter how you looked at it.
18
Ike did not feel very refreshed when he finally got out of bed. He showered and decided to go for a walk downtown. The shower made him feel better and there was a good breeze off the ocean. He walked by the Curl Theater to check out the movies. He thought maybe Michelle would want to see a surf movie with him. He had never taken a girl out before. It made him feel strange, a little nervous. He still could not get over how different Michelle seemed to him after the party. Jill had been there too and had seemed a lot more like her old self, loud and dumb. But Michelle had been different. He suddenly found himself trying to imagine what it would be like to have a real girl friend—a wife, even. He tried to imagine himself driving a station wagon full of boogie boards and sandy kids down Coast Highway on a Sunday afternoon. He tried, but he couldn’t quite do it. As far as he knew, no one in his family had turned out normal yet and he didn’t see why he should be the first.
