CHAPTER 11

 

.11.

The telegram was sitting on the low wicker table in Jimmy’s bungalow at the Halekulani, looking as harmless as a grocery list and as lethal as a black mamba. The late afternoon sun was filtering through the palms, drawing long, jagged lines across the floor that looked like bars on a cage.

Jimmy was staring out at the water, his back to the door. He wasn't the shivering wreck I’d pulled out of the Pacific in July. He was tanned, fit, and possessed a stillness he’d learned from the reef. But the telegram had found the crack in his armor.

“I’m really sorry, Jimmy,” I said, stepping onto the lanai.

He didn't turn around. “The Saturday boat. Uncle Ole’s already got the stateroom booked. It’s a fast trip back to a life I don’t recognize anymore.”

I leaned against the doorframe, my hands deep in my pockets. I thought about my father’s books, about the way legacies trap a man before he’s even had a chance to breathe. Then I thought about the mana I’d shared with him in the dark water.

“Do you want me to go with you?” I asked. The words felt heavy, like I was dropping a stone into a deep well. “To the funeral. To the mainland.”

Jimmy finally turned. He looked at me, and for a second, I saw the million-dollar prince trying to find the right polite "Hollywood" way to say no. 

“I can’t ask you to do that, Ray. You’ve got your work. You’ve got your life here. Los Angeles is... it’s a different kind of ocean.”

“I’m asking if you want me there,” I pressed.

“If you were my brother—" he started, then stopped, the word catching in his throat.

“But I am,” I interjected, then realized I’d better explain what I meant. “In the islands, we call it Ohana. You've heard the word, right? It isn't always about the blood in your veins, Jimmy. It’s about who stands next to you when the tide turns. You’re Ohana now. That means your fight is my fight.”

Jimmy went quiet. He knew what I was talking about – he’d seen it in the way Ah-Fong looked at me, in the way the Mamasan at the saimin stand never asked for his name, and how the boys at the beach kept calling me Stingray, even though I wasn’t a waterman anymore. It was the ultimate contract, and it didn't come with a notary’s seal.

His blue eyes moved, a sudden shimmer of gratitude breaking through the grief. “Then come with me, Horatio. Please. I don’t have many friends in that place. Not real ones.”

“I’ll pack the typewriter,” I said, giving him a small, grim nod. “But don’t expect me to wear a tuxedo. The Stingray doesn't do formal wear.”

I walked back down the path toward my own bungalow, the scent of ginger trailing after me. Jimmy’s nod to Hamlet stuck in my mind. Had I just signed up for a war in a country I didn’t know much about, fighting for a kingdom Jimmy didn’t even seem to want? But as the sun dipped below the horizon, I knew I didn't really have a choice. I had heard it again in his sentence: the sound of a body hitting the water at night.