Kem Nunn - Tapping the Source

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.”