Kem Nunn - Tapping the Source

The sight of it stopped him. He lay still in her, but staring, suddenly aware that her eyes had fixed upon him as well, though they were not turned toward his face but rather toward the tattoo that spread itself across his shoulder, and the expression on her face was something between fascination and horror—much, he imagined, like the expression on his own face.

Though their eyes met, neither of them spoke. And then the spell was broken by the sound of loose rock tumbling somewhere far above them and Ike raised his eyes to see a pair of boards catching sunlight and two figures picking their way down the long, crumbling staircase. Hound Adams and Frank Baker, come to surf the point.

In the time it took Frank and Hound to reach the beach, Ike was able to pull his wet suit back on. The black and purple material was still wet and cold and the coldness seemed to reach him at once, to find its way down and into the bones. Michelle had begun to move also, replacing her suit and covering the bottoms with a pair of white shorts. And then they were both dressed, sitting suddenly side by side, in silence, the magic of only moments before lost. The combs. The tattoo. He knew that for a few seconds she had watched him, puzzled by the change that had come over him. But he had not trusted his voice and had remained silent. And while she watched him, he had felt her hand, cool upon his own, but still he had been unable to turn toward her and the hand had slipped away.

He knew now, without looking, that Hound and Frank were nearly upon them, still moving across the sand. “Those combs,” he said finally, his throat tight around the words. “Where did you get them?”

“Milo gave them to me,” she said. “I think they’re pretty.”

There was something defensive and rather distant in her voice, and when he turned to look at her he found that she was staring toward the sea.

“Tide’s dropping,” he heard someone say. “Getting better.”

It was Hound who spoke. Ike nodded. He saw Frank Baker already at the water’s edge. He watched as Frank pushed his board ahead of him, then flattened himself on the deck and began to paddle, quick, efficient strokes that carried him into the sunlight as it danced upon the water.

Michelle rose suddenly at his side and for a moment blocked the sun. He watched her bend to brush some sand from her legs. “I’m going back to the house,” she said. And then, as an afterthought: “You should let him show you around, Ike. I’ve never seen another house like it. There’s a regular movie theater downstairs.” Ike felt that her tone of voice was mechanical and forced, as if she was trying to be conversational for Hound’s sake. He wondered if Hound noticed it as well. He wondered too just how long Hound and Frank had been at the top of the stairs.

He watched Michelle move across the beach, then looked once to see that Hound was watching her too. When she was gone, Hound knelt beside him, smiling, full of energy now, the tired look Ike had noted earlier, in the study, gone, the eyes jerked open, sandblasted clean and flat like two dark stones. There was something funny in that, though, in the way the eyes rested in the face—as if the eyes were brand-new but the face was still tired, the skin still a bit too pale, and too tight across the bones. “Not calling it a morning, brah?” Hound’s voice was flat and even. “See you out there, huh.” Ike felt Hound’s hand on his shoulder.

And then he watched as Hound left him and walked toward the surf. Ike blinked into the light, following a line of white water as it wrapped around the point. When he stood, he found that his knees were weak from the lovemaking. He was still for a moment, watching as Hound broke through the lip of a wave and disappeared on the other side. Then he picked up his own board and followed, though it was more like he was sleepwalking now, like his body was going on its own while his mind continued to work on the combs he had seen in Michelle’s hair. And as he waded into the shallows and felt the stones there, sharp against his feet, he found that he was actually talking out loud, his words spreading and vanishing in the air. “She was here,” he said to no one. “And they have known—known everything all along.” It was an astonishing phrase and he repeated it once more as he began to paddle, as the first line of white water washed over him, as if it were the only thing he knew.

They surfed for another hour. Hound said that the ranch was like Mexico, that there was a different rhythm here, that it took a while to adjust, to match one’s energies to the flow. He said a lot of things, and oddly enough some of them were things that Ike had thought of himself. But they didn’t sound right when spoken. Maybe it was because they were beyond words. Or maybe it was that Hound’s voice was too flat and hollow, just one more rap, so that Ike was reminded of days in Hound’s house—Hound sitting Indian style on the floor, lecturing on some artifact he had found, or some bit of lore, while the people came and went and even dumb little girls stoned on his dope knew it was bullshit. Frank Baker, Ike noted, did not join them but stayed to himself, surfing farther on the inside, and finally Ike himself turned his back on Hound Adams. He left Hound in midsentence and began paddling farther to his left, where he had once sat with Preston Marsh, where he could now be alone to think.

Later they left the water and climbed the stone stairs. They moved in single file, Hound in front with Ike bringing up the rear. The ground turned cool and damp beneath their feet. The scent of flowers drifted down from the gardens.

It was in the first of the terraced gardens that they found Milo Trax and Michelle. Milo was dressed in tennis clothes, his short thick legs propped on a chair. A pair of small wire-rimmed shades hid his eyes. Michelle was dressed in a white summer dress Ike had not seen before. There was a drink on the white wrought-iron table in front of her. Her fingers rested near the glass and she was looking away, into the trees, so he could see her profile, the small straight nose and arched brow he’d always held responsible for her slightly arrogant look. Her hair, he noticed, was pulled back, held in place by the ivory combs. She did not turn to meet his eyes.

“Home from the sea,” Milo said. He smiled beneath the shades and raised the drink in his hand, as if to toast them. “How were the waves?” he asked.

“Good,” Hound said.

Ike said nothing but continued to watch Michelle. Frank Baker did not stop at all but continued walking and quickly disappeared among the trees. Then Ike was aware of someone speaking to him.

“Good that you enjoyed yourself,” Milo was saying. “I’m glad there was surf. Are you ready for some work?”

Ike felt himself nod. He looked for a moment at Michelle and then down and into the small black holes that were Milo’s shades.

“There’s a list in the house,” Milo told him. “Some things I would like done before the guests arrive. There are also some clothes there I would like for you to wear tonight. Hound will show you.” Ike turned and followed Hound up the path.

He spent the rest of the afternoon hosing down driveways and patios, raking leaves, and sweeping floors. “Milo’s been in Europe,” Hound explained. “The place needs some work.”

Ike went through the motions, but his mind was still busy with other things. Had Ellen been here, as he had at first supposed? Or had the combs been left someplace else—in the boat, or in Mexico? And why had they been given to Michelle? Was it some bizarre coincidence? Or were they bait? At one point in his work, Ike looked up to see Frank Baker and one of the Samoans from Huntington Beach pushing some boxes on a small truck. They were headed down through the gardens, away from the house and out toward the point. Ike stopped sweeping and rested on his broom. For a moment he thought of following them and he looked back over his shoulder to see if anyone else was around. What he saw was Milo Trax standing on a small balcony, resting against the black iron railing. When Milo saw Ike’s face turn up toward him, he raised a hand. Ike waved back and then resumed his sweeping, pushing his broom beneath the sun-bleached walls, the ancient ivy with its dark leaves and stems thick as branches.