remember what is noble. What is excellent. I eased off the trigger. I threw the gun as far as I could. I stood. I straightened my suit jacket and turned toward the car.
Behind me, Castro offered thanks to the mother of God as I walked away from Haley and from death.
12
I drove aimlessly for hours. I spoke to Haley as if she were in the seat beside me. I spoke to Jesus, too. Actually, I yelled at him a little. I had a few hard questions, but he didn’t seem to have the answers. Ever since I had begun to come back to myself in the hospital, Jesus hadn’t been as real to me as Haley, and even she no longer answered.
When there was no place left to go, I pulled up to the gates of El Nido. They swung open majestically, and I followed the long driveway, parked Haley’s Bentley in Haley’s garage, and walked across the property to Haley’s guesthouse, where I went into the bathroom and threw cold water on my face and drank from my cupped palm.
When I looked at my reflection in the mirror, there were ashes on my forehead. I told myself the ashes weren’t really there, but I bent over the sink again and washed them off anyway.
I changed out of the suit into a pair of dark blue cargo shorts and a white polo shirt. I slipped into a pair of flip-flops and went outside again. I crossed the grounds toward the water. There, between a stand of eucalyptus and the seawall, I found the bench where Haley used to sit to watch the sunset, and over it the arbor Teru had erected with violet bougainvillea. I sat where Haley once sat. I said, “Happy birthday, baby.”
I remembered we had planned to spend that very day in Italy, on Lake Como, at a place she owned on the water, which I had not yet seen. She had loved the water. She had spoken about a powerboat she kept there—an old wooden Riva, sparkling with varnish from its torpedo stern to its plumb bow, with bright-red leather upholstery and a white Bakelite steering wheel. She had promised we would water-ski along the lake and take the Riva out into the middle around midnight every evening to drift with the engine off and lie on our backs and stargaze.
I pictured her and me alone between the Alps and Bellagio, lying on a sunpad on the stern of the motorboat, me flat on my back, her leaning on one elbow beside me tracing the hard ridges of my abdomen with a lazy fingertip. I saw her leaning down, her moonlit hair a blond curtain all around our faces, her lips touching mine, gingerly at first and then urgently, as if she had to draw me deep into herself or die trying.
The sun went down on Newport Beach. I sat in the dark awhile; then I stood up and went inside the guesthouse and sat in the dark some more.
After a while, there was a knock at the door. I got up, turned on a light, and opened the door. Teru and Simon came in. Simon had a bottle of Glenlivet in his hand.
I said, “The twenty-five?”
He said, “Of course.”
Haley had stocked nothing but the best.
I went into the kitchen and came back with three water glasses. We sat down together at the dining table. Simon removed the cork from the bottle and poured generously.
Teru lifted his glass, his Asian eyes welling up. “To her,” he said.
We drank a birthday toast.
Simon lifted his glass. “And to your recovery, sir.”
“Hear, hear,” said Teru.
We drained out glasses. Simon refilled them. We drank another glass, and then another. Then we began to talk of life and love and good and evil and all the things that matter most.
At some point in the evening, I said, “Simon, you know I was a gunnery sergeant before they demoted me.”
“Yes, sir. Miss Haley informed me of that fact.”
“Did you know gunnery sergeants don’t like to be called ‘sir’?”
“Indeed, sir?”
“It’s because we wouldn’t want to be mistaken for officers. Officers don’t usually know what they’re doing, you understand, and we always know what we’re doing. When men call us ‘sir,’ it doesn’t conform to our sense
Behind me, Castro offered thanks to the mother of God as I walked away from Haley and from death.
12
I drove aimlessly for hours. I spoke to Haley as if she were in the seat beside me. I spoke to Jesus, too. Actually, I yelled at him a little. I had a few hard questions, but he didn’t seem to have the answers. Ever since I had begun to come back to myself in the hospital, Jesus hadn’t been as real to me as Haley, and even she no longer answered.
When there was no place left to go, I pulled up to the gates of El Nido. They swung open majestically, and I followed the long driveway, parked Haley’s Bentley in Haley’s garage, and walked across the property to Haley’s guesthouse, where I went into the bathroom and threw cold water on my face and drank from my cupped palm.
When I looked at my reflection in the mirror, there were ashes on my forehead. I told myself the ashes weren’t really there, but I bent over the sink again and washed them off anyway.
I changed out of the suit into a pair of dark blue cargo shorts and a white polo shirt. I slipped into a pair of flip-flops and went outside again. I crossed the grounds toward the water. There, between a stand of eucalyptus and the seawall, I found the bench where Haley used to sit to watch the sunset, and over it the arbor Teru had erected with violet bougainvillea. I sat where Haley once sat. I said, “Happy birthday, baby.”
I remembered we had planned to spend that very day in Italy, on Lake Como, at a place she owned on the water, which I had not yet seen. She had loved the water. She had spoken about a powerboat she kept there—an old wooden Riva, sparkling with varnish from its torpedo stern to its plumb bow, with bright-red leather upholstery and a white Bakelite steering wheel. She had promised we would water-ski along the lake and take the Riva out into the middle around midnight every evening to drift with the engine off and lie on our backs and stargaze.
I pictured her and me alone between the Alps and Bellagio, lying on a sunpad on the stern of the motorboat, me flat on my back, her leaning on one elbow beside me tracing the hard ridges of my abdomen with a lazy fingertip. I saw her leaning down, her moonlit hair a blond curtain all around our faces, her lips touching mine, gingerly at first and then urgently, as if she had to draw me deep into herself or die trying.
The sun went down on Newport Beach. I sat in the dark awhile; then I stood up and went inside the guesthouse and sat in the dark some more.
After a while, there was a knock at the door. I got up, turned on a light, and opened the door. Teru and Simon came in. Simon had a bottle of Glenlivet in his hand.
I said, “The twenty-five?”
He said, “Of course.”
Haley had stocked nothing but the best.
I went into the kitchen and came back with three water glasses. We sat down together at the dining table. Simon removed the cork from the bottle and poured generously.
Teru lifted his glass, his Asian eyes welling up. “To her,” he said.
We drank a birthday toast.
Simon lifted his glass. “And to your recovery, sir.”
“Hear, hear,” said Teru.
We drained out glasses. Simon refilled them. We drank another glass, and then another. Then we began to talk of life and love and good and evil and all the things that matter most.
At some point in the evening, I said, “Simon, you know I was a gunnery sergeant before they demoted me.”
“Yes, sir. Miss Haley informed me of that fact.”
“Did you know gunnery sergeants don’t like to be called ‘sir’?”
“Indeed, sir?”
“It’s because we wouldn’t want to be mistaken for officers. Officers don’t usually know what they’re doing, you understand, and we always know what we’re doing. When men call us ‘sir,’ it doesn’t conform to our sense
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