“I don't mean here on the beach; I mean here . . .” I gesture toward the upper island. “. . . on Lana`i. Do you like all of us being here together while I do the interviews? Is this helping us? Or is it just making things worse?”
        I watch her remove her sunglasses and rub her eyes, then gaze out at the calm water as she contemplates her answer. The glasses have left red marks on each side of her nose. Long before she was your mother, long before David was born, I used to notice the same marks whenever she removed her distance glasses, the glasses she wore when she drove. I used to try to kiss the redness away. Once, after she'd driven us somewhere in her green Kharman Ghia, I leaned across the space between the bucket seats and touched one of the red spots with my tongue. She pulled away. What's wrong? I asked. Nothing, she replied. You got salt in my eye.
        “Steve.”
        Her eyes are locked on me now, red marks blazing.
        “See? You don't listen, even for the answer to your own question.”
        “Sorry. I just—”
        “You're off in your own little world somewhere, same as usual. What difference does it make that you brought us with you to this island? We might as well be back in Kansas.”
        “Sorry,” I repeat. “I didn't mean . . .” I don't finish.
        She reaches her hand across the picnic table and takes my own. “The timing could be better, you know.”
        I return the gentle squeeze. “I know.”
        A series of cries and shouts along the beach draws our eyes back to the water. The sea has awakened; waves are rolling in. We watch David squat on his board and begin to paddle furiously toward the beach, gathering speed to catch the first big one. “Go, David!” Michael shouts from the edge of the water. Daniel watches in rapt silence. When the wave reaches the line of surfers, the local boys spring up on their boards like pop-up toys. Effortlessly, they ride the face of the crest toward the beach, a couple of them crouching low to zig-zag across the curl, showing off. I see all this on the periphery of my vision, for my eyes remain on David. The wave seems to roll right through him, swallowing him up for a moment until his pale head reappears behind the crest, only his head, as simultaneously his black and red body board shoots straight up out of the blue water behind him like a Trident missile launched from a submerged submarine, only to be instantly aborted, falling back harmlessly onto the undulating blue. David treads water for a few seconds, watching the local boys finish their rides with tumbling grace. Finally, he turns and swims slowly to retrieve his board.
        On the beach, Daniel turns to Michael and spreads his arms in a Charley Brown gesture of why? Michael shrugs in reply, and they both turn back to their sand fort.

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