She sighs. “There's no furniture upstairs except the beds. We're going to be living out of suitcases for two months, Steve. Two months.”
        Maybe we can rent a couple of dressers from Lana`i Family Store, I start to suggest, but don't. I really can't argue with her about how rough it's going to be. Instead, I carry you over to the stairwell and climb to the landing, where your mother waits for us with arms folded. On the wall above the landing, the head of an axis deer gazes down on the three of us in solemn submission. The house was built to accommodate weekend hunters who fly over from O`ahu: four bedrooms, four bathrooms, vinyl tile on the main floor to make it easier to clean away mud and blood. No frills. As I reach the landing, your mother's eyes lock on my own and ask: Why are we here?
        For myself, I can answer this question well enough: I'm here to do field research for a narrative history of the island. Lana`i, The Island of Ghosts. Later, The Pineapple Island. Now, after the closing of Dole Plantation and the opening of two world-class luxury resorts, The Private Island.
        That's why I'm here. You and your mother and brothers are here for a different reason: I've brought you all with me to try to save our family, save my marriage.
        Despite the grim skepticism on her face, your mother doesn't yet appreciate how serious our situation is. I've explained it to her, but she doesn't hear. While I'm at it, I must admit there are things she tells me that I also do not hear. I don't know what they are. What I do know is that we have divided our individual lives into separate worlds—work and family—and in neither of these worlds have we made sufficient room for the other. To make room for your mother in my life, I've attempted to merge the two worlds, to thrust our family into the midst of my own work. I've forced the issue, brought us all to this remote island so unlike The Little Apple, despite the distance, the cost, the realities of postpartum stress. I'm insensitive. I'm desperate.
        “Our bedroom has twin beds,” your mother says.
        “We'll push them together.” Then, in a softer voice, I add: “Let's make the best of this, OK?”
        Your mother slips an arm under your bottom and takes you from me. As you pass from my hands to hers, your eyes widen for a moment, as if the white, white light has suddenly dimmed enough to allow you to gaze directly upon its source. Or perhaps it's merely wonder at the spectacle of one planet replacing another, the cosmos constantly reorganizing itself, the mysterious music of the spheres as they spin in and out of sight before you.
        “Of course,” your mother replies. “What else can we do? I'll give her a bottle while you set up the crib.”

        From Hollywood, The Tonight Show starring—

        Pancakes House and his accomplice, the funny-looking fella, are working class kidnappers with working class tastes: Budweiser, sweaty sex, Johnny Carson. On Lana`i there are grim men, former plantation workers and their sons and grandsons, with similar tastes. But there are other kinds of men here as well.

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