I start to brake, then blow the horn. The man just stands. His whole body slips and shudders, flickers like a television signal that’s partially interrupted by bad weather, then jumps forward to ten feet in front of the bus. I see the salt crusting his chest, his palms lashed with purpled skin, the sort of rope-handling scars we never see anymore. I slam the brakes and there’s a terrible squeal and shake and then the surging of my body thrown forward against the seat belt. The bus jerks to a stop.
I didn’t feel anything I didn’t hit anything I didn’t feel anything. The headlights show an empty road ahead.
Holy shit.
I pull the bus over and press the hazard lights. The blinkers tick-tock away. The brakes spit air, shishhh. I throw the door lever, the flap and squeak as the front door folds open. I step down each steel stair and into the thick night air. There’s nothing caked to the front of the bus, no dents or bloody smooches or burst body.
I look behind the bus, where the remains of the man should be if I ran him down. He’s still there, a black silhouette stark against the pale reflection of moonlight on the highway. But he flickers again, shudders and twitches, and then there is only a pig, hip-high and thick with fur and mud, which bellows and squeals and grunts off the highway, into the ferns and trees on the side of the road.
Headlights come. A car blows past me and the bus, shoulder-parked on the highway. I stand for a long time, hoping the ice will leave my spine, hoping the tumbles of my pulse will mellow. I’m reminded of how it felt that night so long ago, Augie and me in the valley making love, then the night marchers. This man was not a night marcher, but I know he came from the same place, the edges of the natural world, which humans never have access to. I can feel the heavy press of sleeplessness on my skull, that I’m almost delirious with sleep starvation and the numbing of the bus route. I stay that way for I don’t know how many minutes.
* * *
I’M SLOW COMING HOME. I feel thick and dumbstruck. If I saw what I saw then I wonder why it happened now, so many years since the last ghost we’d seen, hundreds of miles away on the Big Island. I wonder what Augie will say, what I can tell him—he believes much less than I do, it seems like everyone does—and I realize I’m hoping that telling it will somehow make it true enough that it wasn’t some half-crazy dream.
By the time I get the bus to the depot and drive our rattling Jeep Cherokee back to our house in Kalihi it’s as dark as the night will ever get. I park in our driveway and I bang through the front door of our house. All the lights are on, so is the television, but quickly I can tell Augie is not home.
Of course.
It started happening soon after we got back from Honoka‘a and the search for Noa. Augie has been getting up early—two, three in the morning—and then he walks out of our house. I don’t know where. He leaves and comes back hours later, creaking through the house to our bedroom and bringing with him the trail: leaves in the hallway, the dank smell of earth and ferns on his skin. His knees popping when he eases himself to the edge of the bed, where he often pauses and I can feel the jumps of him crying silently.
I haven’t said anything to him about it yet. I don’t know why. This secret of his walks feels so delicate between us, as if the entire weight of what we’re becoming rests on a few thin threads of privacy. But, then, he also believes Nainoa is dead; I know our son is still alive. We talk about it indirectly but never come at it full in the face. And so he walks and grieves, alone. Augie has never let me see that part of him. There’s always his laughter or his brow split with worry and labor, but never the ragged teeth of full grief.
The thought comes to me all of a sudden: God, these men. Why is it they always pull their hurt up inside themselves, gulp it down into the quiet corners of their soul, clench it like a muscle? Nainoa did it—does it—with his valley retreat, but before that how he’d shut down on the phone, a flat voice and easy words, Everything is fine over here in Portland, just another day of car accidents and domestic violence, but when you saw him play his ‘uke you knew he had a heart ready to burst. And Dean does it, too, with all his slick talk and joshing everyone, a tough front with simple answers, but his eyes are always glimmering with the shine of his basketball memories. He never hit me again after that first time—was never violent in the house again at all—but that didn’t stop me from remembering that he’d become someone capable of losing control. And now here’s my husband. He’s all jokes all the time, of course. When we first started together I loved it more than anything. He’d joke and giggle and the giggling would bubble over into my own lungs, until we were both laughing to tears. I’ve learned that laughter is the first wall he puts up against the hurt of the world. The walking he’s doing now is what comes after that wall is smashed apart.
But now I am here, and he is here, standing at the door, letting it creak closed behind. His lids are heavy, his eyes cracked with red, but those great cheeks of his are still strong and round. He’s wearing a shirt that grips his chest, and there’s the outward stretch of cotton from the solid brick of his belly, the one part of his body that’s grown slowly, but steadily, since we’ve been married, and an old pair of faded jeans that are about to go at the knees. The sun-heated shine of his dark-brown skin, even at midnight. He steps out of his slippers and wipes a hand across the thin mustache he’s let sprout.
“Where were you?” I say.
“Out,” he says. “Out out out. Out…” The sound drifts. He walks past me to the kitchen. I feel the argument starting to rush hot to my face as I follow him into the kitchen.
“Will you talk to me, for once?” I say. “You don’t talk to me anymore.”
His head’s in the refrigerator. It’s like he didn’t even hear me, his fingers drumming the top of the refrigerator door.
Who knows how many seconds he’s like that, staring into the refrigerator. I swear I can feel the cold from it looping through the whole room. But he stands, the door open, his fingers drumming, long beyond the time it would take anyone to look through the whole refrigerator. “There’s nothing in there,” I say. A jug of milk, always—always—on its final third; limp lettuce that we’ve been stretching for well over a week; a cheap plastic tray of huli-huli chicken with its glazed and blackened skin that Augie’s been nibbling at for the last two days; half a bag of carrots; the last beer in a six-pack, the plastic rings looped around its neck like it’s the last catch of the day; and then the ketchup and mayonnaise and four eggs and the other little things, none of them whole.
“There’s never nothing in here, yeah,” he says finally. “Just this little chicken,” he says, pointing to the leftover huli-huli. “Little chicken. Little chicken little chicken little shit little chicken shit.” He says that last part so that you can almost hear an “e” in it. Shet. I hear him whisper chicken shit, chicken shit, just barely audible. There’s a serious look on his face, as if he’s looking at the first page of a test for a class he wished he’d studied better in.
He scratches his belly, his shirt piling up on his wrist. The prickly sound of his fingernail over his hair, and he’s looking at the kitchen wall. I wait. Sometimes Augie gets to what he wants to say the long way, talking about sports and a fishing trip and the color of the awful shirts at Hilo Hattie’s, or how many tourists he saw down by Kalakaua Avenue when he went to see old friends that lived just off Waikiki and then suddenly he’ll be talking about how he loves me and missed the way my hair fanned out across both our pillows at night.