12 Hours In Paradise (12 page)

“Right here?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

“Absolutely.”

“No. Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t have the vaguest notion of how to yodel.”

“And no lederhosen, either?” I pushed my lower lip out in mock disappointment.

“Nope. Never worn them. No knee-highs or puffy, white blouses, either.”

He tapped my lower lip lightly with the tip of his finger, and it retreated from pout mode.

“Okay, sorry. Go on. I’m ruining your big accomplishment.”

“No, you’re not,” he said quietly. “It’s not something that can be ruined.” He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes again, but this time it seemed out of hesitation rather than sleepiness. He replaced the glasses and looked over at me. “My school was a wonderful place for me, and I wouldn’t trade that time in my life for anything. Maybe I needed the camaraderie of my peers since I was an only child, or maybe I’m the just type of person who places a special value on independence. My parents raised me in a way that made me always long for adventure and new experiences. What I’m trying to say is I wasn’t scared or sad to be in a boarding school. Quite the contrary—I was elated. But not everyone felt as I did.”

“I don’t doubt that.
I
wouldn’t have liked it. I know Chester could never handle being sent away.”

“Remember, I wasn’t
sent
away. I wanted to go. I
asked
to go. But enough about me. There were a lot of other boys who were there for all kinds of reasons…unfortunately, only a handful were there for the same reasons as me. Many had parents too preoccupied with their lives to be distracted by child-rearing. Some parents sent their problem children away, hoping they’d return transformed by the school. And often they did, but unfortunately not usually transformed in the way their parents were hoping for. Usually in a bad way.”

“What was the school doing wrong that transformed them in a bad way?”

“Absolutely nothing. The school did what schools are supposed to do. Offer a great education and foster respect between students and teachers. Schools aren’t supposed to provide therapy for dysfunctional families. They aren’t supposed to be surrogate parents. They were on the lookout for troubled students, but quite honestly there were a lot of troubled students, so it wasn’t exactly like they could follow them around day and night, checking on their well-being.”

“I’m sorry, but this school sounds totally depressing. I just don’t get why you loved it so much.”

“What I loved about it was the in…de…pen…dence.” He carefully enunciated each syllable, tapping them out on my thigh as though he was playing a percussion instrument. “And of course the learning and extracurriculars. I still had a lot of friends. Not everyone was troubled, and even some of the so-called messed-up kids were the most interesting.”

“Okay. I get it.”

“One of my classmates was a boy named Benjamin. He was British. I liked Benjamin a lot because he was smart and kind. At random times he’d come up with a comment about life or an observation about something we were studying in school…it would just blow me away. He was so deeply insightful. And funny too, in the way only brilliant people can be funny. But he never quite fit into any of the groups—not the druggies, not the acting-outs, not the complete nerds, not the ones who wanted to party and ski. He was just…himself. But I liked Benjamin, and we talked a great deal about many different things.”

“What group were you in?”

“Let’s just call my group the relatively well-adjusted group.
Relatively
.”

“And Benjamin never wanted to hang out with the relatively well-adjusted group?”

“No, he never did anything with our group.”

“Why didn’t you ask him?”

“I
did
.” I heard the irritation in his voice. “He didn’t care to join us. He read a lot. He loved to read.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s a good thing. But Benjamin…he never should have been sent to a school like ours. He wasn’t constructed that way. Benjamin should have stayed close to home, kept securely within the safety net of a caring family.”

“Why wasn’t he?” I still couldn’t imagine parents who would send their children away, far from home. Especially if the kid didn’t want to go. My parents barely wanted to let me out of their sight.

“His family was upper-class. His father was a member of Parliament, and his mother had numerous social engagements. Within their circle, it was expected the children would attend boarding school by that age.”

“Why didn’t he tell them he didn’t want to go?”

“That would have been admitting failure to the person he admired most—his father. He couldn’t do that. Benjamin never could have done that.”

The flame of the gas torch swayed in the ocean breeze. Its painted shadows seemed ominous, devilish, threatening. I felt a sudden chill and folded my arms in front of my body.

“I’m getting a bad feeling for what you’re about to say.”

“That’s because you’re an insightful person. But I’ll come to the point without dragging it out any longer.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“I know you didn’t. I suppose I’m dragging it out because it’s a difficult thing for me to talk about.”

“So take your time, then.”

“Often when I was on my way back to my room for the night, I’d walk by Benjamin’s room, and if the door was left open a crack, I’d pop my head in and see if he was in the mood to talk. His parents paid for a single, which was probably the worst thing they could have done for him, although I’m sure they thought they were being generous.

“Benjamin was usually lying in bed reading by that time of night. Or any time he was in his room, for that matter. So one night I noticed his door was closed and—like you—I had a bad feeling, so I knocked on his door. A few times. Finally, he opened the door, looking a bit disheveled. He was always a little downcast, but that night he seemed particularly so. I tried to lighten the mood by talking about a boy none of us liked because he was arrogant as well as a blatant liar and cheat. I asked Benjamin about the book he was reading, a science fiction novel which to me seemed like a good thing. Light fantasy. I asked what he’d heard from home. I asked anything I could think of to keep the conversation going. But he seemed so lethargic. I couldn’t seem to engage him that night.

“Then, just when I was about to give up and go back to my room, Benjamin said, ‘Life sucks.’ Just that…‘Life sucks.’ Naturally, I sat back down again and asked what he meant by that. But he said he was just bored with school and was looking forward to our winter break. He tried to brush it off as though he’d never said it. I held my breath and asked him if he ever thought about harming himself, because we’d been taught you should always ask if you suspect a person might be suicidal. Believe me, it’s a very difficult thing to do.”

“Oh my God. Yes, I can imagine.” I reached over and put my hand over Arash’s. He clasped my hand and gave it a squeeze. His voice didn’t waver.

“He hesitated just a second too long before he said no. But he did say no. And then I told him I was always there for him whenever he wanted to talk. That I thought he was an amazing person and I’d had some of the best conversations of my life with him. I told him that he was one of the most thoughtful people I’d ever known, and I considered myself lucky to count him as a friend. I asked him if he wanted to join up with a group of us going into town the next morning, and he said he’d think about it.

“When I finally left his room to go to bed, I made a mental note to talk to one of the counselors the next morning. To alert them to the fact that Benjamin was really feeling down. But I never had the chance. He killed himself later that night.”

“That makes me want to cry.” I didn’t know Benjamin, but I did know Arash. It was the worst thing I could imagine.

“Hey.” Arash slid closer to me and put his arm around me. “Don’t cry. I haven’t told you my greatest accomplishment yet.”

I leaned my head against his shoulder. “I think I know what it is, but tell me.”

“My greatest accomplishment…in that darkest of nights for Benjamin…I was…I was a
mirror
that reflected his wonderfulness back at him. And I think he saw it before he died. He
had
to have seen it.”

His voice choked, and he held me tighter. I sniffled and thought about Arash’s wonderfulness. Was I reflecting it back to him?

“I suppose many people would have thought of this as their greatest failure. That they should have been able to do something to stop their friend from taking his life. Woken a counselor and reported their concern. But I know life doesn’t work that way. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. I don’t blame myself anymore.”

“You said you shared this story with three other people. Who were they?”

“My parents. And Benjamin’s mother.”

“I don’t even know what to say except I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry that you had to go through that.”

“Let’s go to the next question. I think we’ve both given this question everything we possibly could.”

“Arash. You know when you were telling that story I kept looking at the torchlight, and it made me think of something.”

“What’s that?” Arash asked.

“A Hawaiian legend I read about in a book my granny bought me a few years ago. There are spirits called the night marchers that come out when it’s dark. They’re supposed to be the ghosts of fallen soldiers looking for a path to the next world. Or maybe they’re just retracing their steps to the battles where they were killed, I can’t remember. Anyway, you know when they’re near because they carry torches and move to the steady beat of drums.”

“Sounds a little creepy.”

“It
is
creepy. Just thinking about it gives me goose bumps. And seeing a torchlight always makes me think of them. If you ever hear the drum beat of the marchers or see their torches, you’re supposed to fall on your face so you can’t look at them and they can’t see you. If you make eye contact with one of them, then you’ll die. Maybe not right away, but soon.”

Arash looked up at the torchlight, which swayed in the breeze like the fronds of the palm tree directly overhead.

“And I was thinking,” I went on, “that Benjamin…maybe he knew what he was looking at, but he just couldn’t look away. No matter what you said or did that night.”

“I think you’re right, Dorothy,” he said after a few seconds. “Let’s walk some more, if you don’t mind. I feel it’s time to move on.”

He stood and offered his hand to me. He was right. It was time to move on.

***

“Where should we go?”

It was really late. Middle-of-the-night late. Most of the people in the sleeping bags were down for the night. I couldn’t see Buster’s owners anymore, so I assumed they were part of the lumpy shape underneath a pile of blankets where Buster snuggled comma-style, nose to hind paws. I wondered what it would be like to sleep out in public that way. Better Hawaii where it was never cold than someplace like Reno where temperatures dropped below freezing.

“I don’t really care. If you don’t have any preference, let’s just walk. Maybe back the way we came since it looks pretty dark up ahead.”

“Say good-bye to Diamond Head.”

“Good-bye, Diamond Head. Aloha, Lē‘ahi.”

We walked toward the street which ran perpendicular to the beach.

From starlight to city lights.

From the splashing of waves to the hum of traffic.

“You’ve had so much tragedy in your life, Arash. With your dad…and Benjamin. The worst thing that’s happened in my life is when my grampy died. That was bad, but he was old at least.”

“The truth is, I’m a pretty lucky guy. I’ve done things and been to places most people could only dream of, thanks to my father’s family wealth. And there are so many places I still want to visit and things I want to do.”

“Your father’s rich?”

“His family has money. One day, if I behave, a portion of it will be mine. And I know you won’t believe me if I tell you I don’t care, but I really don’t. With or without it doesn’t matter as long as it’s life on my terms.”

“Yeah, but it’s a lot easier to live life on your own terms if you don’t have to worry about money.”

“Fair enough. Anyway, my trust doesn’t kick in until I’m thirty, and even then I have to pass my father’s obstacle course of life before it comes into my possession.”

“What’s an obstacle course of life?”

“Markers. Things I have to accomplish between now and then. Graduating from college with a readily identifiable skill. Spending two years in the service of others. Staying away from drugs. Other things.”

“What’s a readily identifiable skill?”

“Doctor, engineer, lawyer. Something practical. In other words, I can’t graduate with an English degree.”

“Music?”

“No music. It doesn’t mean I can’t do it. Just that I can’t major in it.”

“That sucks.”

“Yes and no. I can do whatever I want. But if I want the trust money, I have to follow his rules.”