Read Online Now Is the Time to Open Your Heart by Alice Walker - Free Book Online
Authors: Alice Walker
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their mothers he simply could not understand. As old as he was the thought of losing his mother, for any reason, including old age and readiness, made him want to cry. Africans were said to be the most attached to their children of all peoples the Europeans encountered. You could make the mother especially do anything by threatening to harm her child.
And our unique hair, said Kate. Do you realize everybody else’s hair, on the entire planet, is straight?
Well, compared to ours, he’d said, laughing and kissing her graying locks.
At last he was blissed out on the beach, The Mists of Avalon in one hand, a gin and tonic in the other. Kate had given him another book to read called Shark Dialogues, a book about, as she put it, The Real Hawaii, but he had left it in his room. The sea was azure enough to make you weep. He was in paradise. If only his woman was with him and not off in some jungle probably by now trying to communicate with a snake.
In this relaxed, bemused frame of mind, he dozed.
Hey, bradda!
Slowly and reluctantly opening his eyes he saw a very large man. Brown with a protruding belly. Dark eyes and long wavy hair. He was wearing frayed denim cutoffs and that was all. He looked like . . . Damn, he looked like something Yolo had not seen since coming to Hawaii. He looked like maybe a Hawaiian.
Hey, bradda man, for want you come oba deah. The man was pointing.
What was he speaking? Yolo dragged himself out of the land of gin and pleasant dreams and squinted toward the end of the beach where the man was pointing. He could see nothing.
What is it? he asked. What can I do for you?
The man seemed surprised.
Oh, he said. I thought . . .
Yolo was on his feet. Grabbing his straw hat and quickly shoving his feet into sandals because the sand was fiercely hot.
I’m sorry, said the man, I thought you was a bradda.
I am, actually, said Yolo.
There was silence. The man looked toward the hotel, considered something for a moment. Turned back to Yolo and said, If you don’t mind. I’m very sorry. But I need to ask you to do something. It will take only a little while. I have to go home and get something and I need to ask you to stay with something I need to leave protected on the beach.
Oh shit, thought Yolo.
Are you a fisherman? he asked.
Yes, said the man. I was fishing.
Yolo thought of being asked to guard a boatload of marijuana. He wanted to say no. He wanted to explain about his vacation. How much he needed one. How much he deserved one. He’d painted furiously all year and had made just enough to pay his bills, keep the heat going, and have this vacation!
On the other hand, he was trying to have a vacation where someone else was working. He thought: What would she do? He stepped back a bit from the man. Looked him up and down. He noticed his eyes were sad and a bit bloodshot. His hair blown every which way. Still, it was what his father would call “a good face.” Nothing menacing or malignant seemed to have ever inhabited it. He hadn’t missed any meals in his life either, which said something about his stability.
Let’s go, he said.
Down the beach they walked, the big man, who said his name was Jerry SomethingVeryComplicated, (Izkamakawiwo’ole!), leading the way. The beach was longer than it looked from where he’d lain in his incredibly comfy beach lounger. There was a narrow, shallow river emptying into the ocean that they needed to cross. On the other side of the river there were no chairs, no umbrellas. The place seemed still wild.
This part of the beach for da locals, said Jerry, as if to explain.
Does that mean you can’t go to the beach on the hotel side? asked Yolo.
Who can afford it? said Jerry, shrugging.
The beach made a curious turn to the left, around some black, deeply pitted lava rocks. Out of sight of the hotel there was anchored a small, battered fishing boat. They walked toward it. As they came closer to it and because he was looking at the boat
And our unique hair, said Kate. Do you realize everybody else’s hair, on the entire planet, is straight?
Well, compared to ours, he’d said, laughing and kissing her graying locks.
At last he was blissed out on the beach, The Mists of Avalon in one hand, a gin and tonic in the other. Kate had given him another book to read called Shark Dialogues, a book about, as she put it, The Real Hawaii, but he had left it in his room. The sea was azure enough to make you weep. He was in paradise. If only his woman was with him and not off in some jungle probably by now trying to communicate with a snake.
In this relaxed, bemused frame of mind, he dozed.
Hey, bradda!
Slowly and reluctantly opening his eyes he saw a very large man. Brown with a protruding belly. Dark eyes and long wavy hair. He was wearing frayed denim cutoffs and that was all. He looked like . . . Damn, he looked like something Yolo had not seen since coming to Hawaii. He looked like maybe a Hawaiian.
Hey, bradda man, for want you come oba deah. The man was pointing.
What was he speaking? Yolo dragged himself out of the land of gin and pleasant dreams and squinted toward the end of the beach where the man was pointing. He could see nothing.
What is it? he asked. What can I do for you?
The man seemed surprised.
Oh, he said. I thought . . .
Yolo was on his feet. Grabbing his straw hat and quickly shoving his feet into sandals because the sand was fiercely hot.
I’m sorry, said the man, I thought you was a bradda.
I am, actually, said Yolo.
There was silence. The man looked toward the hotel, considered something for a moment. Turned back to Yolo and said, If you don’t mind. I’m very sorry. But I need to ask you to do something. It will take only a little while. I have to go home and get something and I need to ask you to stay with something I need to leave protected on the beach.
Oh shit, thought Yolo.
Are you a fisherman? he asked.
Yes, said the man. I was fishing.
Yolo thought of being asked to guard a boatload of marijuana. He wanted to say no. He wanted to explain about his vacation. How much he needed one. How much he deserved one. He’d painted furiously all year and had made just enough to pay his bills, keep the heat going, and have this vacation!
On the other hand, he was trying to have a vacation where someone else was working. He thought: What would she do? He stepped back a bit from the man. Looked him up and down. He noticed his eyes were sad and a bit bloodshot. His hair blown every which way. Still, it was what his father would call “a good face.” Nothing menacing or malignant seemed to have ever inhabited it. He hadn’t missed any meals in his life either, which said something about his stability.
Let’s go, he said.
Down the beach they walked, the big man, who said his name was Jerry SomethingVeryComplicated, (Izkamakawiwo’ole!), leading the way. The beach was longer than it looked from where he’d lain in his incredibly comfy beach lounger. There was a narrow, shallow river emptying into the ocean that they needed to cross. On the other side of the river there were no chairs, no umbrellas. The place seemed still wild.
This part of the beach for da locals, said Jerry, as if to explain.
Does that mean you can’t go to the beach on the hotel side? asked Yolo.
Who can afford it? said Jerry, shrugging.
The beach made a curious turn to the left, around some black, deeply pitted lava rocks. Out of sight of the hotel there was anchored a small, battered fishing boat. They walked toward it. As they came closer to it and because he was looking at the boat
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