Mr Peanut - Adam Ross [67]
The pictures didn’t hint at how peaceful the half-mile descent down to Secret Beach was on a root-tangled and rock-littered path enclosed by a canopy of trees and brush that formed a bower so dense that it insulated you completely from the sight and sound of the ocean. They caught only glimmers of how impossibly gorgeous the young couple who climbed toward them there really were. The man was tall and sandy-haired; unshaven and sharp-featured, he carried a surfboard and stepped from rock to root as surefooted as a mountain goat. His Hawaiian wife, as if to confirm she was some sort of island princess, wore a lily in her hair. Their barefoot son followed close behind, a long-haired boy wearing a Rip Curl surfer’s shirt. Seeing Alice stop to watch him was like seeing an arrow pierce your beloved’s heart or a possible future passing you by.
He never took a picture of the urn but knew where it was at all times. Alice kept it on a small table by the door to the lanai. She placed an orchid in a small pitcher next to it, its petals so blue they seemed lit from within.
The pictures did reveal the weight she’d gained during the two weeks they were there, over fifteen pounds that puffed her cheeks, fattened her arms and legs, and if you stacked and then flipped them in sequence, the change looked like a nickelodeon before-and-after. After every enormous meal, she would sit back, exhale, and rub her belly.
Out of hundreds of photos, only one was of the two of them together. That picture was taken during their hike along the Na Pali, near the end of their time on Kauai. The trail began at Ke’e Beach, the very end of the highway that otherwise encircled the island but for this sixteen-mile stretch of towering, eroding coastline. The trail ran hundreds of feet up into the cliffs. After consulting maps and guides Harold had given him, he told Alice they had three choices. They could hike two miles in to Hanakapi’ai Beach and turn around. They could press on for two more miles and try for the Hanakoa Valley, an all-day round trip. Or if she was interested in a really extreme challenge they could go another five miles to Kalalau Beach, a strip of sand so remote and protected that boat landings were illegal. They’d have to camp there overnight, which required permits, and would need to be fully outfitted. Stage by stage, he warned, the trail became more difficult and dangerous; in fact, some parts were so narrow that even the lightest rainfall made them impassable.
He explained this with an indifference that bordered on contempt. Exhausted, finished, he was over the nights of endless crying, not because she didn’t deserve all her grief but because she always dared him to comfort her, and he was over the anger she leveled at him when he did. He was tired of going into another bedroom to sleep, of her not looking at him and not letting him touch her, of her not saying whatever it was she needed to say. He wanted to go home, and if she’d come along, he wanted that too. So when she brightened and said she’d like to go all the way to Kalalau Beach, eleven miles in and at least a two-day trip, he was taken completely by surprise—if for no other reason than on such an expedition they’d be obliged to communicate. They would have to rely on each other.
When he called this plan in, Harold advised