Chapter 12: Day 3: 3:35PM

On April 24, 1873, Sheriff William Owen planted an Indian Banyan tree directly adjacent to the port of Lahaina to celebrate the 50ths anniversary of the first protestant mission in the town. The area around the tree was designated a park. A place where sun weary citizens could rest in the shade. The tree thrived. Just eight feet tall when planted, it grew over time and is now over sixty feet tall, covering almost two acres, and has sixteen major trunks in addition to its primary one. Its circumference is said to be over one quarter mile and over one thousand people could find shade under its two-third of an acre canopy. At night, the tree serves is a roost for thousands of mynah birds whose chattering chirping and cries celebrate the setting sun.

I am sitting on one the many park benches located around the tree.  In preparation for what is to come, I am wearing a pair of Maui Jim blue mirrored sunglasses, a well-loved Red Sox cap and  a black t-shirt that has written on its front “Hunter S. Thompson, authors of Hell’s Angel’s, Fear and Loathing and Las Vegas, A Savage Journey To The Heart of the American Dream” below which is an iconic Ralph Steadman illustration in black and white of the driving in desert with his faithful companion Dr. Gonzo. 

This tree is one of my favorite places in the world. I first encountered it nearly twenty years ago on my first trip to Hawaii. On the eve of going to Maui for the first time, Conor, who had been there many times, told me that I should go out of my way to visit the tree in Lahaina. This was completely out of character for him. Telling me a great restaurant to eat at, a good bar for a Martini, the right beach for watching girls were all part of his repertoire. Visit a tree? Not so much. He was not a tree hugger. It was so out of character that I had to see what had inspired him.

The day my girlfriend and I went to Lahaina was a particularly hot day with temperatures in the low 90’s, a cloudless sky and little wind to cool one down. Katherine had been eager to melt a few credit cards shopping the stores along Front Street. Knowing she got a lot of joy out of this type of activity and I so little that it would likely ruin her experience, I volunteered to go in search of the Banyan tree and wait for her there while she finished her retail therapy.  

The tree was not hard to find, it was just a few blocks down Front Street and was immense. It took up a full city block and looked as if it had been designed by Rube Goldberg with an able assist by Dr. Seuss and a final edit by Escher. It’s sprawling canopy supported, multiple trunks, aerial roots that descended from the branches into the ground and a network of branches so interwoven it was impossible to follow their path. It was an amazing sight to see but that is not what struck me the most. It had a presence. It was an entity and like the tree in Shel Silverstein’s classic adult children’s book it seemed as if it wanted to give joy to those who saw it. Its shade was filled with the laughter of children playing under it and not a frown in sight for the adults who lingered underneath.

I called my father from a bench under the tree that day and described it to him and the joy I felt sitting under its branches. Eighteen months later on a trip to Maui with my parents I took him to visit the tree.  My father, whose happiest moments of childhood were spent playing in the forest near his grandmother’s home in Fahrafeld, Austria, and still thought of trees as friends, said, after circumnavigating the Banyan, in his typical understated fashion“You weren’t wrong about this tree.”

It is the memory of that first visit and the visit with the old man that brought me to the tree today. The last eighteen months of pandemic had been a journey of loss, and sorrow. My trip so far had been anything but relaxing and comforting. Confronting your ghosts rarely is.  What was to come later that day promised no respite. I needed an oasis of comfort and peace. I hoped by sitting underneath this miracle of endurance and survival would give me the resolve to complete the task that brought us to this island in the first place.

My bench is near the original trunk of the Banyan.  I watch a group of small children play hide and go seek among the multitude of trunks.  Parents, their faces reflecting the joy of their children, look on in amusement with iPhones poised to catch every moment for their feeds and personal archive. A newlywed couple sits close to each other on a nearby bench holding hands, kissing, and cuddling. Do they see the tree as a metaphor for their new life together and the legacy they hope to create. A single tree branching out over time becoming many and immortal. Like the tree my parents created with my brother, sister, and me. Only my offshoot would have no branches and would not grow. I am eternally grateful for the love I found with Nadine, but it had come too late for children. A fact that has weighed heavily on me over the course of the pandemic.

These dark thoughts will not do. I do not need them today. I pull my baseball cap down, lean back on the bench and close my eyes. It has been a long day already. I napped when I returned from Haleakala, but it did little to relieve my weariness.  I need to meditate and let my darker thoughts drift away. Back in college, when I learned Transcendental Meditation, I had been taught to repeat my mantra in the rhythm that called to you until a thought carried you away. When you became aware that you were losing your refrain you return to the rhythm of the mantra until another thought or idea brought you somewhere new. I am not an ardent follower of TM it is useful when my thoughts are gripped in a whirlpool of despair, sadness or hurt. It doesn’t provide answers or solve problems but allows moments of peace to reduce the problems I think of as mountains to hills.

The first thought that drifts into my mind after I began repeating my mantra is Nadine. It is my first trip to Brazil after meeting her on an eighteen-day cruise up the coast of Brazil and crossing to Morocco, Portugal and Italy. We had both been on the cruise to find a little peace after being prime care givers to our fathers. It was a small break in our battle to make our dad’s final days easier. That peace would end the minute we left the ship. We were both returning to goodbyes and heartache. It made our romance torrid and intense. Its afterglow left us wondering whether this was just a shipboard dalliance destined to fade and crumble like a rose placed in a book from a forgotten paramour or a true love affair that would fill the emptiness in our lives.  Just weeks after goodbyes on the docks of Savona, Italy I flew to Rio to find out. I was nervous as I left customs. What would I find when I walked through those swinging doors where loved ones anxiously awaited the arriving passengers. At first, I could not see her among the throng and then she stepped forward looking radiantly beautiful with an incandescent smile that immediately erased my anxiety and answered every question I had about our relationship. It is an indelible memory.  The one I tapped when our Covid enforced separation seemed insufferable. 

“Buddy Boy!”

I opened my eyes. Not entirely to my surprise, sitting next to me is Conor. He is wearing a very loud Hawaiian shirt patterned with amply endowed topless hula dancers, floral board shorts, reflective aviator sunglasses and a trucker hat with an image of Hunter Thompson smoking a cigarette in a long holder with the motto “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”

I said, “I figured you would show up here.”

Grinning from ear to ear he said “I did tell you about the place.”

“You did. But that isn’t the biggest reason I thought you might show up here this afternoon.”

“Was it because I told you I would see you yesterday morning when I was swimming?”

“Partially…” my voice dropping off at the end.

Smiling he said “And…”

I start to laugh. “You know, every time you say that it makes me laugh.”

Laughing himself he says, “The night in Venice.”

“Of course, the night in Venice! Del, Phoebe, you and I were completely blitzed and you got it your mind that we had to find this disco and dance. The rest of us were too drunk to argue and  you led us on this forced march through the labyrinth of old city streets, map firmly in hand over one canal and then another, down dark and creepy streets until we were completely lost. Del finally insisted you ask someone for directions, and we watched from a distance as you stood on the top of one of these arched stone bridges over a canal and asked a stranger for directions. All we could hear was your voice booming “And?” repeatedly. Maybe a dozen times. When you finally finished talking to the good Samaritan who had given you directions and came walking back to us we asked you what he had told you and you said “I have no idea I don’t speak Italian.”

“We never did find that disco did we.”

“No, we didn’t but we managed to have a good time anyway. I seem to remember us drinking a little bit more and then leading a conga line through a flooded Piazza San Marco.”

“We created a lot of memories together didn’t we budrow.”

With the sadness that nostalgia often brings I say, “Yeah we did.”

Conor smiles and replies “You didn’t answer the question why did you think I would put in an appearance here?”

“Two reasons. First, there is not much time left.”

With a twisted smile he nods his head and says, “Well there is that.” Chuckling he adds “And.”

I smile too and reply “I talked to Duke this morning.”

“Oh? What did he have to say for himself.”

“I did most of the talking.”

“Well, there is a surprise.”

“Nice. Eat me!”

Conor laughs and says “Seriously, what did you talk about?”

I looked down at my feet for a second before answering him and said “I told him that I was pissed off at him. He had so much to offer and he just gave up. And while I can not grasp what was going on in his bipolar effected brain he didn’t understand the hurt and destruction his suicide created.”

“And…”

“Don’t start that again.”

“Well?”

“I told him. I was sorry.”

“For what?”

“Remember, after you first told me about Duke’s diagnosis you told me that Delilah had wanted to turn him out until he got his act together. And you wouldn’t let her. You said you know your son. That the traditional way of treating his alcoholism would not work for him. Turning your back on him, would just makes him more determined than ever to continue the path he was on if for no other reason than to prove everyone wrong. You knew that because that is the way you would react and Duke, at least in that regard, was exactly like you. With Duke you needed a more bespoke approach. One that helped him exorcise his demons and put-up guardrails that kept him on the right path.”

“I remember.”

“Instead of listening to your advice about your son I took my lead from Liam and Del. They asked me to practice “tough love.” It was a mistake. Liam loved his brother and wanted to do his best but didn’t have the life experience or tool set to deal with his problems. Del who as much as she loved Duke never understood him. They asked me not to speak with Duke unless he was sober and getting treatment. Instead of fighting them, which would have been the right thing to do, I went along with them.”

Conor took off his sunglasses so he could look at me eye to eye and said, “Why did you do do that.”

I looked down, avoiding his glare and said “You mean why did I do the easy thing, the nice thing, instead of taking on the challenge of doing the right thing, the kind thing?”

“Your words.”

“Oh, I have great excuses. My mother and two of my best friends had just died. There was a global pandemic killing millions. Nadine was thousands of miles away. I was alone and didn’t have the strength to take on another emotional challenge.”

“But?”

“Cold comfort. At least to me. They are just obstacles. Little fairy tales that one tells oneself, so you don’t feel bad. They don’t absolve me from not doing more. I should have found the strength…”

“And…”

“Always with the ands…And I thought I was better than that. Stronger than that.  But I was not. And my lack of will may be understandable to others. It isn’t for me.”

Con nods and puts a hand on my shoulder and says “Sure you could have done more.  Everyone can always do a little more. Even in situations where you feel like you have done everything that you possibly can at some point you realize that you weren’t creative enough. You lacked imagination or followed the wrong path. You were not strong enough to try one more thing. There will always be something more you can have done. Those are the should haves, could haves and would haves everyone faces when the shit hits the fan. My question to you is why are you flagellating yourself over being imperfect?  Aren’t we all. Lord, knows I certainly was. Sure, you made a promise to me to look out for him. And you did. Could you have done more? I guess. But would the outcome have been different? I don’t know. You don’t know. But the truth is Danny, you were not the only one who should have been looking out for my boy. Del was there. Duke is her son. I told her the same thing I told you. She should have done more than hoping he would suddenly discover the path to sobriety and his mental health would spring spontaneously from prayer and tough love. She should have gotten on an airplane, found Duke and dragged him by his hair to rehab. She didn’t. She failed as a mother. This is not just about accepting your own responsibility. You are really good at that. You fuck up. You learn. You move on. That is you. There is more here. What is it?”