They were kind to him and always complimentary, excessively so at times. Maybe it was their way of proving to Sharkey’s mother what good men they were, what good husbands and stepfathers they might be, as though rehearsing to be his father. Used to military housing, they always remarked on the bungalow, its garden, its seclusion on the leafy street. Did they know how much money his mother had? Probably. There were no secrets at the base, and the Sharkey family was the subject of whispers—the dog attack, the disgrace of the dog’s owner, the financial settlement, the move to Manoa, the Colonel’s death, and the scrutiny of Sharkey’s mother, the sightings of her at parties.

The uncertainties of army life, the enigmas of command, made gossip inevitable, especially among those left behind, the wives and children; the whispers were a response to the army’s code of silence. Sharkey was ashamed to think that his mother, who was in her midforties, might be talked about as a partygoer, a dater, and a drinker—ashamed for the Colonel’s sake. He saw his mother in a new way, as a woman vain about her looks, her body concealed beneath her carefully chosen dress, her heavily made-up face, someone’s date.

“This is Major Crandall,” his mother said one day when Sharkey arrived home from the beach. It was around seven, dark, his mother in a party dress and pearls.

“Hi,” Sharkey said, averting his eyes and trying to get past the man.

“Your mom tells me you’re a surfer.”

“Yeah, I’ve been doing it for a while.”

“Yes, sir,” his mother corrected. “Remember who you’re talking to.”

He thought, I am talking to a man who is taking my mother on a date, to a party or a bar or the officers’ club, to get drunk, and I don’t want to know more than that.

The man, Major Crandall, said, “I’m from San Diego. I’ve done a little surfing. ‘Hang ten.’ That’s what we always said.”

That was another thing—their way of relating to Sharkey was competitive and patronizing. They would talk about the amazing things they’d done, surfing or swimming; and some said, “I knew your father well—he was a good soldier,” as though they were competing with Sharkey, claiming to know the Colonel better than the son did. “We were in some tight situations together—firefights and insertions. I wish I could give you details but no can do—they were black ops.”

“Maybe we could catch some waves together,” Major Crandall said.

And Sharkey smiled at the presumption, because he surfed either with Uncle Sunshine or alone, and it was never a question of “catching a few waves” but rather of thrashing for hours with an intensity that was both visceral and spiritual—not a recreation, it was a life choice, a commitment. Nothing else mattered.