Читать книгу Rani Patel In Full Effect - Sonia Patel - Страница 10

KANEMITSU’S

The single lane “highway” between Maunaloa and Kaunakakai was pitch black—nothing new because there aren’t any street lamps. No stop signs or traffic lights either. Nothing to break the tedium of the twenty-five minute drive. Most nights I don’t pass any cars.

A while back, Pono told me something that still kinda freaks me out every time I’m driving back from Maunaloa. He said that at sunset or sunrise I should be wary of huaka’i po, particularly near the sacred Kapuaiwa Coconut Grove that’s one mile before Kaunakakai. Makai of the highway. When I’m driving alone in the dark, even if it’s way past sunset, I get scared I’ll hear the drums of the ‘oi’o. And they’ll be chanting and marching near me. If you look the ghosts of the departed warriors in the eye, you’ll die. No thanks!

But thankfully my rumbling tummy directed my attention to images that weren’t frightening: Kanemitsu’s famous hot bread slathered with melting, gooey cream cheese and sweet and tart liliko’i jelly. Wiping the drool from my lips, I swerved a bit. Driving was a challenge when all you could see was fresh bread.

Finally I saw the Chevron. I slowed down and turned left onto Ala Malama Avenue, the main street in Kaunakakai. Everyone on Moloka’i calls Kaunakakai “town.” Most people on the island live in town, in small, single-wall construction homes spreading out in a three-to-four mile radius of the main street.

Technically that makes the short strip of one-or two-story business buildings on Ala Malama Avenue “downtown.” Downtown’s got the two best-stocked grocery stores on the island: Friendly Market and Misaki’s. It’s got the only pharmacy. It’s got a couple of restaurants and banks. A library. A post office. The police station. A fire station. A few other retail stores. Some state and county offices. And of course, Kanemitsu’s Bakery & Coffee Shop.

Kanemitsu’s was jumping. I counted ten trucks and cars already out in front. Instead of hanging out with friends, my weekly Saturday night social reality has been standing in line with a bunch of people I only sort of know. Together we wait for a delicious late night treat.

It’s an adventure that only locals know about. The bakery’s storefront is actually closed this late at night. To get the prized loaves, you have to walk to the back door that’s tucked away from the main street. Every time I make my way down the shadowy alley to get there, I hear Duran Duran’s A View to a Kill play in my mind’s boombox. I’m always alone on the stealth walk so I pretend it’s dangerous. Like I’m heading to some big drug deal. Not that I’ve ever used drugs. Or alcohol. Or even cigarettes. Although I am kind of an underage dealer since I sell booze and smokes on the daily at the store.

I parked next to a Moloka’i Ranch flatbed.

Is that who I think it is?

If Mark was in line, that would take the night to a whole new level. I pulled my hair into a high ponytail and did an appearance check in the rearview mirror.

Ok, somewhat passable.

I quickly sniffed my pits.

Uh-oh, barely passable.

I shrugged and hopped out of the truck. Girl’s gotta eat.

The prospect of seeing Mark in line distracted me from making my usual 007 jaunt down the alley. Before I knew it, I was queued up behind twelve other hungry souls. The lady at the front of the line knocked on the dilapidated wooden door. Then she stepped back to wait for the mysterious bearer of bread—a curiously odd, delicate man with a raspy voice—to take her order.

Marky Mark—sans the Funky Bunch—was the last in line. Oh yeah. I welcomed the Good Vibrations.

He was standing with Stan Lee, a newbie at the Ranch. Stan recently moved here from Honolulu, so I don’t know much about him. Except what I could see. That he’s full Korean and about twenty-four. A couple of weeks ago, Mark and Stan Lee came into the store after work, engrossed in a conversation. I overheard Stan Lee saying something about his mom’s batu-smoking boyfriend beating her up again. Stan Lee said he felt guilty because he’d been out when it happened. I wonder if he moved to Moloka’i to protect his mom.

So there I was, standing behind them in the bread line. I heard Stan Lee speaking all hush-hush to Mark. For a second I considered staying quiet, thinking I should let them go on with their convo. But I changed my mind. I decided a loud clearing of my throat was the most logical way to interrupt. Mark whisked around at the sound.

“Hey Rani, howzit?” His speech and smile told me that he was well into the cold pack he bought earlier.

I lifted up my glasses by their corners. “Oh hey, Mark. I didn’t expect you here.” Hoping my speech and smile didn’t tell him that I was well into thinking about the six pack I knew he had under that shirt. “Just finished work. I’m starving,” I added, as lukewarm as possible to douse the heat rising in me.

“Yeah, us too. We’re going down to the wharf to eat. Come hang out,” Mark suggested.

Butterflies.

Stan turned his back to me at that point. I swear I heard him let out a small grunt, a mixture of an annoyed sigh and a half-whispered fuck. I was about to say yes to Mark when I heard my dad’s laugh behind me. My head swiveled around at the sound. Even though it was dark, I could make out his tall thin build and Indro. He was walking with some woman down the alley. Dad skyscraped over her. They sauntered arm-in-arm. When they got near the only faint light fixture, I saw him chatting away and gazing down at her. She was looking up at him, all bright-eyed, like a fascinated student. The way I used to look at him. They stopped for a second and he leaned in for a kiss.

My thoughts sprinted.

Fight or flight? Fight, then flight.

What happened next was a blur of tears, confusion, jealousy, and contention.

I charged towards them. My arms moved purposefully, strictly in sync with my steps. As if someone ordered me to do a military quick march.

Dad’s never walked arm-in-arm with Mom.

I stopped.

Dad’s never talked with Mom like this. And he hasn’t confided in me since the end of last school year.

I took a second to knuckle up, then bolted forward again.

Dad’s never kissed Mom in public. Come to think of it, I’ve NEVER seen him kiss her. But he’s kissed…

My body was paralyzed at that point. It was as if I was standing on a track and a train was charging at me. I could see the conductor and he sounded the whistle. But I couldn’t move. I was about to be bulldozed when in an instant the train took a detour. I was face-to-face with my dad.

Dad folded his arms and gave me a look. The look. The one where he rolls his eyes and sighs in exasperation. Like I did something to let him down, to frustrate him.

The hussy smiled. Yep. She stood there and smiled at me.

“What the heck, Dad?” I asked. Half yelling. Half crying.

“Shhhh. Keep it down, Rani,” my dad whispered firmly, pressing his straightened index finger on his lips. Then he put his arm around the slut and said, “You know Wendy. Wendy Nagaoki.”

That’s right. I remembered where I’d seen her. Misaki Market. Wendy the checkout girl who never smiles at customers. Word on the street is that Wendy was addicted to batu the year after she graduated from Moloka’i High & Intermediate School. I think she got her MHIS diploma in ‘87.

That makes her about 21. Yuck!

But then her mom gave her some straight up tough love and threatened to kick her out of the house. I guess Wendy got herself together. Somehow she must’ve managed to get off the stuff. I’m betting there’s more to the story than that. I don’t care because she’s obviously stolen my dad.

I’m thinking Dad met her at Misaki’s. I could see it. Deadpan Wendy. Ringing up customers. Dad next in line. He makes some witty remark and her lips curve up. Then she laughs. And that was that.

I think about how young she is.

Ugh.

And she’s not all that good-looking. Short. Short black bob. Lackluster eyes. Baggy grandma shorts and flowery blouse. No flava. Still she was the one smiling. Not me. I exhaled loudly, agitated. I envisioned getting up in her face and screaming something venomous. Instead, I kept my eyes and head lowered and muttered, “Skeeze.”

“Rani, let’s talk about…” she started to say.

But I wasn’t about to stay and jabber with this plain-Jane-Dad-thief. I ran past them back to the truck. My gut was tight, my chest empty and aching. I fumbled with my keys and finally got the truck door open. I grabbed the steering wheel and hauled my sorry ass onto the seat. I put the pedal to the metal and gassed it all the way home, doing sixty in a thirty-five. Windows down. Warm air blowing through my vagrun var for the last time. Because I knew full well what I was going to do as soon as I got home.

That was last night.

This morning I’m sweeping up the tangled spread of my hair on the deck. I use a small brush to coax it into a trash bag. Then I walk to the railing and prop my elbows on the wide top cap. The Pacific is pacific. So is my mood. My eyes turn to the east. I run my palm over my scalp.

And me and my bald head marvel at the spectacular Sunday—September 8th—sunrise.