Читать книгу Rani Patel In Full Effect - Sonia Patel - Страница 11

GUILT

“Hey, Patel,” La’akea calls out as she cruises to the back of the store. Her eyes are fixed on the beer chilling in the fridge. She grabs a six-pack of Bud Light and strides to the checkout counter. I don’t realize that I’m gawking at her with a ridiculous grin on my face. Not until she says, “Patel! Why you all da kine l’dat?”

“Huh? Oh. La’akea. Howzit?” I ask, blinking my eyes several times to shake myself out of my lovesick thoughts. Mark left an hour ago. I was in the middle of going over a blow-by-blow of our convo. I was just getting to the part I hadn’t quite figured out, the part after I read him my slam poem.

“I like one pack Marlboro Lights,” La’akea says.

I give her a fake smile as I reach for the cigarettes. I’m kinda annoyed that she interrupted my daydreams. I study her a minute. She looks like a raisin. The dark brown skin on her face is wrinkled and full of sores. She appears years older even though I know she’s only twenty-two. Her teeth resemble short, rusty nails.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a shoddy plastic baggy full of pennies, nickels, and dimes. She drops it onto the counter.

La’akea’s an occasional customer at our store. All I know about her is that she lives in Maunaloa with her uncle and aunt. That she’s more than seventy-five percent Native Hawaiian. That she’s unemployed. And that she never buys anything here besides her toxins of choice. I’ve heard whispers about her and batu, but that’s hearsay.

Is this what batu does?

So now I’m staring at her. I cover my mouth with my hand to keep in the ewww sound that wants to escape. La’akea is staring back at my bald head. Neither of us says anything. I’m remembering the first time I saw her a couple of years ago. It was the way she held herself that was unforgettable. She had perfect posture, carrying her strong body the way I imagined an ali’i would’ve back in the day. But it was more than that. Her aura was sublime. It felt like I was in the presence of someone almost divine. But today she looks like she stepped out of a casket that’s been buried for fifty years.

I dump the coins onto the counter and start counting. Sadness whizzes about in my head. Guilt too. It’s not like I’m Captain Cook or Lorrin Thurston. And I haven’t directly stolen La’akea’s land. Or killed her family. Or given her a deadly disease. But here I am maxin at the store, thinking about Mark or when I can write my next rap, and all the while she’s been scrounging for coins to buy substances that’ll probably kill her from the looks of it. She destroys herself by buying things from our store while we make money.

But I didn’t ask to move here. I didn’t ask to work here. Thanks a bunch, Dad.

I’m about halfway through counting the pennies and my mind wanders. I think about what Pono and I were talking about on Friday after Hawaiian history class. About how most people on Moloka’i have an understanding of Native Hawaiian issues that goes beyond the textbooks and classrooms. Pono was born and raised on Moloka’i and his parents are active in the Native Hawaiian sovereignty movement. And since I’ve been to many activist meetings with my dad, I’ve heard the perspectives of Native Hawaiians on the island with regards to land, water, culture, and history. It isn’t all hula girls, tikis, grass shacks, and mai tais. It’s about a people that prior to foreign contact were a highly structured and refined society. It’s about how the Native Hawaiian culture was all but wiped out by the negative impacts of colonialism. The depopulating. The heisting of land and health. The educational, economic, and political powerlessness.

I finish counting the loose change. As usual, La’akea has the exact amount. “Exact to the penny. Thanks,” I say under my breath.

I force myself to look at her. To try to really see her. I peer into her raven eyes. I’m surprised by the hope spilling from her dark brown irises. It seems at odds with the devastation of her body. It demands acknowledgement and drags a half smile from my lips. A little louder I say, “Take care, La’akea.”

She gives me a crooked smile back and says, “Later, Patel.” Then she throws me a raised shaka and heads out of the store.

My brain is about to self-combust with guilt when Omar Ellis steps into the store. He and La’akea give each other a strong chin-up as they pass near the entrance. Omar’s strutting. I’m talking Aerosmith and Run DMC Walk This Way strutting. And like that rock and rap collaboration, Omar is a cultural collaboration. He’s half African American, a quarter Hawaiian, and a quarter Samoan. His hair towers in the most incredibly tight hi-top fade. It’s almost as high as Kid from Kid ‘n Play. Today he’s sporting some baggy jeans slung low. A black t-shirt under a black and white flannel shirt. Both oversized. And a pair of white-on-white Air Force 1’s. His head-to-toe hip hop style is undeniable. Impressed as always, I give him a subtle chin-up.

Like me, Omar’s sixteen. We’re both young seniors. Our birthdays are actually only one day apart. He lives in Maunaloa with his mom and comes to the store all the time. But I didn’t meet him here. I met him at school in ’87. He’s the first person who talked to me. For some reason he took me under his wing. Maybe he felt sorry for me, watching me struggle to understand pidgin initially. He called me “IH,” Indian haole, for weeks. He’s been teasing me ever since.

Omar usually greets me by throwing his arm around my shoulder and asking “Howzit my sistah from anotha mistah?” Omar hasn’t seen his mistah since he was five years old. His dad’s been in prison on the mainland for murder. From what Omar’s told me it was someone else’s drug deal gone bad. And his dad got framed. Rotten naseeb, I guess. Although I think that qualifies as a particularly tragic fate. Totally cruel. I mean his dad never touched drugs or alcohol. Omar likes to talk about how his dad treated his mom. I swear he puffs out his chest whenever he brings it up because he’s super proud of his honorable role model. Omar says that even from prison his dad shows how much he respects his mom. Whether it’s over the phone or in letters, his dad treats his mom like royalty. And his mom is committed to being supportive to his dad throughout the imprisonment.

I’m in awe of his parents. The way they act towards each other is the exact opposite of my parents.

Anyway, I know Omar’s only joking when he says the whole “sistah from anotha mistah” thing. And even though most of our other verbal exchanges also involve him teasing me and me trying to keep up with the repartee, I know he cares. He’s the closest thing to a friend I have.

Omar’s preoccupied today, presumably by my homage to Sinead O’Connor. He’s standing in front of me at the counter, gouging out a hole on my bare head with his keen pupils. “For the first time in my life, I’m speechless,” he murmurs. Then he snaps out of his daze and chuckles. “Nah nah, Rani girl. You look fly.”

I don’t say a word. Instead I form a biting smile and use my middle finger to slowly, very slowly, push the bridge of my glasses up my nose. My sarcastic gratitude. Omar raises an eyebrow. Then our eyes meet in confrontation. Neither of us can hold out for very long and we end up cracking up after less than a minute. We cool out and then Omar glimpses around the store to confirm it’s empty. He says, “Hey Rani, I wanna hear all about your voyage into baldness, but I’m here on urgent business. And it ain’t because my mom and I are out of milk. Let’s go talk on the porch.”

For Omar and me, the porch is our sober watering hole. Pretty often we hang out there and chitchat about this and that. But never about urgent business. Needless to say, I’m curious.

“Shoots,” I say, stepping out from behind the counter. Then I add, “Hold up.” I run to the chill and grab two cans of guava nectar.

“Tanks eh.” He shakes the can but then puts it down on the bench next to him without opening it. His head drops and he starts some accelerated foot tapping. Like he’s digging some ultra quick beat.

He’s stalling.

Omar’s usually not one to stall. Now I’m really curious. I take a sip of the sugary, syrupy juice. “What’s up, Omar?” I tilt my head sideways to try and meet his downturned eyes.

He jerks his head up, stomps both his feet, and slaps his hands on his thighs, as if my words are a drill sergeant’s command to sit at attention. Then he blurts out something that doesn’t quite register the first time.

“It’s your parents.”

“What?”

“Your parents. They were having a huge fight at the restaurant.”

I scrunch my face and wait for his account.

“I was on my way to check our P.O. box for a letter from my dad. I got near the restaurant and heard shouting. I went to check it out. Your mom was crying and yelling at your dad. She was screaming in Indian so I couldn’t understand. Your dad was standing there. He looked pissed. Then your mom sunk to her knees and grabbed onto his pant legs. It seemed like she was begging or something. Next thing I see, she’s pounding her head with her fists.”

The look on Omar’s face wavers between apprehension and indignation. Punching his right fist into his left palm, he grits his teeth and asks, “Why wasn’t your dad doing anything? Why would he let her do that? What did he do to make her so sad?”

Now my eyes dip. Then my head. And my face lands in my hands. I proceed to blubber.

“Oh no, Rani. Sorry. You ok?” Omar slides forward on the bench.

I take my glasses off, wiping the tears from my face and snorting in some major hanabata. “Yeah, I’m ok.”

My answer must not have convinced Omar because he says, “Come on, Rani. Talk to me. You my sistah. We got each other’s back.”

Of everyone I know on Moloka’i, Omar is the one I should trust the most. After all, he’s trusted me with all his family stuff. I contemplate hedging. But I can’t keep in the words or the tears. “My parents,” I manage to utter between sobs, “that’s why I’m bald.” I take deep breaths to prevent a complete emotional breakdown. I slip on my glasses and regain my composure. Then I proceed to recount everything. My suspicions this past year. The mounting evidence. And finally last night at Kanemitsu’s.

But why was my mom yelling at my dad? Was she calling him out? Was she telling him off? Was she asking him to come back to her? I think about my slam poem. About Indian families. About Gujarati families. About Patel families. About my family.

Why is this happening to my family?

This isn’t supposed to happen in Gujarati families. Especially Patel families. I mean Patels are supposed to be family-oriented. Extremely patriarchal, yes. But family first. I think there are more Patels in the United States than any other Indians. And we’re not all related! Not by a long shot.

Patels came to the U.S. to better their lives, to get better jobs and more financial security, to get more educational opportunities—just like every other immigrant. Patel parents are willing to work hard to make all this happen. All those 7-11’s. All the motels. Patel parents work their fingers to the bone to ensure a brighter future for their offspring. Patel parents do that. And from what I’ve seen in the Patel families we knew on the mainland, the husbands were the boss. But they talked considerately to their wives. Sure, I’ve heard of a couple of Patel divorces. But never the blatant carrying on of affairs. I cross my arms tight across my belly and stare at the ocean.

Patel Dads aren’t supposed to have affairs.

Patel Dads aren’t supposed to neglect their wives.

I’m digging my long, sharply filed nails into the soft, fleshy part of my inner arms. Deep. I don’t even know I’m doing it.

Patel Dads aren’t supposed to be indecent with their daughters.

I wrench my mind out of its gutter. But not before my nails get what they want.

Why is my Patel family like this?

I suppose there are exceptions in every culture. In every last name. I feel something wet on my fingertips. I scan my arms and hands. It’s then I spot the blood.