When she came out, she was carrying my shotgun. I laughed at the sight as she walked slowly toward me, acting like a commando or something. She looked like one of those girls in one of those cheesy B-action movies. She put the shotgun in the back and went to sit in the driver’s side. I laughed and went to the passenger side. She started the engine. “Okay, tell me where to go.”
So we drove down the Pali.There was no rain that afternoon, but as I looked toward the mountains, I saw waterfalls brushed on the green mountains. She took the tunnels and a bright sun greeted us. I squinted and put my hand up to shade my face, thinking about my other trips on the Pali. I remembered wondering as a child whether my mother’s spirit lived here. I remembered laughing at the idea as a teenager after my surfboard had launched off my roof. I looked over at Claudia. She was looking over the cliffs. “This might be cool,” she said. “I always thought the Windward side was one of the nicest places on the island.”
“Yeah,” I told her. “When I lived here, me and my friends used to call it ‘God’s country.’”
“I thought you don’t really believe in God.”
I shrugged. The hairpin turn sling-shotted us toward the bottom. We rolled down the steep pour of asphalt, and I heard the wind whistle against the Pathfinder, trying to blow us back up.
Ken stood up and rubbed his eyes. Cal shook his head. Why had Ken feared the mainland so much? It was an irrational fear, probably motivated by reading old books by dead black writers and the hate he felt for white people in general. Cal rubbed the swastika tattoo on his forearm. If Ken had gone to the mainland, he probably wouldn’t be here, Cal thought.
Ken walked to the stainless steel mirror and turned his back to it. He tried to look over his shoulder to see the reflection of the tattoo.“I hate these fuckin’ mirrors,” Ken said. “You can’t even fuckin’ see your reflection in them.”
Cal tried to imagine what Claudia looked like. Putting together her Korean and Caucasian blood was like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle. He tried to put Asian eyes with a big haole nose. Then he tried to put haole eyes with long, black Asian hair. He had seen hapa girls before, but it had been a while. This is stupid, Cal thought, what the fuck is a big haole nose or long Asian hair anyway?
Giving up on the puzzle, he looked at Ken. Fucking murdering mother-fucker. Three Koreans dead. Japs killing Koreans, just like before the war. It had made Cal nervous that Ken was discussing his unsolved acts of murder knowing that Tavares was listening. He wondered if Ken cared. He wondered if he would’ve killed, too. He probably would’ve, he thought, because if those guys were left alive, they would’ve come back after him. But then, he didn’t know if he would’ve had the strength. He wondered if he would’ve had the hate to kill three, which was two more than his one.
He remembered the night he’d found out his wife had been sleeping with some waiter in Waikiki. Her sister, who she didn’t get along with, told him over the phone. “Now don’t over-react, Matt. But the whole family knows about it.”
His pride was destroyed. The intense love he felt for her melted to hate. He went straight to a bar, then four hours later staggered home. He didn’t plan to kill her, just kick her out of the goddamn apartment. When he got home, the kids were sleeping and she was sitting on the sofa watching T.V. “Hi, honey,” she said.
Hi honey. These were the words that made him snap. The fuckin’ audacity, the fuckin’ hypocrisy. Cal raised his fist and smashed it down on her nose. She stood up and tried to hit him back. Cal grabbed a fistful of her black hair, dragged her to the balcony, and slammed her forehead on the metal railing. Her legs collapsed, then he pulled her up. Instead of screaming, she clamped her teeth down on his neck. He screamed and shoved her away. The small of her back hit the railing and she flipped over it. Half-gainer onto Kuhio Avenue.
When the kids came out, he turned around.“Where’s Mom?” his daughter asked. Suddenly he realized he’d never even told her why he had hit her. He didn’t even give her a chance to tell her side. He walked past his kids and to the bathroom. He splashed water on his face, then looked up into the mirror. He saw his father staring back at him. Cal had puked in the sink.
Ken sat back down in front of Cal. Cal looked at the kanji on Ken’s back. He’d finished coloring in the big symbol and outlining the smaller, vertical symbols on the left. He only had to color those in to be finished. He wiped off the blood and ink. Cal managed to give the symbols an authentic, brushed-on look. It seemed to be coming out real nice.“Well, looks like we’re on the home stretch,” Ken said.
Cal was glad that Claudia was coming to visit Ken the day after tomorrow. It meant that he didn’t kill her. But Cal also knew Ken wasn’t in prison for killing the Koreans. If he had been, he would’ve probably been a lifer. Who did Ken kill? He knew Ken was doing time for manslaughter. Cal tapped Ken on the shoulder. Ken turned around, but Cal couldn’t ask him. Instead, Cal waved forward.
“Thanks, man,” Ken said, “Thanks. Nu‘u was right.You’re just a fuckin’ master Freud, silent style.”
Cal smiled, wondering what Ken thought the wave meant.
“Listen,” Ken said. “let’s get some sleep. When Claude and the kid come the day after tomorrow, I don’t want to look bad. I haven’t seen them yet. Let’s get some sleep and take it easy tomorrow.”
Cal was relieved. After he put away his gun, he curled up in the fetal position on the top bunk and fell asleep.
An hour later, as the sun rose, Cal awoke in a mute scream. He wet his palms with the sweat and tears on his face. He then wondered how long he was screaming. He could’ve been screaming for hours, and nobody would’ve known. He felt like such a rookie.
He threw his blanket to the ground and stepped off the top bunk. The sleeping Ken didn’t flinch. No dreams for him tonight. Cal thought about his own dream and realized it was the first time it had happened to him in years. He’d dreamt about his wife’s funeral. It was a funeral he’d never had the opportunity to attend. His kids were there, his son dressed in a black suit two sizes too big for him. His daughter was licking one of those enormous swirl lollipops, which she’d loved, but she was crying at the same time. Cal walked to the casket, sad that his wife had died, but happy no one could see him because he wasn’t there in body. Just as he was about to look into the casket, a familiar voice rose from the back.
It was himself. It was himself and his father in the same body, dressed in a tuxedo that didn’t seem to fit. The figure had a voice.“That’s my boy,” he said. “That’s my boy. Don’t let any bitch fuck around on you, son. You fuckin’ kill her if it happens. That’s my boy.”
Just before he’d woken up, his children were about to look at him. That’s probably what made him scream.
Cal walked to the faucet and ran water on his face. He tried looking into the dull, stainless steel mirror, and realized Ken had been right. You can’t see yourself in these mirrors. After a while in prison, your self becomes only what you carry in your head. Ken knew it, and Cal was forgetting it. Ken’s stories, his blues, were reminding Cal of his own.
The dreams, the dreams of a rookie were back. The dreams of guilt, the dreams of pain, the dreams of life outside the walls. The dreams that ended in screams. Cal didn’t know how to feel about this. At first he was sad, because he’d tried, over the years, so hard to forget. He’d been content with being an animal, a silent mouse among cats, during his imprisonment. So part of him hated that Ken was making him feel human again. He didn’t want to feel human, because he knew he’d been a bad human. But on the other hand, guilt was refreshing. Emotion was refreshing. But he knew he had to control it. These things led to dillusions of grandeur, of hoping to make right what had gone wrong. They were dangerous thoughts for a prisoner to meddle with. Cal climbed back on his bunk and told himself he was dead to his children and this was best. He didn’t fall asleep until the sun started to rise.
It was one of those nights of sleep that felt like you just closed your eyes and it was t
ime to get up already. It was time for breakfast, and Cal was exhausted. But the smell that woke him up was not brewing coffee or frying bacon, it was the smell of prison that Cal’s nose perked to in the morning. The smell of unwashed beddings, the smell of two men, he and Ken, who hadn’t taken a shower in two days.
Ken stood up and walked to the toilet to piss. The smell of piss and body odor opened Cal’s eyes wider. Ken flushed the toilet and raised his right arm. He put his nose in his armpit. “Damn, it’s time to shower.”
Cal planned to take one too, after breakfast. Even though he was tired, he felt like having a productive day. And one of the only productive things you could do in high security was clean yourself. He envied the prisoners assigned to kitchen duty. He envied any prisoner who got to work for pennies an hour. It was funny, most of the felons in Halawa had avoided regular work on the outside for most of their lives. But in prison, work was a privilege. It wasn’t that the work wasn’t monotonous, it definitely was. But in prison, two monotonies were better than one. Cal got off his bunk and waited with Ken for the buzz of the door.
It was immediately evident in the cafeteria. Nu‘u had lost the power. He was still avoided by the inmates of Quad Two, but it was Ken who the guys like Johnny, Sean, and Geronimo made a special effort to walk around. It was now Nu‘u’s move. Did he want to try and take the power back?
Cal sat with Ken wondering if Nu‘u would make his move. When Nu‘u didn’t come and take some of Cal’s breakfast, Cal knew that Nu‘u was scared. He smiled. As cellmate and friend of Ken, he was in protective-protective custody.
Ken looked up from his food and caught Cal’s smile. “It’s easier in high security,” he said. “In middle, I had to fight for my life. I mean, I know it must’ve been no picnic for you being the only neo-Nazi down the hill, but being Japanese wasn’t the greatest thing either. Hawaiians run the show.”
Cal nodded. He remembered the first time he’d gotten beaten in prison. He picked up the T.V. Guide, and that was it. The beating of his life, three-on-one. No, being a supposed neo-Nazi in Halawa hadn’t been fun. He hoped Ken hadn’t had similiar experiences.
“Sometimes,” Ken said,“I think losing some of those fights would’ve been smarter. I felt like fuckin’ Jeremiah Johnson down there.”
Cal smiled. He liked that Redford pic. Cal reached inside his oatmeal, but remembered that there were no cigarettes for him today.
Ken noticed. “So how do you get your cash in high security?”
Cal shrugged. He didn’t really know how cash flowed in from the outside. He’d never gotten cash directly from the outside. He was paid for doing tattoo work. Sometimes cash, sometimes drugs, sometimes cigarettes. He usually traded in the second two for cash. He suspected that some inmates got their stuff from guards or other employees of the state. But Cal wasn’t the guy with the connections. He only knew one guy from the kitchen who over-charged him for cigarettes. And Cal was running out of money fast. He’d been splurging the last couple of days.
“Man, in middle security, it was easy,” Ken said. “There was everything inside. Everything was for barter. And visitors could bring you stuff. Clothes, smokes. Uncle James would bring me stuff. I have to start a whole new deal in here.”
After breakfast, Cal and Ken went back to their cell. Ken decided that they wouldn’t work on the tattoo until that night. Cal suspected that he was waiting for Tavares to be at work. Tavares was off today, which meant he might be working the graveyard. Cal guess that Ken wanted Tavares to hear the entire story.
Ken brushed his long hair. He shaved and brushed his teeth. When lockdown was over, he was the first in the shower. Cal felt vulnerable sitting out in the quad, without Ken by his side. But there was only one small shower stall for each quad, so all he could do was wait. He kept his eye on Nu‘u, who seemed unaffected by the power shift. He was as loud as ever. This time he was playing dominoes with Geronimo, jeering everytime he won.
Cal wondered what he would do if Nu‘u made a move for Ken. He couldn’t warn Ken vocally, so the only thing he could do was try to slow the big Samoan down and hope Ken would respond quickly. When Ken finally got out of the shower, Cal was relieved. It was his turn and nobody suggested otherwise.
When Cal came out of the stall a clean man, the stench of the prison seemed worse. Many prisoners showered only a couple times a week, and some even less. Sometimes it would get so bad that the guards would have to force them to bathe. After all, none of these guys were going to a prom anytime soon. The smell was so bad that Cal imagined a mist coming from some of the prisoners, like that skunk from the Looney Tunes. He quickly walked to his cell and got dressed. He brushed his teeth two times and brushed his balding head.
So another day ticked by. It was a good tick for Cal, the first good one in years. It was a day where Cal started feeling half-human again. It was time to finish the tattoo.
Ken sat in front of Cal. His back was a series of welts and scabs from the thousands of little black blood wounds. Cal got the gun buzzing and checked to make sure he still had enough ink. He did. Ken cleared his throat and began to speak. It was time for the final chapter.
chapter four
“Wind’s gonna blow so I’m gonna go
Down on the road again.
Starting where the mountains left me,
I’m back where I began.”
Waimanalo Blues
Country Comfort
SUPERNOVA
It’s funny, when you’re running in Hawai‘i, there’s no border you can cross, no life-line of safety. You’re on an island, and you end up running in circles, surrounded by the largest ocean in the world. It’s like you’re locked into a ferris wheel that never stops, or you start feeling like that mechanical rabbit they have at dog races. Sooner or later the dogs catch you and all hell breaks loose. I understand why Claudia wanted to go to the mainland. It’s like she’d said that first day we went surfing. For her the ocean was escape, it was a place of endless possibilities. For me, however, the ocean had always been a visible void. Living on an island all my life, I was always conscious that it existed, that it was there, that no matter where I’d go, I’d come face to face with it. The ocean was all around me, it fenced me in. It was a fence I’d often like to climb, and I’d do so every time I surfed or dived. But to go beyond the fence? It seemed ridiculous. To paddle a surfboard out toward the horizon, to venture so far that I would not be able to paddle back, the ocean was not a place of possibilities for me, it was a place of recklessness. That’s probably why I liked it so much. Going out into the sea was always surfing. Tempting the ocean to break you, letting the waves chase you. It was a game. But for me, paddling out to the horizon was no game, it was suicide. Where Claude saw life way out there, I didn’t.
We were moving to the Windward side. Claude drove us on Kamehameha Highway, where its two lanes pushed traffic in opposite directions at dangerous speeds. Kam Highway had always been famous for its accidents. There were always collisions, and most of the time death was involved. We drove along the coastline. I saw the blue waters turn shit-brown. I smiled. Home, I thought.
A couple of minutes later, I looked out the window and saw Puana Castle sitting on top of its hill. I pointed my finger up toward it and told Claude, “That’s where Koa used to live.”
She looked up. “Where does he live now?”
“Waiahole.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Jeez, I don’t even know. The wedding, I think. No, I saw him once or twice after that. He drove into town a couple of times and we went drinking.”
“You must miss him,” she said.
“Tomorrow, after we finish unpacking, I’ll call him.”
She nodded. She seemed distant, like she had other things on her mind. I figured she was nervous about meeting my father. When we passed Waiahole, and the water turned blue again, my eyes were drawn to Chinaman’s Hat. I remembered passing it that day my father had brought me home after I stayed
with my grandfather for a couple of months. I remembered seeing it the day my father had picked me up from Koa’s house, that week after he beat the shit out of me. I realized that once again I was being brought home, and that every time I had returned, my eyes never could resist Chinaman’s Hat.
It never looked like a hat to me. It had always looked more like a neanderthal’s head rising from the ocean. It was rocky, hard. It was covered sparsely with green vegetation. Near the top, the rocks formed a brow. Below this brow, there was an indention, a space for deep-set eyes. The island had no chin, instead the neck swept outward, like the neck of a heavyweight boxer. The immovable sculpture ended at the tip of the shoulders. You couldn’t tell from the distance of the highway that there was an underwater cliff behind the island. It was a cliff known to be a favored place for sharks, it was a cliff where the Bay became a vast ocean.
A few minutes after we had passed Chinaman’s Hat, I told Claudia which driveway to pull in. She pulled up behind my father’s truck. I told her to honk the horn. After she pressed on the steering wheel, my father stepped out from the screen door. He looked older. A little more gray on the sides. The skin under his chin was loose. He walked with a slight limp and smiled.
When Claude turned off the engine, I stepped out of the Pathfinder and walked up to my father. He stuck out his hand. I shook it. “So what, stranga,” he said, “I guess town was too tough, ah?”
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