With no sense of it, Pono dived, grabbed the child as he swept by, and held him up to air. He screamed again, vomiting as she slid him onto her back, holding him with one hand, grabbing a tree limb with the other. Then she relaxed, let the ocean have its way, sweeping them miles out to sea. Years later the boy would swear they passed whales and dolphins, and sharks that pushed them up to air, kept them afloat with their snouts. He would swear Pono’s skin turned gray, that her face changed shape, and that when his arms slid away from her neck, it was a fin he clung to.
Slowly the backwash exhausted itself, now everywhere debris. Bodies floated in and out. A human head, a fire truck. Bloated cattle upside down, a church, and somewhere a lone pig caterwauling. People who had watched the tsunami from the hills said they felt God, like glass, breaking through their foreheads. Children watching would never be young again; they had seen hundreds, a whole town disappear.
Pono spoke a half language, calming the child while she swam shoreward. There, delirium abounded, a small town lying on its side, kneelers plucking at corpses, trying to wake them. She staggered to shore, slid the boy from her back, and collapsed. Then the child gave way to terror, screaming for someone familiar. People approached, but not recognizing him as theirs, moved on. A short Japanese woman passed in, a trance-state, then stood sobbing at the ocean. She seemed to be asking Why? Why?
The boy stretched out his arms to her, calling “Tūtū! Tūtū!”
The little woman turned. Pono looked into her face and felt a vague, eerie gleam of remembrance as the boy ran to her. Minutes later, holding him wrapped tight in a blanket, she bowed repeatedly, weeping, kissing Pono’s hands, explaining he was her grandson, all she had. While she spoke, years slowly liquefied, images shivered. Pono remembered a prostitute named Miko, and her brave little girl who sat with her face to the wall.
“Run Run.”
She stared at Pono, trying to remember, but all she could see was the undead child, and her mind called up a void.
“You know me?”
“Your mother was Miko.”
“She dead. Everyt’ing dead but dis boy. How you know me?”
As if in response to her own question, she stepped back, looked Pono up and down. With almost mineral slowness, her expression changed, uncertainty, astonishment, clear joy.
“Pono! My tita! I search for you all my life. Now you come, save my child.” She sobbed. With great, long honkings, she sat down and sobbed, pulling Pono down beside her so she seemed to be holding one small, and one very large, child. Hours later, in the heart of the broken town, she collected her meager life from a ramshackle room, then followed Pono home to Kalihi.
A haole stood in Pono’s living room. A young U.S. Navy sailor, blond, blue-eyed, with a big, lopsided grin. Holding his hand, Emma carefully explained that they had met in the Listening Room, that he loved good music as she did. He had introduced her to Albinoni and Mussorgsky, composers she’d never heard of. They had spent the last few months meeting at the Listening Room, and they were in love. Emma wanted permission to become engaged before he shipped out to Korea.
Seeing Pono’s face, Run Run picked up her child and backed out to the yard. It was the face of magisterial wrath, of all things destructive, it was the face of Satan.
“Not you,” Pono whispered, staring at Emma.
Her voice seemed to come from the netherworld, slow and deep and hoarse, like someone damned.
“Not you. My last, my best daughter . . . You would go with . . . haole? You would be a . . . change-face? Do you know what they are? What they did to me?”
Emma held his hand tighter. The young sailor looked down. “Ma’am, we’re not all bad.”
“Emma. Take your hand away from him . . . or I will boil it for you.”
“Mama, we want to be engaged. Do everything the right way. He’s a good man. He wants me to meet his family on the mainland.”
Pono rose, deadly calm. “Get him . . . out of here. Or I will kill him.”
“He’s going to Korea! He might die! Mama, please. We want to beengaged.”
Pono moved to the kitchen. When she returned she was holding the glowing human-spine cane. She waved it in front of the sailor, began to tell its story, all of it, everything.
From the yard, Run Run heard Emma scream. She heard a chair being over-turned, saw the sailor rising to his feet, arm raised defensively. She heard the cracking impact of something hard against his head. He lifted the other arm. She heard the crack again. She saw him backing to the door, pulling Emma by her right arm, Pono waving a bloodied cane, pulling her back by her left.
Then Run Run heard what the girl called her, and she covered her grandson’s ears.
Killer. She called her Killer. She called it over and over. She saw Pono drop the cane, saw her drop her daughter’s arm. She saw Pono rear back as if thinking, contemplating the pale, lovely girl. Then she lunged, teeth ripping into her daughter’s cheek. She saw the sailor’s white face, white uniform, saw him running, half carrying the pale girl in the flowered dress, with the slashed cheek. She saw them diminishing, receding like a dream. She saw Pono standing alone, her daughter’s blood scrawled across her lips.
Weeks later, Run Run was finally able to talk to her, to engage her. They sat in the dark, listening to her grandson’s snores.
“When I fifteen,” Run Run said, “Mama put me on da street. One customer knock me up. I have da child in same room where dey cleanin’ fish-heads. I teach him what Mama teach me, turn face to da wall when I got customer. Life get real ugly. When my boy ten, I give up streets, learn cookin’, moah bettah for yoah pride. When my boy eighteen, he bring home Toru, say it’s his, da mama no want. Den he get shot selling drugs. Mot’er God take son, give me grandson. After many years, you find me, den lose your daughter. Mot’er God one strange wahine. Give wit’ da right, take wit’ da left.”
After weeks spent in the backwash of rage and grief and silence, Pono took Run Run’s hand.
“Teach me . . .” her voice was distant and broken, something crawling from a cave.
“Teach you what, tita? What you want to learn?”
“. . . how to . . . live.”
Run Run
* * *
EVERYT’ING I SAY NOT TRUE. Who always need da truth? Sometime we just need stay sane. Dis part you bettah believe, foah shoah. Dis part fall from sleeve of truth like sweat. Pono one wahine widdout extra emotions. She love. Or hate. She also one wahine always doing what fear most—t‘row herself in spots where can’t always touch bottom.
She learn to love Toru my grandson. Treat him like one big lazy cat, watch little flea playing on its paws. Afraid to touch, mash him like she mash her daughters. Sometime she look and look, just watch da day wash by.
“What you lookin’ for?” I ask.
She still, like cobweb growin’ from her mouth. One day she show me one black pearl, so big my eyes go bulge. And funny little book, she say made of jade.
“These were meant for Holo, my oldest,” she say.
I t‘ink dis Holo got untold stories bedded deep inside da skin. She her mama’s witness all dose years. I t‘ink what Pono waitin‘for, she want Holo’s shadow fall across her door again. She wait. And wait. Some days Pono disappear. Ot‘er days she slowly wall up yard. Soon we livin’ like two wāhine in one coffin. Cement wall all way round dat Kalihi house.
“Why we live like dis,” I ask.
“Foah privacy,” she say. “Foah save face.”
Neighbors already seen too much. By and by, she talk. She tell me everyt‘ing, it take her two years, tell me all. When she pau, I know I her best friend. I also old woman, mourning foah her life.
We walk down street, neighbors move aside, make room for her. Sometime keeds run up touch her, like need touch somet‘ing one of a kine. Dey know she kahuna. But here one funny t‘ing. Pono got no power on herself. No magic foah change what life already given her. No can have Duke like normal man. Yeah, I know all about da kine. Maybe I love
dis kanaka, too. He tragic. Ma‘i Pākē keep Pono from happiness. But who know? Maybe dis a blessing.
Happiness a funny t’ing, sometime rob you of compassion. Maybe we deeper when we hurt, neh? Lissen me. One day Pono come rollin’ on da floor in pain. Later, find out in Kalaupapa, leper place, Duke got bad stomach sickness. One ot’er day, hot sunny day, no rain, Pono hair and clothes come soakin’ wet! Find out big t’understorm at Kalaupapa, Duke catch real bad cold. Dis more den love, more den kahuna. Maybe dis somet’ing make even Mot’er God sit down and t’ink.
So I watch her, waitin’ for dis daughter Holo come back home. She never come but nemmind. Mot‘er God a funny wahine, like I say, she send Pono somet‘ing else instead. One day we come home find dis little t‘ing wrapped up like one ham. Pono unwrap and scream. Ham got eyes and fingers, one note tied to wrist.
“Her name is Rachel. Maybe you give her kine love I never got. Mina.”
So. One daughter’s vengeance now da whip on mama’s back.
Dat’s how we come travel to dis place, Big Island, two wāhine and dere bastard keeds running from da world. Pono say moah bettah foah us. Big Island always been place of superstition, outcasts, rebels. Funny t‘ing, we poor like dirt, first year every t‘ing is pilau, broken down, but dis where our happiness begin.
I say, “Pono, try sell dat big, black pearl foah feed our keeds.”
She no sell. Say Duke tell her moah bettah everybody own one t‘ing dat’s beautiful. Keep alive da soul. Now I see he one wise kanaka. So, we work like slaves. Plant taro for sell poi factory. Plant sweet potato, daikon, cabbage, cucumbers, sell local grocers. Plant lichee, macadamia, anyt‘ing, see what soil t‘row back. Few dollars profit, we buy chickens, keep in coop under mango tree. Banana, papaya, mountain-apple tree grow wild. Plenty foah eat, save money. Pono say some day we grow da coffee bean again. Not Run Run, my hands come like pulp, small bleeding soldiers.
I tell her, “My place da kitchen, I cook, you grow da fields.”
By and by, she get one old man for gardenin’. After couple years she hire two.
One day I look round, peacocks squabbling in trees, bees in honeysuckle, dragonflies in ginger, chickens pecking in da dirt, radio playing, food huffing in da pot, keeds playin’ on da floor. You know, I sit down, hold head and cry.
Pono shout, “What’s wrong!”
I say, “Look! We happy! We two wāhine got a life!”
She laugh, tell me Duke say good she got a friend. She never had dis t‘ing before. Pono mid-forties now. I five years behind.
I ask, “We old women now, neh?”
She say, “Maybe. Pretty soon.”
I so happy. Old age time for respect. Now I say what on my mind. Even tell Mot‘er God, “Listen, wahine, you take too much away from Pono, sometime you got no taste.” But all da time, I touch da cross, so Mot‘er God know where I stand.
I know I stubborn, not charmin’ wahine. But who say friendship charmin’? I bully Pono, tell her hug da child. She lookin’ frantic. I say, “Goin’ lose Rachel like you lost da mama. Try show love.” She try. I t‘ink she try harder if dis be Holo’s child.
Den one day Mot‘er God tap me on da shoulder. I one sly wahine, get idea. Tell Pono old friend sick, I got take boat over Honolulu. She let me go. My brain so busy have to vomit out excitement on da boat, also too many waves. From boat I go down Chinatown, old neighborhood, dey know me on da streets. I see old customers, dey keed around wit’ me, say I too old now for sell my body.
I laugh. “Listen, buggah, I got one life now you nevah dream.”
Den I ask da Flips if hear of Edita, Pono’s second girl. Got one kid now, maybe two. I ask and ask until my tongue hard like a doll’s. Second day asking, one Flip lean close to me. I lie. Say Edita’s mama very sick, asking for her.
He laugh. “Dis Pono one mean bitch. I know about. She t‘row her daughters out. What you really want?”
Den I say da truth. Rachel abandoned by her mama, Mina, she all alone. Live in one big house, lots land. Pono growin’ old. Be nice if Pono’s daughters try bring dere keeds, Rachel’s cousins, foah come see her, play wit’ her.
Third day someone take me to Edita. She a woman now, live in tiny house, but clean. Her husband one young, handsome Flip, busboy in hotel, go refrigeration school at night, try be somebody. Edita very pretty, but years already growing on her hips, three babies now. Oldest, Vanya. When I say Pono’s name, Edita cry. I hold her hand, cry too. Tings our mamas done to us.
Den I say, “Look, she only human, got problems you cannot dream.”
“She nevah explain t‘ings,” Edita say.
“Mama got explain?” I ask. “Giving birth not enough explanation?”
She laugh, look at her children. “Sometimes I like t‘row dem away!”
But I see hurt, sharp hunger of her soul. I see it too late for Edita and Pono. But maybe not too late for daughter’s daughter. Edita say maybe one day when Vanya older, let her visit Rachel on Big Island. Keeping blood apart not Hawaiian way. Dis how we come be pen pals, me and Edita. I no write so good, but not important. Fingers find da way. By and by, after one year, oldest daughter, Holo, write me, find me through Edita. Holo want know for Rachel, what happen to her mama. I so sorry, dis one t‘ing Mot‘er God never tell. Holo got kids, too, oldest girl named Ming.
Two years pass, now Rachel five. One day Pono find out where my letters from. How she find out, she one jealous wahine, want know who dese pen pals be. Take my letters to da man who she sell taro. She look him in de eye, lock him in da spell, say one word to him. “Read.”
When she come home, she shove me. Hard. Won’t listen what is said, what is meant. She strike. My heart turn upside down. I grab clothes, grab Toru. He fight me, want to stay. I look dis boy. He all I got. Da sum of what I am. I look Pono, den say somet‘ing very wise.
“One day you die, Pono. Duke die. Dis girl Rachel walk de earth one ghost. No clan, no ‘ohana. You keep her from her blood, and mad dogs gonna’ gnaw yoah bones. You gonna’ rot in Hell.” I leave.
Toru screamin’ I drag him down da road. Rachel sobbing in da weeds. I hear dis thundering, dese awful giant steps behind me. She grab me by da hair, I rearin’ up like rodeo horse, t‘ink she tryin’ kill me, bust me up. I try run. She slam fist down my head. Me and Toru wake up in her lap like piglets in pilikua arms. She huggin’ us and little Rachel, lookin’ scared. My head feel wet, so wet, her tears. Sounds dat crack her chest like ax.
“No more,” she sob, “no more.”
My friend, my best friend. She finally see too much been subtracted from her life. Maybe dis da day she start to look round, see time not standing still. What gonna’ happen, already happenin’. So, maybe dis why I been born, one bridge for Pono’s daughters, help dem make dere way back home. Finally, dey start to come, each daughter. Dey come slow, like women walkin’ into fire. At first Pono quiet, like try be kind so dey come back bring dere keeds each summer foah dere cousin, Rachel. But dis terrible old lion, she start swat dem daughters wit’ her tongue. Talk mean against dere husbands. Swat and swat until dey leave foah good. But, you know, Mot‘er God up dere, still take wit’ her left, give wit’ her right.
Rachel meet her many cousins, come close to t‘ree of dem, Vanya, Jessamyn, Ming. Dese t‘ree love Rachel, come see her, stay and stay. Come back every summer, like dey addicted to big Island. What I t‘ink is, dey addicted to Pono, like swimmers addicted to da sea. Yeah, shoah, sea da mot‘er of us all, but you no can tell, sometime da bottom drop, suck swimmers down, grip de flesh till not‘ing left but bone.
Ka Po‘e Hapa
Hawai‘i o Ka
Honua Hou
* * *
Hybrids of the
New World
Ka Hale o Nā
Kīkepa Kea
* * *
House of White Sarongs
THEY COME BY PLANE TO THIS BLEAKEST and most desolate of places. They come returning to the woman who possesses them, whom they have never been able to let
go of. Through the years, they come, arriving at the tiny airport of Keahole, an oasis, a green blink of palms in vast plains of lava, black mounds high as frozen cliffs. They slide into a taxi, and ride a highway snaking the dark forbidding landscape. Far off to the right, the sea, the brilliant sea, a blue suggestion hanging. And they are borne south and away, into the past. Each summer of their lives, they have lit down in this place—so bleak and scorched, early missionaries called it “Valley of Hell.” And each summer, the lava, the black, smoldering land, has entered them a little more—becoming fixed in their vision, their memories. It has become their point of entry, and departure.
Now they see new wrinkles on the landscape, a giant yellow crane off in the distance gouging the lava, rearing back like a dinosaur. Ghettoes of concrete buildings, rental cars lined up in lots like dung beetles. A sprawling solar-energy lab far off to the left, white shriek against the black. The beginning of terrible sprawl: tract houses dotting the flanks of Hualālai, dormant volcano brooding in the sun.
Beside wrecked, oxidizing cars edging the road, the garish reds, purples, pinks of bougainvillea bushes, abundant, never-ending. And all across the land as far as the eye can see, messages, codes, entreaties spelled out in small, white pebbles stuck in hard, pitted lava. HA‘AHEO!. . . LŌKAHI!. . . KŌKUA ‘OHANA!. . . MĀLAMA ‘AINA! . . . HULI! HULI!
After a time, the lava seems to part, a town sails forth Kailua, where tin-roofed shops shudder, overflown by giant jets, where tour buses spawn foreigners with video cameras, binoculars, sunglasses, like eager, monied, giant flies. Avoiding the town, they direct the driver up into the coffee-country hills of Kona District. Up, up two thousand feet, through little towns with “talk-song” names—Hōlualoa, Kainali‘u, Kealakekua, Honaunau, Captain Cook. Slowly, the land becomes lush and green and mystic, the air cool, smell of cooking fires, guava, frangipani and soil, deep, rich soil.
Shark Dialogues Page 22