Iced in Paradise

by Naomi Hirahara

  “Well, this sistah was super off the grid,” I say.

  “Was she with a small woman? Looks haole?”

  We shake our head.

  “I think dat wahine’s family owns a piece of land in the middle of dat property. It’s kuleana land.” Rick sits back in his chair and rubs Duke’s ears.

  Sophie wrinkles her nose. “What dat?”

  “Land that the native Hawaiian families received back in 1850s. Since dat time, the land was passed on through da generations. Some people don’t even know they own it.”

  “Well, if I owned land, I’d build a huge bamboo castle, maybe a hundred feet high.” In her excitement, Sophie squeezes Jimin too hard, causing him to squawk.

  Auntie Barbara finally appears, her face again looking pale. Besides at Cannons Beach, the last time I really saw her was for a birthday dinner that my mother had for her last month. After we exchange greetings, she says, “C’mon, Sophie, lemme look at dat bird outside by our henhouse.” She leads them out the kitchen door to their expansive backyard, which houses a chicken coop and cages for some tropical birds.

  Uncle Rick watches them go, an almost wistful look on his face. “She always wanted kids, you know,” he murmurs. “We couldn’t have any. Maybe if we did.…”

  His adult conversation makes me uncomfortable. I always wondered why Rick and Barbara didn’t have children, but I felt it wasn’t my business to ask.

  “Thanks for all that you’ve done for us,” I tell him. “Gettin’ Mr. Brown and all.”

  Rick stops petting his dog. “Mo betta if you get someone from Honolulu. Someone with experience with first-degree murder cases.”

  Just the mention of “murder” makes me sick to my stomach.

  “Brown’s specialty is DUI. He’s gotten a lot of people off. He’s good. But maybe not good enough for your dad’s situation.”

  “A lawyer from Honolulu is going to cost a lot,” I say. I’ve been trying not to think about the bail money.

  “Maybe we can have a GoFundMe or someting on the internet?”

  “Dad wouldn’t like that.” He would rather rot in jail than ask for help like that. “I’m not even sure if we can make bail. I checked on the internet, and it says usually you have to come up with ten percent. That’s fifty grand.”

  “Wasn’t that old lifeguard, Darrell something, going to help out?”

  I nod. I know D-man was offering to pay out of pocket—he said it was a loan—but Mom didn’t want him to.

  “Uncle, so you were with Dad Saturday night.”

  Rick nods. “We meet right hea. Handful of folks.”

  “Do you remember when Dad left?”

  “I told da police all dis. Around nine. He said he going back to Waimea Junction to do some work.”

  “But he say he was going surfing.”

  “I guess he wen change his mind. Your faddah changes his mind plenty.”

  Auntie Barbara comes back into the house. “The rooster has fowl pox,” she announces. “With the right care, he’ll be okay. I’m gonna show Sophie what to do—”

  “We’re not keepin’ it,” I call out in a voice loud enough for Sophie to hear from outside. I have a feeling that I’m not going to win this battle.

  “Why you two no stay tonight? Make Barbara happy?” Rick suggests.

  I agree and check in with Mom, who’s relieved that Sophie and I are together. I don’t mention anything about my ankle.

  That night Auntie Barbara serves us a meal of kalua pig from her Crock-Pot and we eat it over rice. Something between her and Rick seems a little off. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s like they are too polite with each other, as if they are strangers. I recognize this in my own parents.

  “Dad loves Crock-Pot kalua pig,” Sophie announces as she unabashedly raises her plate for seconds. It’s like she’s eating for him, too. Uncle Rick sheepishly grins while Auntie Barbara’s mouth falls into a straight line. Does she somehow think he’s guilty of Luke’s murder?

  It still feels good to be away from Waimea and the mess of our family. I feel the happiest for Sophie as I watch her play with Duke, who rewards her with sloppy kisses. For a few moments in the evening, nothing seems wrong or out of whack. Both Sophie and I are able to fall asleep way before our regular bedtimes.

  In the middle of the night, I hear someone stumbling in the kitchen and the door to the hallway leading to Uncle Rick and Auntie Barbara’s bedroom closes. Sophie’s still sleeping soundly in a sleeping bag on the floor; it would take a jackhammer two feet away to wake her up. I slowly pull myself up with my elbows and gingerly place my feet on the carpet.

  My ankle’s still sore, but the swelling has gone down. I limp over to the sink to get a drink of water. As I fill up a glass, I smell alcohol coming from the drain. I take a long sip and look around the small open kitchen, which is not fancy but spotless. I open the trash can with a foot pedal, but there are only plastic wrappers, soiled paper towels, and junk mail in there.

  The door of the broom closet is halfway open, and I go to close it but smell some alcohol again. I check out the closet and discover what I’ve suspected. Sitting in a bucket, right on top of a soiled mop, is an empty bottle of vodka. So much for Uncle Rick’s recovery.

  Chapter Seven

  WE GET UP REALLY EARLY in the morning, which isn’t hard in the Chen household because of all their chickens and roosters in the back. Auntie Barbara has washed our clothes for us, and we get out of Uncle Rick’s old T-shirts that we slept in. My ankle feels a bit stiff, but it’s about seventy-five percent better. Both Sophie and I drink some hot coffee—I put extra cream and sugar in her travel mug—and we hug Auntie Barbara and Duke goodbye.

  Outside the wind shakes the old pane windows. “Good thing you goin’ before the storm,” Auntie Barbara says as she pulls up her hood to go collect some fresh eggs from her chickens. “Wish your uncle could see you off, but he’s not much of a mornin’ person.” I figure that I know what’s really ailing Uncle Rick.

  A few drops hit my windshield as I get back on the highway. The sky on the North Shore is gray and the palm trees bend in the wind. It’s like the storm is chasing us, because it’s supposed to hit the north first and then head south.

  Despite the rain, I get Sophie to school earlier than usual, and she doesn’t want to get out of the car and leave Jimin. The baka bird has left green globs of poop on different spots of the backseat. Luckily I had anticipated this and spread out pages of some freebie tourist magazine, but I forgot about the floor.

  “Sophie, just get out and go. The rain’s gettin’ worse.” I make a note that I need to get new windshield wipers, as these are cracked and jumpy. “I take care of Jimin.”

  She looks at me suspiciously. She knows me too well. “You promise.”

  “Promise.”

  “Promise on Grandpop’s grave?”

  “Sophie!”

  Clutching the plastic bag of kalua pork sandwiches that Auntie Barbara made her, she finally opens the door. Ro, completely soaked, is waiting for her outside. I watch both of them run inside the school. Business is going to be lousy today. I’m sure Baachan and Mom can pretty much handle the late-morning crowd, which I estimate to be maybe two or three Rainbow shave ice. This will give me time to go by the Kauai Community Correctional Facility, back north off of the highway, right next to a beachside golf course.

  I already have called in my name to be on the visitation list. I’ve been through this one time before. No one except maybe Toma knows of my dalliance with an older guy one summer after my sophomore year of college. Yah, this guy used to be with a surf gang back in the day. Before it got hot and heavy between us, he got into a fight at the Infinities with a teenager from New York. He got locked up, and I was questioned because I was on the beach. I visited him once in jail, but that one time was too much, and luckily, I had to leave the island to go back to college.

  So I’m not a jail virgin; I know the drill. As the rain pounds the Ford, I leave my neckl
ace and money in the glove compartment. Bring my driver’s license. Know my car license number. I hope my Crocs can pass muster.

  I hear the commotion in the backseat. Jimin. What the hell am I going to do with him? I line the car floor with a few more sheets of the magazine. With the rain coming down so hard, maybe none of the guards will notice.

  I make sure that I lock my car, and I run out toward the jail’s front door. I am pelted with the rain, which is practically coming down horizontally. The top of my T-shirt is wet and my bare feet squish in my Crocs. At least I’m allowed in wearing them. That’s all that matters.

  After I fill out forms and go through metal detectors, I sit and wait for Dad. It’s not long before he appears across from me, on the other side of the plexiglass. He’s wearing a bright orange jumpsuit like the other inmates, and I feel my anxiety level rising.

  His beard is fully grown now, patches of white on his cheeks and brown nubs on his chin. His wild hair is almost in a mini Afro; there’s no doubt where I got my hair from.

  “We’re working to get you out,” I tell him.

  “Leave me in here.” He doesn’t look me in the eyes.

  I explain how D-man is trying to scrape together enough money to post bail.

  “Leave me in here,” Dad repeats. “And forget about a bail bondsman.”

  Well, we aren’t going to listen to him, so this conversation is going nowhere. But I have some other questions for him. He shuts down. He doesn’t want to answer.

  “C’mon, Dad. Did Luke say anyting about Celia? How they gettin’ along?”

  He examines his dirty fingernails. “She had a hold on him. Nevah trusted her.”

  “He was talkin’ to Sammie about how Celia was cheatin’ on him.” I explain that’s why Luke went to Santiago’s that night. “You have any idea who?”

  Dad frowns and shakes his head. This piece of information is new to him.

  “He and Rex nevah got along,” he finally says.

  “Really? According to Rex, they’re best buddies.”

  Dad lets out a laugh. “Rex got no friends.”

  “He’s goin’ back to Honolulu.”

  “Good for him.” He purses his lips. “Luke and Rex were competitors. That’s how the best surfers are. No friendship out in the waves.” And then as if he was recalling something painful, “Wynn Hightower even sponsored Rex instead of his own son. Said it would make Luke stronger not to have handouts from da family.”

  Because I know our time is short, I get right to my last question. “Why you tell Uncle Rick dat you going back to Waimea Junction?”

  “Dat was my plan. Get one surfboard ready to sell. But then I saw the waves and I no can resist.”

  That part actually sounds completely believable. One thing my father can’t say no to is a good wave.

  Our fifteen minutes are over. Dad gets up. “Tell your mom no come here,” he says. “I no like her see me like dis.”

  I’m back in the Ford and it smells something awful. I can’t open the window because of the rain. Jimin now has claimed the front passenger seat.

  I check my phone for Lihue Airport, and it’s as I suspected. All the flights are delayed, delayed, delayed. You’re not gettin’ out of Kaua‘i that fast, I think.

  The rain is still heavy and a crowd is waiting underneath the airport’s open-air canopy. There’s little chance that I’ll find Rex in this mess. But in a long line snaking from the Hawaiian Airlines counter, I spot a familiar little snot carrying a black surfboard travel bag. I get lucky; a car is just leaving a parking spot and I’m able to quickly slip in. Abandoning Jimin again, I run to the canopy to find Nori.

  “Hey—” He’s moved farther up in the line and is now about five people away from the counter.

  “Ah, Wan-Wan-chan,” Nori greets me. He’s such an asshole. “What’s wrong with your foot?”

  I’m shocked that he noticed my injury, as I don’t think I’m limping. The sixth sense of an athlete, I guess. “Nothing. Where’s Rex?”

  “Celia and Mr. Hightower made him stay.”

  The line moves a little as the airline employees call the next people forward.

  The mention of Luke’s father immediately catches my attention. “Mr. Hightower, what does he have to do with this?”

  “His company owns Bamboo Royal. Big meeting tomorrow.”

  I had no idea that Mr. Hightower had a financial stake in Bamboo Royal. And what is this big meeting? It doesn’t make sense that he’ll be conducting business so soon after his son was found dead.

  Nori moves forward in line and I move with him.

  “What about Luke?” I ask.

  “We have paddle-out in two weeks for him. In San Clemente. His hometown.” His voice catches a little, and I detect some wetness in the corners of his eyes. Maybe this weed-smoking surfer has a heart after all.

  I have gone to my share of paddle-outs, a type of surfing funeral tradition, in Pakala and Hanalei bays. Surfers go out on their boards and form a circle in the still waters. Each person says a little something in memory of the deceased. I’ve never been in the inner circle, but have bounced in the water on my boogie board outside of it.

  It makes sense that instead of a conventional service, Luke will have one of those. Older folks and those who can’t get in the water are usually ferried out in boats.

  “So you’re going to that?”

  “Mochiron,” Nori says, moving forward with his surfboard travel bag. He’s now at the front of the line. “Of course. Luke was my best friend. You want info?”

  Why not, I think, although I’m sure I’m probably one of the last people the Hightowers want to see at their son’s funeral. While we are exchanging phone digits, a uniformed airlines employee waves him over. Nori is next, and my conversation with him is over.

  I drive home in a daze. The farther west I drive, the less wet it is, but the skies are still gray and foreboding. Once I get home, I run to get some disposable plastic gloves and empty the car of the yucky soiled magazine papers. I generously squirt Febreze on the carpet floor. The Ford is under the carport, and I leave some of the windows open to clear the air.

  Jimin struts around the carport like he’s in charge of the Santiago household. I think my mom will accept him, but Baachan? I’m sure she’ll threaten to cut his head off as she did to the chickens of her youth. I tuck him underneath my arm like a football and take him into our backyard. If he wants to flee, he can manage a way, but I give him some of Auntie Barbara’s chicken feed to entice him to stay, at least for Sophie’s sake.

  The house is completely empty, and I relish the silence. I lie back on the couch and think about my conversation with Nori. So Mr. Hightower has a company that owns Bamboo Royal. And what other property? I wonder. I check my phone again and Google his full name, “Wynn Hightower,” and “Kaua‘i.” What comes up immediately, of course, is Luke’s death. There’s his beautiful head shot, his blond hair tousled against the background of the blue ocean and sky. I hadn’t noticed before that he had a small scar on his forehead. Dad is mentioned in most of the recent stories. “Local Man Arrested in Pro Surfer’s Murder.” It says nothing about this local man being a mentor to the surfer, that he may even have considered him to be his son. I keep scrolling down from one page to another. It’s all stories related to Luke. I add “real estate” and, sure enough, Hightower Properties comes up. They are planning a multimillion-dollar project in Moloa‘a Valley surrounding Bamboo Royal. A reception and presentation to interested investors will be held tomorrow in Po‘ipū.

  I’m sure some people won’t be happy about all that new development. Kaua‘i—well, all of Hawai‘i, for that matter—has been a battleground over outsiders buying up land. Would someone be mad enough about it to kill Mr. Hightower’s golden son? It’s definitely possible.

  My phone dings with a text. It’s Travis. And another ding. Emily. I feel resentful that I’m the one who has to keep everyone in the loop. I know how stupid this sounds because Travis is
my boyfriend, after all, and Emily is my wingwoman sister. But the thing is, Travis doesn’t know my family and Emily isn’t here to help me. Making sure that they know what’s going on doesn’t make me feel better. It’s just one more thing that I have to do. I ignore the texts for now and get back in my Crocs to walk back to Waimea Junction. I pull down a sweatshirt from a hook on the door and tighten the hood over my head.

  Before I go into Santiago’s, I spy Pekelo under the cover of Killer Wave’s worn awning. He’s smoking, and after we howzit each other, he offers me a cigarette. Of course I accept.

  After a second puff, I find the guts to be direct with him. “Sophie saw you, you know. Over in Bamboo Royal.”

  “What, she spying on me?”

  “No, brah. She was there to talk to Celia Johnson, Luke’s girlfriend. She saw you there instead.” I stare into Pekelo’s dark eyes, measuring any differences in the speed he blinks.

  He coolly blows out smoke. “I have some buddies working over there. Just looking for some work. I can’t be working part-time here for too long.”

  Do I believe him? I so want to. I can’t forget how furiously he cleaned the shack’s floor of all of Luke’s blood. But was he doing it for another reason other than being a good friend?

  He tosses the rest of his cigarette into the rain, which is now more like a steady drizzle. “Gotta go.” He gets on his bicycle. “’K den,” he says before pedaling away in the red mud.

  Through the open door of Killer Wave, I see Kelly standing at the counter, nodding for me to come inside. When I do, I see that D-man is also in there, sitting barefoot on the wooden floor.

  “You talk some sense in him?” Kelly asks.

  I’m assuming that he is talking about his older brother. “What?”

  “He’s talking about maybe reenlisting in Army.”

  “I thought he hated it ova there.”

  “Hates it more here.” Maybe the Army, at least, introduced Pekelo to a world of possibilities beyond the Islands.

  “What you do to your ankle?” D-man asks. He’s wearing sunglasses despite the rain. I swear these surfers have a sixth sense of body mechanics.