by Frankie Bow
“I know you don’t want to hear this,” I continued. “But he’s...do you know what he just said to me?”
I repeated Davison’s comment to Donnie, hand gestures and all. Donnie moved toward the doorway.
“He’s gonna apologize.”
I stepped in front of Donnie to block him, which was a bit out of character for me. I’d always tried to play it demure and ladylike with him. But I wasn’t going to let this go. Not this time.
“Donnie, it’s not just the one comment. This isn’t something you can fix in five minutes. He’s—I’m a little afraid of him, to be honest.”
“I’ll be honest, Molly. We’re both a little afraid of you.”
Donnie tried to step around me, and I repositioned myself in front of him. I knew if I didn’t tell him now, I probably never would. I would go back to being tactful and polite, and letting Donnie think everything was fine.
“Do you remember the weekend over on the leeward side, when we were there for the Labor Day race?” I pointed to the doorway. “He came on to me.”
“You walked in on him. I’m sure you misinterpreted.”
I stepped closer to Donnie. We were face to face now, close enough to kiss. Too bad no one was in a kissing mood.
“He tried to stop me from leaving his hotel room, Donnie.”
“Like you’re doing to me right now.”
“Yes, exactly like I’m doing to you right now.” My nose was practically touching Donnie’s chest. “Except I’m wearing clothes.”
I let that sink in for a couple of seconds. Donnie stepped back, refusing to look me in the eye.
“And you know what he said to me? He said, Come on, we don’t have to tell Dad. What am I misinterpreting here?”
“He didn’t—”
“Yes, he did. If you don’t believe me, ask him yourself.”
“Molly, I can’t—”
“So maybe you don’t care how he treats me. But think about it, Donnie. He doesn’t respect you either. He was all set to have it off with me, and not tell you.”
Donnie looked down at me, his face hardened.
“Maybe you should leave.”
“Probably thought it’d get him some high-fives from his frat bros. Eh, check it out, I nailed my dad’s girlfriend!”
“Molly, how could you say I don’t care how someone treats you? How could you think I—”
“Yeah, I don’t know, Donnie. It’s a real mystery.”
Davison stuck his head in the door.
“Eh, need some help with the coffee?”
Even three sheets to the wind, Davison remembered how to be a suckup. Must be muscle memory.
“I was just leaving,” I said.
Davison followed me to the front door, grinning. “Eh, no get huhu, Molly. Gotta watch that Italian temper.”
“Oh, yes. My ‘Italian’ temper. Thank you for reminding me, Davison.”
I stalked back through the living room with its genuine Ettore Sottsass sofa and Commedia Del’Arte posters, and into the kitchen where Donnie was still busy with the Tre Spade coffee grinder. He had placidly remained in the kitchen after I’d stormed out, which infuriated me. Why hadn’t he even made an effort to talk this through? Did he not think this was important at all?
I was beyond caring about burning bridges now. I wanted to blow them up.
“Donnie.” I kept my voice steady, with some effort. “Just so you know. I’m not Italian.”
“What?”
“I’m not Italian. Not even a little. I am a proud Albanian-American.”
I didn’t know why I said it. I could never understand why people would claim to be proud to be Albanian or American or whatever, when it was nothing but an accident of birth. It wasn’t like you had to pass a test or anything.
I didn’t articulate any of this, of course. I simply turned and sauntered out through the smoking wreckage of my engagement to Donnie Gonsalves.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I HAD PUT OFF TELLING my parents about my cancelled engagement. Now, as I pulled away from the airport curb, with my parents in the back seat and their luggage in the trunk, I wondered if I should have mentioned something earlier.
“I realized what this reminds me of,” my father said as we made our way down the narrow, jungle-canopied road out of the terminal. “Oudomsay Airport. We flew out of there a few times when I was in the Peace Corps.”
“Of course you know that’s in Laos,” my mother interjected, before I could embarrass her with my ignorance by asking where Oudomsay Airport was.
“So Molly,” my father said, “You’re having a productive summer? Getting some time to relax and recharge?”
“Sure.”
As part of their new stress-reduction regime, my mother had put my father and herself on a news fast. Newspapers, television, and social media were off-limits. So they hadn’t read about Melanie’s death. Nor would they learn of my arrest when it became public. Or so I hoped.
“When are we going to meet your fiancé?” my father asked.
“Let’s talk about all this after we get you settled at the house.”
“Is Gonsalves a Brazilian name?” my mother asked. “Are you marrying a Brazilian man?”
“It’s a Portuguese name.”
“Didn’t you tell me he was Hawaiian?” my father asked.
“He is. Hawaiian, Portuguese and some other things. Like a lot of people here. Basically a mixture of the original inhabitants of the islands, and the people who came in to work the sugar plantations. There are very few full-blooded Hawaiians left. So if you’re part-Hawaiian, you generally call yourself Hawaiian. Like Emma Nakamura does.”
“Melanie’s not still staying with you, is she?” my mother asked. “I don’t think your little house has room for all of us.”
“So how is it working out with Melanie?” my father asked. “I remember you two used to get on each other’s nerves when you spent too much time together.”
“No, Melanie’s not staying at my house. The guest room is vacant.”
“Are you sure?” my mother asked.
“Oh yes. I’m sure. Hey, let’s stop somewhere to pick up dinner.” Most of the items in my pantry had gone to the food bank, and I had nothing to eat at home.
Over takeout sushi at my little dining room table, I told my parents all about the Brewster House, and showed them photos I had taken when Leilani Zelenko had given me my first tour of the place. It was going to be a lot harder for me to afford the house without Donnie’s contribution, but if I could sell my current house, and renegotiate my student loan payments, and not eat out at restaurants or buy clothes or use too much electricity, I could probably swing it. Now I wasn’t planning a wedding anymore, moving into the Brewster House was one thing I could look forward to.
“Is your Donnie as excited about this new house as you are?” my mother asked.
“Oh, actually, I did need to tell you something. About Donnie.” My landline phone started to ring. I stood up to answer it.
“Honey,” I exclaimed. “What’s going on?”
“Must be him calling,” I heard my father whisper.
“Good news and bad news,” Honey Akiona said. “Good news is I’m hearing the prosecutor is having trouble building a solid case. You had to somehow get the latex from your shoes into Melanie’s system, and the fact she got all the way upstairs is hard to figure out. Anaphylaxis happens fast.”
“That is good news.” I placed the receiver against my mouth and ducked into my little office nook so my parents wouldn’t hear me. “Hang on. How do you know what they’re talking about in the prosecutor’s office?”
“On the other hand,” Honey continued, “the deceased is a pretty haole girl, and she died in a haunted house. High profile. So people are asking questions, and everyone’s gotta look like they’re taking action. No one wants a replay of the cockfight murders. Or the karaoke murders.”
“But there’s nothing to connect it to me,” I protested. “Why am I th
e suspect?”
“Have you read Melanie’s computer files?” Honey asked.
“Not all the way through. I did do some research on the Brewster House, though. Do you think we could use the history of the house to—”
“Nah. I don’t think I can sell them on little Constance Brewster chucking Melanie off the balcony.”
“Oh. You already know about the Brewster girls?”
“Yeah. Everyone knows that thing. They say baby Constance still mad at Flora, never gave her a chance to grow up that’s why, so the baby takes young wahine out to the balcony to push ‘em off. And on rainy nights, you can hear Constance crying.”
“Are there any other people who committed suicide in that house? Or any other notorious deaths?”
“You mean any way it’s the house’s fault an’ not yours, Professor?”
“Exactly.”
“Nah. Last time there was any suicides was in the seventies. Think it was 1974. But it was a hanging, not a jump.”
“Someone hanged themselves in the Brewster House?”
I peeked out of the office to make sure my parents were okay. My father was still sitting at the table, but my mother was up and busy straightening out my Felix the Cat wall clock.
“Anyway, Professor, I’ve been reading through the files. Melanie really had some beef against you. What did you do to her?”
“I don’t know.”
I really didn’t. Maybe Melanie’s antipathy toward me had taken root when our band got our photo in the local weekly and I was the one standing in front, even though Melanie was the lead singer. (It wasn’t my fault. The photographer had been intrigued with my hair, and kept fluffing it out as far as it would go.) Or perhaps it was during the discussion in study group when I had opined that the American Midwest was referred to as the “Heartland” because it wasn’t where the brains were? I wondered whether Melanie had taken it personally.
“I can’t think of anything,” I said.
“Someone there? Can you talk freely?”
“Yes. No. My parents. I haven’t told them. I had to go into my office to get some privacy.”
“You don’t have privacy. None of us do. You got any idea who else is probably listening in on this call?”
Honey Akiona had always been attuned to issues of government overreach, even when she was enrolled in my intro class. Where most papers started off with a dictionary definition or a flavorless platitude like, “Throughout time, integrity has been an important factor in society,” Honey’s introductions ran along the lines of “The average American is unaware every detail of his or her life is stored for quick retrieval and sale to the highest bidder.”
“Are you saying I might have a wiretap on my phone?”
“No need for wiretaps anymore, Professor. All our communications are stored electronically as they’re created. There’s so much data, the government can’t analyze it all. Did you know when you take a photo with your phone and send it, the location information is embedded by default? One of my clients found out the hard way when he ended up in someone’s vacation picture and the police came knocking about an hour after it was posted. Anyways, call me later. When you can talk.”
I hung up the phone and went back to join my parents at the table. My mother was sitting down again, but the table had been cleared (except for my barely-touched plate) and my Frida Kahlo fridge magnets were now lined up perfectly straight.
“I’m really glad you both are here,” I said. “I hope you don’t feel like it’s a wasted trip.”
“Why would it be a wasted trip?” my mother asked.
I took a deep breath. It was time to rip off the bandage.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“DONNIE AND I AREN’T getting married,” I said. “It’s over.”
“Aw, sweetie.” My father reached over and patted my shoulder awkwardly. “Are you okay?”
“Sure. I’m fine.”
“Well,” my mother said, “Brazilian men are very unreliable. Have you returned the ring?”
“No, I never got a ring. I couldn’t find anything I liked. I couldn’t see myself wearing a tri-color braided gold band with a heart-shaped diamond. Oh, that reminds me, I still have Donnie’s key. I have to return it.”
“You have this man’s key?”
“Mom, I never used it. It was just for emergencies. And I never gave him mine, don’t worry.”
As progressive as my mother was in some ways, she had some real old-world views. She would never congratulate a bride.
“Is this your first real fight?” my father asked.
I nodded.
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t give up yet.”
“If you get married, you’ll have to get used to disagreement,” my mother said. “You won’t be able to get your own way all the time.”
“As long as both of you are committed to working things out,” my father added.
And there was the rub. Donnie didn’t think there was anything to work out. As far as he was concerned, I just needed to grit my teeth and put up with Davison. The issue wasn’t simply Davison’s oafishness, although Davison was, indeed, an oaf. It was Donnie’s continual enabling and making excuses. It was like when someone had a badly behaved dog that jumped up on the guests and pooped all over the house. At some point you realized it wasn’t entirely the dog’s fault.
“Oh, and there’s something else you should probably know,” I said. “Melanie’s dead.”
The ringing silence at the dinner table made me wonder whether I should have broken the news a little less abruptly.
“Did you just say Melanie is dead?” my mother said, finally.
“Do you mean dead, as in she’s dead to me,” my father asked, “or really dead?”
I related the whole story, leaving off only the part about my having been arrested for murder. There was no need to bother my parents with those extra details.
“That’s terrible, sweet pea.” My father made a sad face, as if I were still six years old and grieving over my goldfish. “You must be really shaken up. So are you still coming with us?”
“A change of scenery would be good for you,” my mother said.
“Coming where? I thought you were staying here.”
“Well, we are planning to stay here tonight. Aren’t we, Sara?”
“Your guest room is so charming,” my mother added. “But this tiny house is far too small for three people. We can’t all share one bathroom.”
“We did last time you were here,” I said.
My parents exchanged a glance.
“And why come all the way here, if we’re only going to stay in one place?” My father said. “Why not enjoy all the beauty of the island?”
“There really isn’t anything to see in Mahina,” my mother clarified.
“We made reservations at the Kakahiakalani Resort. We should start out early tomorrow, so we can take our time and enjoy the drive.”
I liked the idea of getting out of town, away from my dead classmate and my even deader romance. But when I called Honey Akiona back later that night, she strongly advised (i.e. pretty much ordered) me to stick around.
So the next morning I dropped my parents off at the car rental hut and watched them head for the sunny side of the island without me. I drove home realizing I had the whole day in front of me, unbroken by social engagements or any other plans.
My to-do list consisted of only two items:
1) Search Melanie’s files for anything potentially helpful for my case.
2) Work on my conference paper.
I fixed a fresh cup of coffee, and then started up my computer. With great force of will I closed all of my browser windows and pulled up the data file for the conference paper Betty Jackson and I were scheduled to present next month.
I wistfully recalled my one of my father’s favorite sayings: “The three best things about being a teacher are June, July and August.” But Dad was a high-school science teacher. The only professor I’d ever met who ac
tually took summers off was Rodge Cowper, and I did not want to follow his example. “Dr. Rodge” taught our popular and undemanding Human Potential elective where he assigned no homework and gave no tests. He was late uploading his grades every semester, even though they were invariably all A’s. Rodge didn’t use all the extra time for research either; he hadn’t had a single publication since his promotion to associate.
I didn’t have tenure yet, so I had to publish to keep my job. And with my department chair duties, teaching load, and committee assignments, I couldn’t get it all done during the school year.
The autonomy was nice, though. I still worked about sixty hours a week during the summer, but I got to choose which sixty hours. My doctoral advisor had warned me that being a college professor would be like having homework every day for the rest of my life. He was right.
I fired up my new statistical software and ran a few t-tests and ANOVAs, two handy things I had learned from sitting in on Betty’s psychology stats course. Betty could have done the analysis herself in about two minutes, but she had encouraged me to have a go at it first.
My initial attitude toward statistical analysis had been like that of most humanists toward math-y things: the dazzled terror of apes around fire. But now I was kind of enjoying it. The simple certainty felt like a guilty pleasure. I could state whether, all else being equal, extroverted students earned higher grades in public speaking classes. I didn’t have to wrestle with the inherent problematicity of the classroom as an institution, or discuss how the letter grading system reified hegemonic phallogocentrism.
I knew I should be examining Melanie’s files. Having one more conference presentation on my CV wasn’t going to be much help if I ended up as a permanent guest of the State. But I couldn’t bear to go back in and face Melanie’s writing. Maybe in a few minutes.
I glanced over the output on my computer screen. None of our pedagogical interventions seemed to have made a difference in students’ business communication grades. At least not according to the p-values. Gamified classroom versus flipped classroom versus lecture? No effect. Online lectures available versus not? No difference, possibly because most students didn’t even access the online lectures after the second week. Even introversion/extroversion didn’t predict anything. The introverts could fake their way through public speaking just fine. (I could have told you that.)