Belleau, Heidi & Vane, Violetta - Hawaiian Gothic

by Belleau, Heidi

  Ori decided to use near-total honesty. “Hey, brah, I’m looking for Moses Lihilihi,” he said. “I’m from Oahu.”

  The man considered that. He had salt-and-pepper hair, no shirt, and the results of a successful fishing trip all over the bed of his truck. “Why?”

  “His grandson’s dying. I’m a friend of the family. They sent me to find Moses and see if he wants to say good-bye.”

  “What? Moses Lihilihi doesn’t have a grandson.” His brow, eyes, and mouth all narrowed into parallel lines, making his face look a little like it had folded in on itself. “He had a son named Jonathan, right? Jonathan had a son. That’s his grandson, the one who’s dying.”

  “You mean by that two-timing whore Malia? Everybody knows—whatever, Moses can tell you himself I guess, but long story short, your friend is no Lihilihi.”

  “You’re kind of an asshole, man,” said Ori, before he remembered he should be polite and try to pump this guy for information.

  “Fuck you too, brah. You want to find out more about Jonathan? Go talk to the Fergusons. Top of that hill over there. Nice people.” He smiled cruelly. “Just watch out for booby traps on their property, eh?” He extended his middle finger and revved his truck, almost spattering Ori with mud from the enormous tires, and quickly drove on.

  Ori memorized the license plate and wrote it down when he got back into his car, holding the pen so tightly that it almost tore through the receipt paper.

  He’d have to follow the lead, although he had a pretty good feeling the Fergusons were growers and would be even less welcoming than Asshole Fisher Truck Guy. He was so mad about how this search was already going, he almost didn’t have time to stop and think about the implications of what AFTG had said to him.

  One sad story after another.

  Guilt crept into his guts. Did Kalani know that was why his grandfather had rejected him all those years ago? Did he suspect?

  Ori tightened his hands around the steering wheel of the car and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and counting backward from ten. He tried to picture Kalani’s father. Ori and Kalani had met after his father’s death, after Kalani had moved in with Anela, but there were photos, weren’t there? There had to be. Not on Anela’s crowded walls, which were covered in school photos of her kids, including more than a few of Ori and Kalani, but maybe somewhere else. Kalani never had a bedroom of his own, but he had a bed—under the mattress? In a shoebox? He’d seen the framed photo of Malia holding toddler-Kalani a few dozen times over the years, going wherever Kalani went, especially on the anniversary of the accident, but not Jonathan.

  And then he remembered it. Jonathan Lihilihi. Just one picture, that he’d only seen maybe once or twice, and only when he and Kalani were little, that had disappeared when they were in their teens and Kalani had cheerfully come to terms with being driftwood. But before that…

  Kalani’s childhood bedroom, shared with three other boys and overflowing with dirty laundry. Kalani and him sitting on the edge of the bed together, thighs touching, Ori unable to keep still, kicking his shorter legs as Kalani frowned but didn’t cry.

  “This was the day we left for our new life in Oahu,” Kalani had said, a touch of bitterness in his voice before he even knew what bitterness was. Malia with her arms thrown over Kalani’s shoulders, bent so her chin rested on the top of his head. The both of them beaming identical smiles, but Malia’s not quite reaching her eyes. And Jonathan, standing next to them both, with his hand cupping the back of Malia’s neck, smiling too, an expression Ori didn’t recognize in Kalani. Proud, but guarded, not nearly simple enough to be happy, not really. But was there anything else of Kalani in there somewhere, in his nose, in his eyebrows, in his cheekbones or jaw or hands or anything?

  The posing was so strange, it consumed the entire memory, leaving the details of their features impossibly vague. Jonathan could be anyone, have any face at all, Kalani’s or not.

  Ori took another deep breath, opened his wet eyes, and started the car’s engine. He’d talk to the Fergusons.

  * * * *

  Another steep hill. Another red-dirt driveway, this one well traveled but poorly maintained. And about twenty feet up, Ori spotted the tripwire. His adrenaline surged, and his vision narrowed, but he fought himself to gain control. This wasn’t an Iraqi roadside. A family of dope farmers probably wouldn’t rig something that could easily blow up stray mailmen and Mormon missionaries. He crouched and followed both ends of the fishing line until he understood how it worked: a pull would trigger a radio signal from a device tucked under a coconut husk.

  He purposefully pulled the line and continued upward. Sneaking up on them would be an even worse idea than knocking on their front door. The path circled the slope. He caught sight of an ocean cliff in the distance beyond lower hills, white waves crashing into gray rock crawling with green life. He walked slowly and kept his hands at his sides. They’d be coming down for him soon.

  “Private property, motherfucker!” A seven-foot-tall Hawaiian-size man-tank covered in tattoos barreled at him. An older white man with a machete followed close behind. Ori pasted on a pained smile, spread his arms wider to show his empty palms—

  —and they didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down.

  Kill them, a voice whispered in his head. You know how.

  He wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t give in. He fought back the red haze, the fingerstiffening shiver of hate. A fraction of a second before the Hawaiian slammed into him, Ori dropped into a frog-crouch and skittered to the inside, away from the steep drop. The man would jump past, stop himself, then Ori would calm them down. Somehow.

  But he didn’t jump. Didn’t stop himself.

  With nothing to slow his momentum, he skidded through the slick mud and right past Ori to one side.

  He was headed straight for the drop-off. Seeming to realize that himself, he pulled back too late, overbalancing and toppling backward onto his ass. Even that didn’t stop or slow him, and the lower half of his body shot forward over the edge. His whole body flipped and twisted. He clawed uselessly for something—anything—to anchor him to solid ground. There was nothing.

  The white man howled.

  Ori hurled himself toward the edge. He’d seen death come again and again in dry places, but it seemed impossible that a man could die in the lushness of the rainforest, right in front of his eyes. It was supposed to be safe here.

  But then, maybe nobody had to die after all. The big Hawaiian had gone over, but one forearm and one elbow were still hinged onto the wet packed dirt. Holding on. Ori dived onto his stomach, grabbed the forearm, dug his toes in. He could see the top of the man’s head from here, the bristly black crew-cut hair, the other hand plucking at a knot of vines that kept tearing free with terrifyingly soft snapping noises, like green beans, way too weak to bear his weight.

  “Oh God,” the man behind him wailed.

  The man behind him! Ori threw a look over his shoulder. “Grab my legs!” The second he felt the pressure, he pulled hard, and fuck, how could this be enough, not when his shoulder joints were screaming and his muscles were failing and—

  —a head popped above the rim. He was young, couldn’t be more than eighteen, and he was huffing and sobbing at the same time, eyes rolling in their sockets. Ori dug down into the earth and pulled harder, pulled, pulled, pulled until he felt something give way.

  They slithered backward. Covered in red mud. Safe.

  The white man put out a hand. He had long gray hair in a loose ponytail, and a scraggly beard, like he hadn’t changed his looks or his clothes since 1969. “Craig Ferguson. You saved my son. We just wanted to scare you off, man.”

  “Next time try loud noises,” Ori said, gasping for air between words. Craig helped his son to his feet. As for Ori, the adrenaline made him vibrate, so he stayed where was, flat on his ass in the dirt with his legs sprawled out in front of him.

  “You could have been anyone.” Craig put a hand on his son’s shoulder, over the stylized sh
ark tattoo, and gripped protectively. Ori could see the resemblance in the nose and in the set of the shoulders. His son was still shaking and tight-lipped.

  “All I want is to ask about stuff that happened a long time ago, okay? About Jonathan Lihilihi. I’m not a cop.”

  “I got nothing good to say about that fucker, but yeah, that’s the least I can do. Come on up to the house, first. Get washed off.”

  Chapter Seven

  2005 The air conditioner had failed again; Mr. Kekai, the maintenance man, was fiddling with it now, but the rusty old beast hulking in the window seemed beyond all hope. The air was getting stale, and the increasing heat stirred up the rank vapor of old sweat.

  Kalani stripped his shirt, stomach tight and glistening with new sweat. “Let’s call it a day. Get a shave ice or something. I’m dying, brah.” Ori stroked the ties of his gi to distract himself from the sight of Kalani. “I thought you were gonna stay home today and study for the SAT.”

  “What the fuck, you think you’re my auntie?”

  “I was just asking, okay? You don’t have to jump down my fucking throat.” Kalani wouldn’t look him in the face when he replied. “I don’t need the SAT to get into community college. And I don’t need to go right away anyway. It’s still gonna be there in a couple years, you know?”

  “I thought—” They’d talked about college—four-year college—in Honolulu. It wouldn’t be easy, not with housing being so crazy, but they could lean on relatives for the rent of some tiny spare room. Get part-time jobs to pay the way. Eat ramen every night. It wouldn’t be so bad, if they were together. He couldn’t do it without Kalani. His father had made it clear: the college money was all for Ori’s sister, Yvelise, who was smart enough to make the most of it, and there was no reason Ori and his brother, José, couldn’t get their college by way of the army.

  “Look, you wanna practice this or not? I don’t want to talk about it, so either come at me or let’s go.” Kalani’s personality was so mild most of the time, but he was like the islands he came from. When he got bad, a heavy storm made sudden landfall. Maybe a fight would do him good.

  “Fix your stance,” Ori said, resigned. He had Kalani down on the mat in less than ten seconds. He squirmed halfheartedly between Ori’s legs, shoulder blades digging into the mat and broad chest straining. But when Ori smirked in triumph, Kalani’s face darkened into a snarl, his hips bucking up under Ori’s.

  Ori ground down against him, trying to maintain the upper hand; the hardness of Kalani’s body resisting him. Even though Kalani wasn’t a good enough fighter to really work him out, he suddenly felt short of breath, especially when Kalani’s body fell slack against the floor. He stared down into Kalani’s eyes, secretly savoring his surrender.

  “Let me go,” Kalani said. “You win, Ori. Let me go.”

  Ori moved to get up, disappointed that Kalani’s mood hadn’t improved. Before he could straighten his legs, Kalani grabbed a fistful of his gi leg and

  yanked him back down again, rolled on top of him—and now Ori began to struggle with some degree of panic, because he had the beginnings of an epic hard-on that he did not want Kalani discovering.

  Kalani rolled off a second later though and sighed. They lay side by side on the mat, elbows touching, staring at the rusting metal beams that wove across the ceiling. “Sorry,” said Kalani, after a long pause. Ori let his head fall to one side, watching Kalani’s face in profile, the familiar shapes of brow and nose and chin. “I guess what it comes down to is that I’m not ready. I’m not. And I don’t want to half ass it and fuck it up for you either.” He turned his face toward Ori’s, and his smile had a little pain in the corners, but it was still so welcome. “Come on. Let’s get that shave ice. Then we go hang with those mokes around the corner. Last time I stopped by, they smoked me out.”

  “Sure,” said Ori. He’d be happy to let the death of his dream float off in a marijuana haze. It never would have worked out, anyway.

  * * * *

  2011

  That night, Ori welcomed the shivering of the air, the moth-wing disturbance. “New motel,” Kalani murmured, voice husky, against Ori’s nape. Slowly, Kalani’s body seeped into its solid existence, spooning Ori from behind with his hand cupping Ori’s shoulder. Kalani’s lips brushed just behind his ear. “Why did you leave Oahu?”

  Ori couldn’t bring himself to lie. “I’m looking for your grandfather. Your dad’s dad.” He steeled himself. Maybe Kalani would kick him out of bed.

  But Kalani’s reply was soft and gentle, guarded but not angry at all. “Mmhmm. And did you find him?”

  “Not yet. But I found out some things about your father. Even a lead on who could have killed him.”

  Kalani recoiled and leaned back against the wall. Ori turned toward him, wanting to draw him close again, but giving up once he saw that Kalani had gone rigid. He was staring off into the shadows on the other side of the dim room. Ori wondered what he saw there, and in which world.

  “What do you mean, who killed him? My parents died in a car accident, Ori. You know that. I know that.” It wasn’t like Kalani could be mistaken either. He’d been there in the backseat when they died.

  “I talked to a man your dad used to work for. And I think…I think you know what happened that night wasn’t exactly an accident. Don’t you?”

  Kalani breathed in deeply. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t need to keep it from me anymore. I mean, what am I gonna do, laugh at you? I think we’re both too far down the rabbit hole now for that.” He reached up, finding Kalani’s hand on his shoulder, and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  “There was—” Kalani took a deep breath and tried again. “There was an akualele. The night they died. I thought I saw it out the car window. I’d heard enough stories of all that stuff that I knew to be fucking terrified of it even then. I think I might have even said something to the police. But I was ten years old and in shock and I—here I was, screaming about a fireball that fell out of the sky and didn’t burn a thing. I had enough to worry about. I didn’t even know where I was going to live. If they’d send me away from Nanakuli and put me in foster care with strangers. I didn’t want people looking at me like I was crazy.”

  Ori wanted to say I wouldn’t look at you that way, but hey, maybe he had. It wasn’t like Kalani had felt he could open up about it until now—now that Ori had tangible proof that it was possible, or at least had no way of excusing himself from the craziness.

  He held on to Kalani’s hand and stayed with the narrative. “The guy I talked to didn’t really believe in that stuff. I mean, he’s some white guy who moved here from Fresno back in the seventies. But he told me Jonathan had a lot of enemies. In 1988, this man named Keola died in a fishing accident, and Jonathan was on the boat at the time, but I guess nothing came of it. That doesn’t mean that nobody got it into their heads that maybe Jonathan—”

  “Are you trying to say my dad was a murderer?” This time Kalani did pull away. Ori stiffened. He hadn’t even gotten to the worst part of the story yet. “I’m not saying anything. I’m just telling you what the word around the island is. That maybe there’d be somebody with a grudge.”

  “Enough of a grudge to curse my whole family,” Kalani said. Ori could almost see the puzzle pieces clicking into place in Kalani’s mind. The akualele, a supernatural fireball like a comet that accompanied a curse or ill-will. “You know, by the time I was sixteen, I’d totally talked myself out of believing that stuff. Thinking the akualele was a punishment for my father for—it was stupid. I had to be one messed-up kid to see a shooting star and think it was out to get me. But you know when I got attacked by those black tip sharks?”

  Kalani propped up in the hospital bed, drinking apple juice out of one of those little tin-foil lidded cups with his arm and leg in thick bandages. He’d been pretty cheerful about the whole thing, actually, although Ori had a suspicion the cheerfulness was an act…partially to make Ori and his c
ousins feel better, partially to drive poor Anela crazy. Anela finally shrieking, “You could have died. You think that’s a joke?”

  “Yeah,” Ori said. “I remember that.”

  When he continued, Kalani’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “I saw one then too. In broad daylight. A big red fireball streaking right across the sky.” And that night you got beat up? Ori couldn’t ask it aloud. A part of him wanted to believe the attack wasn’t random, that it happened for a reason, but not because of anything to do with Kalani. He wanted to believe that if he solved this—and he would solve this—then it would never happen again.

  “That’s not a coincidence, is it?” Kalani finished. Ori rolled in Kalani’s arms until they were face-to-face. “Honestly? I don’t know what to think. But seeing as you’re here, even though you shouldn’t—well, I guess now I’m more willing to believe it.”

  “A kahuna ana’ana,” whispered Kalani. “The ones who knew the death chant. But I guess one death wasn’t enough. It had to kill my mother too.” He covered his eyes with the palm of one hand, mouth twisting into a hurt curve. “I used to wish it was only him that died that night. And it would just be me and her. And then I’d feel like shit, because he wasn’t the best dad in the world, but he was the only one I had.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, and Ori’s heart kept pace. “Don’t tell me the rest. Not yet. I mean, I have to know. Just let me lie here for a while first, okay?”

  It came as a relief. Ori hadn’t learned much else, but the one thing left, he never wanted to unload onto Kalani. The only father Kalani had? Ori remembered the pursed lips, the petty malice. “Your friend is no Lihilihi.” But maybe once all this was over, he wouldn’t even need to tell Kalani all that.

  God, it felt good to hold Kalani in his arms. To know that he was giving Kalani some kind of comfort. “That guy I talked to gave me a jar of homemade guava jam and a pound of weed,” Ori said, after a long, restful stretch of quiet. The sun had gone down. A chorus of coquí frogs began to sing right through the walls, not an unpleasant noise. The sheets were clean but thin and worn, and Ori smoothed them over Kalani’s waist. “But I left them under a bench when I got back to Hilo.”