The Blessed Event

by Frankie Bow

  On the bright side, the meal was much more pleasant without Davison there. My stepson had horrible table manners. He would reach across me for the shoyu bottle instead of asking me to pass it, he would lick his fingers as he ate, and he was constantly overstepping the limits of appropriate mealtime conversation.

  The first night back at our house, he’d treated Donnie and me to a vivid account of how he’d lost a toenail after dropping a weight on his foot. At one point, he’d grasped his ankle and lifted his bare foot, giving us an eyeful of his blackened toe. It had put me right off my gorgonzola gnocchi.

  We dined on soggy tempura vegetables and pebbly fried rice, washed down with Donnie’s excellent wine, and discussed the merits of local attractions like the Saturday Farmer’s Market and the Mahina Public Library. Donnie, trying to be helpful, told Skye about all the soy-based meat substitutes available at Natural High Organic Foods. Skye responded with a lecture on the evils of dietary soy.

  According to Skye, soy may have been considered healthful once upon a time, but those days were long gone. Modern soy was ubiquitous and genetically modified. Avoiding it was both urgent and practically impossible. Soy lurked in chocolate, cereals, Mexican food, Asian food, vitamins, sauces, chewing gum, cosmetics, and candles.

  Soy’s one benign form, Skye explained, was natto, soybeans fermented with a virtuous bacillus. I’d seen natto, but I never dared try it. To me, it looked like someone took a plate of beans and blew their nose into it.

  Gloria interrupted Skye’s informative monologue to complain that the tempura was chewy. Donnie tried to explain that at the Drive-Inn, it had to be fried in batches and stored under heat lamps.

  “You shouldn’t make tempura then.” Gloria sniffed. “If you can’t do it right.”

  “The sweet potato is nice,” I interjected. Poor Donnie. I felt like I had to say something nice about the food, and my statement happened to be true. The purple Okinawan sweet potato was firmer than its orange counterpart and held up well to deep-frying. The flesh remained dense and sweet; it was nearly impossible to ruin.

  “The eggplant’s undercooked, too.” Gloria made a face.

  She was right about the eggplant. It squeaked like Styrofoam when I bit into it.

  “Oh. There’s okra in here.” I set the other half of the fried okra pod back down on my plate. “Okra isn’t my favorite.” My words came out a little slurred thanks to the wad of fried okra stuffed into my cheek.

  Gloria shrugged. “I like it okay.”

  “I didn’t get any okra in mine,” Skye said, not making any effort to remedy the deficiency.

  “Excuse me.” I stood up and hurried to the bathroom to spit out the offending vegetable (assuming a furry pod oozing with slime can properly be called a vegetable).

  As soon as I was back at the table, I heard footsteps clomping up the front stairs. The front door rattled, and Davison let himself in.

  “Everyone still eating? Good. I brought dessert.” Davison held up a mason jar full of what looked like water. “Okolehao.”

  “Ho, where you get that, baby?” Gloria exclaimed.

  “What is it?” Skye asked.

  “It’s the good stuff is what. Little after-dinner drink.”

  Davison dropped his backpack next to the door, sat down with us, and poured out a little of the clear liquid into each of our wine glasses.

  “Okolehao is Hawaiian moonshine,” Gloria explained to Skye. “You gonna like it.”

  “Where is this from?” Donnie asked. “Uncle Brian’s bathtub?”

  “You don’t gotta be all sarcastic, Dad. You starting to sound like your wife already.”

  “I’m right here, Davison.”

  “Show some respect, Davison.” Donnie scowled at him. “I don’t like your tone.”

  “When did you see Uncle Brian?” I asked.

  “Just now. He lives downtown, ah? Short walk from here.”

  “Good thing you weren’t driving. Well, let’s give this a try.” Donnie raised his glass. “Saluti.”

  I took a sip. It tasted like bananas and gasoline. I set the glass down quickly, my eyes bulging.

  “This is interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever had anything like it.”

  “I’ve never met your Uncle Brian,” Skye said to Gloria.

  “I just met him for the first time a few days ago,” I said. “Davison and I happened to run into him downtown. Donnie, have you talked to him lately?”

  “I’ve been busy. The Drive-Inn takes up most of my time.”

  Donnie wasn’t too busy for Chamber of Commerce events and Rotary meetings and Business Boosters lunches. Poor old Uncle Brian must not have been important to Donnie’s business, so Donnie didn’t think it was worth spending time with him.

  This was an unpleasant side to Donnie I hadn’t noticed before. And here I’d tried so hard to make him feel better about his tempura.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Friday was the final day of my Mahina Police Department Diversity Seminar. I stopped off at Mizuno Mart on the way over to pick up some treats. At first, the plan was to get donuts, but I decided actual donuts would be too on-the-nose for a group of police officers. Instead, I bought a warm bag of fresh malasadas from a van on the side of the road. Malasadas are pretty much donuts, except they don’t have holes and they’re called “malasadas.”

  The final class session was dedicated to debriefing. Each participant had the opportunity to share what he had learned in the seminar.

  We were finished in well under an hour.

  And so ended my brief consulting career with the Mahina Police Department.

  It hadn’t been a total loss. The malasadas were a hit. More importantly, I had collected some nice experimental data on how working adults responded to selfish behavior: much the same way college students did, it turns out. People will punish perceived injustice, even at some cost to themselves.

  As I drove past the public library, I spotted a familiar figure sauntering up the street. He wore wide-legged trousers, a tan windbreaker, and a straw Panama hat with a black band.

  I pulled into the parking lot of the public library, locked up my car, and grabbed my umbrella from under the seat. The rain had let up for the time being, but it would be back. The asphalt was wet, and the trees lining the street glowed green against a sky the color of steel.

  “Mister Gonsalves.” I hurried up the sidewalk. He turned around and touched the brim of his hat when he saw me.

  “Oh, Sherry. Always a pleasure. You can call me Uncle. No need call me Mister.”

  “Okay. And you can call me Molly. I’m Molly.”

  I suppose I should’ve been pleased when people slipped up and called me by the name of Donnie’s thin and pretty ex-wife. I wasn’t, though.

  “So, Uncle, what a coincidence, running into you like this.”

  We stood on the sidewalk and beamed at each other while I scrambled to think of something else to say. Finally, I hit on, “Um, listen, Uncle, are you busy right now? Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”

  Inviting a near stranger for coffee was far out of my comfort zone. But Donnie’s indifference toward Uncle Brian had bothered me. Maybe Donnie had his reasons for acting distant, but he hadn’t told me what they were. If I wanted to find out anything about Donnie’s family, I’d have to do the detective work myself.

  “Aw, too late in the day for me to drink coffee. I like to have my coffee early in the morning. I meet the ladies down at the McDonald’s. We get the senior special. Nice, the senior special.”

  “Well, it’s lunchtime now. If you haven’t eaten yet, how about we go across to Donnie’s Drive-Inn, sit in the shade a bit? It’s right there. And, you know, we could say hi to Donnie. Your nephew.”

  “I got a better idea. You know the Pair-O-Dice?”

  It was a few minutes’ walk from the library to the Pair-O-Dice Bar and Grill. We placed our order and sat at a wobbly table near the window.

  “I wanted to say thank you for sendi
ng along the Okolehao. Davison brought us some last night, after dinner. Did you really brew it yourself?”

  “Ah, you drank it, Missus? Not for beginners, that stuff.”

  “No, indeed. I’ve heard of it, but this was my first real-life encounter.”

  “Yeah, my own special recipe. What you think?”

  “I think it might be an acquired taste. But I appreciated the chance to try it.”

  The bartender came over with our order. A double vodka for Uncle Brian, a house red for me, and a basket of fries to share.

  I watched him dig into the fries before I spoke again. “You mentioned Donnie was your brother’s son. You know, I don’t know anything about Donnie’s father. Not even his name.”

  “My big brother’s name was Guy. Good man. Tried his best, you know.”

  “Where are Donnie’s parents now? Are you still in touch?”

  Uncle Brian stared at the ice glistening in his empty glass.

  “Gone.”

  “I’m so sorry. I—oh, are you finished already?”

  I signaled to the bartender, who acknowledged me with a sullen chin-jut.

  “I miss him every day, you know.”

  “I understand.”

  I didn’t understand, not really. I was an only child, and my parents were still very much alive. I’d never lost someone close to me.

  “If I could ask. . .when did he pass away?”

  “When Donnie and little Glory was kids.”

  The young bartender came over with the vodka bottle and refilled Uncle Brian’s glass. He picked it up and took a gulp before going on with his story. “One night, they was all in the car, going around one of the horseshoe turns, up on the coast, you know? Must not’ve watched where he was going. No streetlights out that way, you know. Car went down a hundred feet. Little Glory was hurt pretty bad. Donnie was small kine buss up but nothing broken. The parents, though.”

  “Did they. . .”

  Uncle Brian nodded

  “Yeah. Glory was at the hospital a few weeks. Donnie was already working at da kine, Merrie Musubis, so he could help with the bills. They lived with me.”

  “Donnie was already in high school then?”

  “Yeah. He wanted to go college, but with this thing, no can, ah?”

  “That was a nice thing you did, to take them in.”

  “Hard, but. Never was married or had keiki of my own, now all at once I get two.”

  “I can imagine. So, do you still keep in touch with Donnie and Gloria then?”

  Uncle Brian finished his second glass of vodka and gloomily signaled for a third. “Nah. But you gotta understand. I remind ’em of a hard time in their life, ’as why. Now they’re grown up, they’d rather forget.”

  “But if it weren’t for you—”

  “Yeah, but you know how it is. Eh, did what could, ah? The boy keeps in touch, Davison. Good boy, him. That’s how come I like help ’im out when I can.”

  My phone pinged. I reached into my bag and checked it. The reminder message on the screen read, “Rec letter for admin.”

  “Oh no. I completely forgot. I’m so sorry, I have to go.”

  “It’s okay, Sherry. You go, get on with your day. I stay here and enjoy the ambiance.”

  “Uncle Brian, you can call me Molly.”

  “Molly? Doesn’t sound right. You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be good here. Go, go.”

  I left two twenties on the bar and rushed out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I raced out of the Pair-O-Dice, frantically scrolling through my recent calls in search of Andy De Silva’s phone number. I paused outside the bar, in front of the window with the unlit neon sign. What did people do before online calendars were invented? I suppose they missed meetings, forgot birthdays, and got fired a lot.

  I found De Silva’s number and pressed the call icon.

  Without the electronic reminder I’d set for myself, I would have completely forgotten to ask Andy De Silva to send a thank-you letter to my administration. The whole point of signing up for the university speakers’ bureau had been to make a good impression on the higher-ups at my university. De Silva had agreed in principle to write me a letter of thanks, but in the rush to wrap things up, I’d completely forgotten about it. By this time, everyone would be gone from the Motor Vehicle Department break room.

  I felt a raindrop on my cheek and retreated under the overhang, hoping De Silva would pick up. To my great relief, he did.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, officer. I just wanted to remind you about writing the letter. And thank you again, by the way.”

  “The what?”

  He had already forgotten.

  “You were going to write a letter to my administration. To thank them for the free seminar?”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, I forgot. Happy to do it. You gotta get me the name and address, but.”

  “Of course. Should I give you the information now?”

  “Nah, you can drop it off with—hold on, sorry, I gotta—what? Uh-huh. Yeah, it’s her. What? f’real? Oh. Eh, Professor, the boys wanna know if you wanna go on a ride-along.”

  “A ride-along?”

  I heard laughter in the background. It sounded like “the guys” thought it would be funny to bring me along on a real call and watch me faint or something. As if I were some fragile hothouse flower.

  “I’d love to come along,” I declared. “I’m just a few minutes from the station.”

  “Okay. Wait. Nah, you better meet us there.”

  De Silva gave me a downtown address and rang off. It seemed having to transport myself to the scene rather violated both the letter and spirit of a “ride-along,” but I was curious. Also, I wanted to make a good impression on De Silva so he would write me a strong letter.

  The address was only a block and a half from the Pair-O-Dice. My car was still parked way up by the public library. I ducked into the drizzle and walked over to the site. Two patrol cars were parked on the curb in front of one of downtown’s Old-West-style buildings. The first floor housed a hair salon. Its windows were filled with faded, bluish posters of sullen models sporting geometric haircuts—probably cutting-edge style in the 1970s. Next to the hair salon was the empty storefront where Etsuko’s Fashion Frocks used to be. A transient hotel occupied the second floor. The building had been an upscale hotel about a hundred years ago, but the current owner couldn’t be bothered to keep it painted and termite-free.

  De Silva stood next to his police cruiser, talking on his radio. He acknowledged me with a nod as I approached. He recited some numbers, whose significance I didn’t understand. I did comprehend some of the other things he said. Like “unresponsive.” And “unattended death.”

  He clicked off and tucked the radio back into his belt.

  “In the empty lot.” He jerked his head to the side. “Around the back.”

  I followed him through a narrow alley to the chained-off lot behind the building. The overgrown lot was enclosed by the unbeautiful backsides of downtown Mahina’s more down-market edifices. Two black dumpsters huddled next to the transient hotel. Beside the dumpsters, two young police officers stood talking, pointing up to an open second-story window. I recognized the men from my class.

  “Techs are gonna be on their way soon,” De Silva called out. I stepped carefully behind him, through the knee-deep weeds. As we got closer to the two officers, I noticed a dirty bundle lying along the bottom of one of the dumpsters.

  One of the two nudged the bundle with the tip of his polished shoe and said something I couldn’t hear. Both men laughed.

  But it wasn’t a bundle. As I got closer, I realized I was looking at the body of a man. The jeans and green football jersey were soaked from the rain. His head rested at an impossible angle.

  I yelped and jumped back.

  “’Samatter, Professor?” One of the young knuckleheads laughed. “You never seen a dead body before?”

  I certainly had seen a dead b
ody or two in my time. But unlike these two, I wasn’t entirely devoid of empathy.

  I glanced up at the open window above the dumpsters, and back down at the lifeless man. The window didn’t look too high up, but maybe he’d hit a metal edge of the dumpster on his way down.

  I forced myself to look directly at his face. It had been some days since the man’s body and soul had parted ways, but I recognized him.

  I motioned De Silva over. I wanted nothing to do with those other two. They had been the worst part of my week with Mahina PD, a pair of obnoxious jerks who wouldn’t stop checking their phones and whispering to each other and generally acting like they had better things to do. It didn’t help their attitude when they got back the results of their personality profiles, particularly their scores on authoritarianism (high), narcissism (very high), and hostile sexism (off the charts).

  “You okay, Professor? You don’t look too good.”

  “I think I know who this is, officer. It’s Gloria’s ex. The one who escaped from prison.”

  De Silva cast a skeptical look at the body.

  “Iulani Malufau? You sure? He’s been out in the rain a while, you know. After a few days—”

  “I know. He’s wearing the same clothes I saw him in earlier.”

  “Eh,” De Silva called to the other two officers. “Professor just ID’d our John Doe. She says it’s Malufau.”

  “Not what his ID says.” One of the cops waved something at us. A dirty nylon wallet. “Driver’s license says his name is Eric Northman.”

  “Could be fake,” De Silva said to me.

  “Could be,” I agreed.

  De Silva’s radio crackled. He picked it up and had a terse conversation with a crackly voice on the other end. Then he put the radio back into its holder.

  “Techs on their way now.”

  “I’d better get going.” I started to pick my way through the weedy lot, going back the way I’d come in. De Silva hurried after me.

  “Eh, thanks for coming, ah? Sorry you hadda see da kine.”

  “No, thank you for letting me share this unique experience.” I wanted to remove myself from this unique experience as quickly as possible.