by Frankie Bow
“I hadn’t thought of doing a whole cookbook,” he said. “I’m just pulling together some easy recipes for Davison. I think he’s living off instant noodles and beer right now.”
“It sounds like he’s really putting down roots on the mainland,” I said optimistically. “That’s great, you helping him to become more self-sufficient. And hey, there’s nothing wrong with noodles, right?”
I scooped some out of the soup and wound them around my chopsticks.
“Davison’s in a great program,” Donnie mused, “but sometimes I wish he were back here taking classes with you.”
The slippery noodles almost squirted out of my mouth. “What?” I sputtered. “Why?”
“I think you’re a good maternal influence on him,” Donnie grinned. “He behaves himself when you’re around.”
I nodded and tried not to choke. I like Donnie a lot. But I’m not ready to take on the role of mom. And stepmother to Davison Gonsalves is the last job I’d ever want to sign up for, right behind prying out my own kidneys with a plastic spoon.
“He’s not actually thinking of coming back, is he?” I asked. “And walking away from that great scholarship?”
“No, just dad’s wishful thinking,” Donnie said. “I’m glad you have his academic interests at heart. It’s good he has someone like you on his side.”
“Don’t mention it. By the way, Donnie, can I ask your opinion about something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you think it’s possible to make something happen just because you’re hoping for it to happen? You know, with the power of your mind, or emotions, or whatever?”
“Are you thinking Kathy Banks passed away because you wished it? Why are you looking at me like that? Isn’t that what you were leading up to?”
“I was. You’re very perceptive. Because here’s the thing. I was down there at the bay when it happened.”
“I didn’t know that,” Donnie said.
“I was standing there with Pat and Yoshi, you know Emma’s husband, and of course you know Pat.”
One look at Donnie’s face told me I should have edited Pat out of the story. Pat and I had already been close friends when I met Donnie, so Donnie tolerates him, but that’s as good as it’s ever going to get.
“Anyway,” I continued quickly, “I knew Kathy was out there paddling, so we were talking about how Emma was working her crew really hard, and we hoped no one would drop dead from the strain. You know, idle musing.”
He nodded. “And then?”
“Well, that’s when it happened. One minute everything was fine, and suddenly we heard all this shouting, and it turned out Kathy had fallen into the water and I guess you heard the rest.”
“So you’re asking me, are you responsible? Because you were thinking about something bad happening to her, right before it actually happened?”
“Right. I guess I am asking that. So what do you think?”
“Molly, sometimes things just happen. You know that.”
“Yeah. Now we’re talking about it I realize how silly it sounds. Hey, are you going to eat this piece of Spam?”
“All yours. Enjoy. I have to get back. Are you still coming for lunch Tuesday? I got some real buffalo mozzarella for Caprese.” He stood up and took the Styrofoam bowl to throw away.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
I meant it. Donnie’s home cooking is extraordinary; it’s nothing like what you get at Donnie’s Drive-Inn.
My sense of having received absolution on the Kathy Banks question faded as I drove away. I remembered a bit of bad luck had befallen one of Donnie’s competitors not long ago. It had made things awkward all around. Donnie doesn’t like to talk about it. But I realized his take on my situation might not have been completely objective.
CHAPTER NINE
PAT’S BANGED-UP 1979 Honda Prelude was parked on the curb outside the dilapidated wooden storefront of the Pair-O-Dice Bar and Grill. The car used to be bronze, but the sun had bleached the horizontal surfaces to chalky white. Pat hadn’t bothered to remove the stickers applied by a previous owner: “FBI-From Big Island” on the driver’s side door; “Hawaiian Force” on the taillight; and a cursive “In Loving Memory of Aunty Rose Kahananui” across the tinted back window.
The hood of Pat’s car was barely warm, meaning Pat had probably been sitting inside the Pair-O-Dice for a while. I didn’t think I was that late. Maybe a half hour, tops. I hoped Emma was already there. Pat gets grumpy when he has to wait by himself.
I stepped from the bright sidewalk into the dim interior of the Pair-O-Dice and waited for my eyes to adjust. It felt a little cooler inside, thanks to a lone wobbling fan beating the humid air. I saw Pat seated at a wooden table in the corner with a half-finished basket of plastic-cheese nachos in front of him. He was perusing a copy of the County Courier and drinking a cup of what I guessed was the Pair-O-Dice’s dismal bar coffee. I went up to the bar, ordered a scotch and soda and fries, and joined Pat.
The bartender would have no trouble finding me when my order was ready. Pat and I were the only customers.
“You know,” I said as I sat down, “at some point you’re going to cross paths with someone who actually knew Aunty Rose Kahananui. What are you going to say to them?”
Pat barely glanced up from the newspaper, shrugged, and returned to his reading.
“Checking out your competition?”
“Uh huh.”
I looked around the desolate bar.
“How on earth does this place stay in business?” I tested the wobbly table.
“I dunno,” he said. “If they’re a front for a gambling operation, you’d think they’d pick a less obvious name than the Pair-O-Dice.”
“So how is your Kathy Banks story coming?”
Pat set down the newspaper and turned his attention to me.
“I’ll tell you how it’s going, Molly. Kathy Banks is a non-person. That 911 call I made? Recorded as a false alarm. No record of the ambulance, even though you and I both saw the paramedics put Kathy into it and drive away. The police don’t have anything on her at all because no one reported a missing person or a murder.”
“The hospital must have something,” I said. “There’s only one emergency room—”
“And patient records are private,” Pat interrupted. “They claim they can’t tell me anything, not even whether Kathy was admitted.”
“Well, that sounds frustrating.”
“And another thing. Kathy Banks is a perfect name to have if you don’t want people finding you online. Do you know how many people out there are named Kathy Banks?”
“You think it’s a fake name?” I asked. “Maybe she had to change her identity for some reason?”
“She seem like a Mafia wife to you?”
“No, you’re right,” I said. “She lacked the gentle refinement. Pat, maybe the reason you’re not finding anything is there’s nothing to find. Kathy Banks was an average person with a common name, and she died of natural causes.”
“So where’s her family?” Pat demanded. “Her friends?”
“Maybe she alienated them all. Hey, I did see your story about our going up in the rankings, though. Great news for us, huh? It almost seems too good to be true.”
“I know,” he said. “Our graduates’ employment rates and salaries are up? I almost can’t believe it. Alumni donations are up too.”
“I wonder who these graduates are who are doing so well in this economy. I mean, of course I’m happy to hear about it, but I sure haven’t met any of them myself. Remember Micah, my student? Got his degree and the only job he can find is working in the library?”
“Yeah, and no one will put me in touch with any of these supposed high paid alumni,” Pat said. “I saw the numbers, but it doesn’t add up with what I’ve seen. I’m still digging. Hey, did you see Bob Wilson’s letter to the editor?”
“Oh, Bob from the history department?” I said. “No, but I can imagine. In Island Confidential or the
County Courier?”
“He sent it to both—”
The bartender, who looked too young to be serving alcohol, brought my drink and fries. When he had gone back behind the bar, I took a sip and started to sputter and cough. Pat reached across the table and pounded my back with his giant hand. That never helps, by the way.
“Molly, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” His concerned expression gave way to laughter. “That bad?”
I grabbed a napkin from the dispenser and patted my mouth. “I don’t know what this is. It isn’t what I ordered.” I took my drink and marched back up to the bar.
I returned to the table with my fresh drink.
“So what was the problem?” Pat asked.
“He made my scotch and soda with actual soda.”
“So? Why didn’t you drink it?”
“Because first of all, ew, and second, soda in this country is all made with high fructose corn syrup now. That stuff is murder on your liver.”
“So what did you get?”
“Bourbon straight. I didn't want him to get confused again. Anyway, Bob Wilson’s letter to the editor?”
“Oh yeah. You heard about the group of for-profit colleges that’s getting sued?”
“Oh. I might’ve heard about it. Something about how they did their recruiting?”
“Among other things. The recruiters were paid based on how many students they could sign up. Then after they had ‘em on the hook, they’d get ‘em to take out loans with a group of financial institutions that they had some kind of relationship with. The students didn’t understand what they’d signed, and after they flunked out they didn’t realize they were obliged to pay back the loans.”
“How awful.” I felt a pang of sympathy. How many times had I checked I have read and agree to the terms of the agreement, without actually having read, much less agreed? I could’ve signed away my house for all I knew. “So what did Bob have to say?”
Pat picked up the County Courier and read:
“Are we any better? Our departments are funded based on how many students we can attract, retain, and graduate.”
“Well, he’s not wrong about that.”
Pat lowered the paper. “It gets better.” He picked up the County Courier and continued reading. “The university can’t attract enough qualified students to meet our headcount goals, so we lower our standards. We spin students’ lack of preparedness into a virtue by invoking Access, and we reframe failure to learn as Diverse Ways of Knowing. And all the while, we’re raking in their financial aid dollars.”
“Whoa. What possessed Bob to put all this in writing?”
“Bob’s in the history department,” Pat said. “He probably feels like he has nothing to lose. Oh, here’s Emma. And she brought company.”
CHAPTER TEN
TWO FEMALE SILHOUETTES, one slender, the other more substantial, stood in the narrow doorway, backlit by sunshine. Sherry (the thin one) headed to the back of the Pair-O-Dice, to the ladies’ room, I supposed. Emma came over to our table, sat down, and started helping herself to my fries.
"Hey!” I protested. “Are those on your diet?"
"Mmmph." She swallowed a mouthful. "You know I don't believe in diets. Yuck. These aren't very good. They’re leathery." She grabbed another handful.
"How’s your crew adjusting to the news about Kathy?" I asked.
"I think it’s finally sinking in,” Emma said. “Going out on the water today without Kathy, it kind of made it real for us. I don’t think Sherry’s taking it too well."
"I’m kind of sad about it too,” I said.
“You didn’t even like her,” Pat said.
“Even so. It’s a stark reminder of your own mortality, isn’t it? I was expecting Kathy to stay a couple of days in the hospital with a bad cold or something. I thought everything was going to go back to normal.”
“Everything kind of is back to normal.” Emma brandished a French fry emphatically. “That’s what makes it so tragic. She sank like a pebble in the water. A few ripples, and then silence.”
Having made this pronouncement, Emma turned her attention back to wiping out the local french fry population.
“It was sad to hear the news,” I said, “but at the same time, I feel bad because I don't feel worse about Kathy. I mean, I didn't feel that bad when I read the news, but not feeling bad made me feel guilty so now I feel awful."
"Make sure you write that down," Pat said, "in case there's a memorial service and they call on you to say a few words."
"I’m not surprised you don’t feel bad about Kathy being gone, Molly. I remember you got a stomach ache every time you had a meeting with her."
“If I were you, I’d probably be glad she’s gone too,” Pat added.
"I’m not glad she’s gone. I mean I’d be glad if she was gone because she found another job or something. I’m not glad she, you know. I didn’t hate her. We had structural conflict. My job is quality control, and her job was maximizing throughput. Of course we were going to see things differently. Nothing against her as a person."
"I had something against her as a person,” Emma said. “I think she was seriously trying to move in on Yoshi. You know, she told him she was a natural blonde."
Pat quietly checked out of the conversation and focused his attention on the County Courier.
“That doesn’t necessarily mean she’s coming on to him,” I said.
“She offered to prove it to him.”
“Ah. So Emma, are you guys going to be okay for the Labor Day race?"
"We’re hanging in there. Everyone showed up to practice today."
I refrained from mentioning how neatly Kathy's demise had solved Emma’s seven crew members, six seats problem.
Pat glanced up from his newspaper. “Well,” he said, “I guess Kathy just solved your six seats, seven crew members problem.”
"Thanks, Pat,” she said. “Real helpful of you to point that out since I don’t know how to subtract single digit numbers. You know what, though. I’m worried about Sherry, now. She’s still smoking. And she’s diabetic. I hate to say it, but I hope she’s not next.”
“Then you’ll only have five crew members,” Pat said.
“If that happens, we’ll have to shanghai Molly into paddling with us.”
Sherry came over and sat down, interrupting our conversation before Emma could explore this appalling idea any further.
“How was paddling practice?” I asked.
Emma and Sherry were both wearing their sleek yellow paddling jerseys. Emma’s arms were sturdy and brown, and Sherry’s were slender and pale, but both had the muscularity that was the reward of hundreds of hours of exercise. I felt self-conscious and flabby in my sleeveless top.
“Oh, hey Dr. B.” Sherry offered a fist bump, which I fumbled. “It was sunny when we started out, didn’t stay that way, we got rained on, but it’s all good. You huli, you get wet anyway.”
“We were just talking about Kathy,” Pat said.
Sherry nodded. “Yeah.”
“You were pretty good friends?” he asked.
“I still can’t believe it.”
“What was Kathy’s story?” Pat prodded. “What was she doing before she moved here to Mahina?”
“She lived on the mainland before,” Sherry said. “She was glad she moved. She liked it here.”
“She did?” I could hear the surprise in my own voice. My only interactions with Kathy had involved her being dissatisfied with something I had (or hadn’t) done. I had never thought of Kathy Banks as a person who could feel emotions like joy and delight.
“Yeah,” Sherry said. “She used to say how nice it was to get a fresh start at a new job. And she loved paddling.”
“Did she have anyone back home?” Pat persisted. “Any family? Anyone special?”
The dark quiet of the Pair-O-Dice was abruptly pierced by a tinny version of an Eighties power ballad. Sherry fumbled in her purse and pulled out her phone.
“Glenn." She
stepped outside to take his call.
Pat turned his hands up despairingly.
“Kathy really didn’t talk about her past,” Emma said. “What Sherry just told you? That’s about as much as I ever heard. Hey Molly, what’s the deal?”
“What do you mean?”
Pat laughed. “When Sherry’s phone rang you jumped so high I thought we’d have to peel you off the ceiling.”
“I did not.”
“Molly, he’s right,” Emma said. “You’ve had a lot of stress lately being department chair and everything. And for some reason, you seem to be taking this thing with Kathy kinda hard.”
I smelled Sherry’s cigarette smoke drifting in through the open door. I hate breathing cigarette smoke but I didn’t want to make a big deal about it, so I put a paper napkin over my face.
“I’m not the real department chair,” I said through the napkin. “I’m only the interim department chair. I don’t have tenure, remember?”
“Right,” Pat said. “Same responsibilities, with no authority.”
“Pretty much.” I reached for the basket of fries and found it empty. Emma had left only the translucent red-and-white-checkered paper and a few crumbs of salt.
“I’m going to get another order of fries.” I stood up and took the empty plastic basket. “Mine are all gone and for some mysterious reason, I’m still hungry. Anyone want anything?”
“No thanks,” Pat said.
“I’m full,” Emma added.
“Molly, you gonna see a doctor about your stress?” Pat asked. I shrugged dismissively and walked up to the bar. I had made an appointment for Monday morning, but I didn’t think it was any of their business.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BEING THE FIRST PERSON in the waiting room was like being the first customer at a salad bar. The molded beige fiberglass seats sparkled, and the magazines were fanned out in perfect formation. I liked to savor those initial few moments of cleanliness before other people came crowding in to ruin everything with their germs. I started to pick up a magazine, but reconsidered when I thought of the hordes of sick people who had handled them. I wondered if the magazines got disinfected somehow, and decided they probably did not.
