Moloka'i

by Alan Brennert

  Rachel saw what it was. Tears blinded her. All at once her shoulders hunched, her body quaked with grief. Catherine took her in her arms and held her close, a shudder of loss and shame passing from Rachel’s body into Catherine’s, becoming Catherine’s loss too, Catherine’s shame. She stroked Rachel’s hair and told her it was all right, told her it wasn’t her fault. Rachel buried her face in the sister’s robe, breathed in the laundered scent of the wool, felt the beating of their shared heart, and wanted never to let go.

  O

  n a gloomy, windy morning in October, Rachel, woolgathering as she gazed out the schoolhouse window, was startled and chagrined to hear her name called aloud. With not the faintest idea what was being discussed, she straightened in her seat, hoping to make up for in posture what she lacked in particulars. Sister Leopoldina stood in the rectangle of the doorway. “Rachel, you’re excused for the day,” the teacher announced. “Please go with the sister and mind her as you would me.” Confused, Rachel followed Leopoldina out of the schoolroom. Was she being punished? For what? She hadn’t stolen anything lately—well, nothing important, just a pencil, from . . .

  Oh no, she remembered. A week ago, when Mother had scolded her for truancy, Rachel had snatched a pencil, a nice red one, off the nun’s desk when her back was turned. Had Mother discovered it missing? Had she known all along?

  “It’s a lovely day for a walk, don’t you think?” Leopoldina asked, leading Rachel off the convent grounds. They strolled past the Protestant church and the Kalaupapa Store toward the wharf where a small crowd had gathered to meet rowboats off the steamer Lehua, and now Rachel realized what was happening. She was being sent away again! As punishment, like at Kalihi. But to where? It wasn’t fair, she had friends here, and an aunt—she wouldn’t go! She thought suddenly of her dolls, and was about to run back to Bishop Home to get them—they couldn’t begrudge her that, could they?—when she saw a stocky figure walking toward her, a broad grin on his tanned face, and all of Rachel’s fears dissolved in an instant, like salt in water.

  “Papa!” she cried at the top of her voice, racing frantically down the wharf to Leopoldina’s great amusement.

  “ ’Ey, little girl. Catch!” He feigned throwing his duffel bag to her, she laughed, and then she was in his arms, feeling the comforting bulk of him for the first time in two years. And if this was in violation of settlement regulations, Ambrose Hutchison, standing nearby, was perhaps too distracted by his duties to raise an objection.

  They laughed and cried and held one another, and finally Henry found his voice again. “I missed you so much, baby girl,” he said softly.

  “I missed you, too, Papa. I saved all your letters.” She looked around, looked back at the launch bobbing near the pier. “Where’s Mama? Is she still on the boat?”

  Henry’s smiled dimmed a little. “Mama couldn’t make it, baby. But she sends all her love.”

  Rachel’s disappointment was outweighed by her joy at seeing Papa. Leopoldina stepped up to introduce herself and to show him to the visitors’ quarters, where he stopped only long enough to drop off his duffel bag.

  As they walked, Leopoldina explained settlement rules. Rachel was not allowed inside the visitor’s cottage, but she could talk to her father through the fence enclosing it; all other visits would take place on the convent grounds at the discretion of the sisters. At Bishop Home Leopoldina had lunch brought for them, then left Henry and Rachel on the convent’s lawn to eat their rice and poi from separate calabashes, and to talk.

  “Papa, when did you get back from South America?”

  “Couple weeks ago. Did you get the doll?”

  “She’s beautiful, Papa! All the other girls wanted to play with her.”

  “Did you let them?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Good girl.” He looked around at the cozy little bungalows and the neatly trimmed lawn and said, “You like it here, baby? They treat you all right?”

  Henry was shocked when Rachel blurted out, “No. I hate it here! Take me with you!” She burst into tears and desperately wrapped her arms around him.

  Henry held her and told her would like nothing better than to take her with him, but . . . he couldn’t. Between sobs, Rachel told him about the returned letter to Mama. Henry looked pained and embarrassed.

  “Oh, baby, I didn’t want to tell you till you were older,” he said softly. He was forced to admit that on his return to Honolulu he stayed at the Seamen’s Home in Kalihi and not with Dorothy—who, he said, had taken Ben, Kimo, and Sarah to live with Dorothy’s sister on windward O'ahu.

  “She couldn’t stand the shame,” Henry explained. “The way people looked at her—the way they treated the keiki. She loves you, baby, but she loves your sister and brothers, too—in a new place, she thinks, where nobody knows about Kalaupapa, maybe they’ll be better off.”

  Rachel said nothing. She’d heard about this happening to other girls, here and at Kalihi, but . . . when it happened to you, it was different. It was a stab in the heart.

  Just then an explosion of girls out of the schoolhouse signaled the end of class. Rachel put aside her hurt and called out, “Francine! Emily! This is my papa!”

  Emily said, “You lie.”

  Henry laughed. “No lie.”

  “You come all the way from Honolulu?” Emily looked skeptical. Henry nodded.

  Francine said wistfully, “Must be nice.”

  After a few minutes the girls left for the dining hall and Sister Catherine came up and introduced herself. “You have a wonderful daughter,” she told Henry, adding with a smile, “though a bit more resourceful than we’d like.”

  Henry chuckled. “Takes after her mama.”

  “I’m very sorry about your brother,” Catherine said soberly. “If you’d like to pay your respects, Mother has authorized me to take you and Rachel to Kalawao.”

  Henry thanked her and said he would like that.

  “Can we see Auntie Haleola, too?” Rachel said.

  Henry looked at her blankly. “Who?”

  “Your brother’s . . . friend,” Catherine said delicately. It took Henry a moment, but then he laughed and said, “Pono, he was a very friendly fellow.”

  Catherine drove the wagon across the peninsula to Kalawao, where Rachel was soon racing down the main street, Henry in tow, to Haleola’s house. “Auntie, Auntie!” Rachel cried when the door opened. “This is my Papa, he’s come to visit me!”

  Haleola was a bit startled to find herself face to face with her lover’s brother; and because Henry was not permitted to accept the hospitality of Haleola’s home, the four of them walked to Siloama Church and the small cemetery that stood in its lee. At Pono’s grave—a crude wooden cross bearing his name, date of birth, and date of death—Henry knelt down and wept freely for his brother.

  Haleola was pleased to see that Henry was as fine a father as Rachel had led her to believe. They spent the afternoon wandering along the shore, Catherine nominally chaperoning the visit but trying not to intrude; at one point she helped Rachel look for the glass balls, used by Japanese fishermen, which often washed ashore here, allowing Henry and Haleola a few moments alone.

  “Your brother always spoke of you with love,” she told him. “And he cherished Rachel as if she were his own.”

  Henry glanced at Rachel as she plucked a glass ball weighted with seaweed from the water. She tossed away the bulbous kelp and held the globe aloft triumphantly; it looked like a marble from a land of giants.

  “I’d give anything to stay,” Henry said softly.

  “It’s not like the old days, when they welcomed kkuas. Today they make it more difficult.”

  “They take our country, and our families, from us,” Henry said. “What next? The sun? The stars?”

  Haleola had no answer for that. “I cherish her, too,” she said simply, and Henry smiled to know it.

  By mid-afternoon the long shadow of the pali had brought its early twilight to Kalawao, and Sister Catherine relucta
ntly announced they would have to start back to Kalaupapa. Rachel hugged Haleola. Henry simply told her, “He mai i ka 'ohana”—welcome to the family.

  That night, since he couldn’t enter the girls’ quarters, Henry stood outside the window nearest Rachel’s bed and sang her “Fire Down Below,” one of the more genteel sea chanteys; then blew her a kiss and returned to the visitors’ house. The next day he played croquet with the girls and laughed when told of his brother’s prowess at the game. Rachel found herself wishing that the week would never end—that her father could stay here forever—but knew he couldn’t. If there was one thing she had learned in her brief time at Kalaupapa, it was that all things end.

  S

  ister Catherine liked Henry Kalama from the start: liked his warmth, his humor, the gentle way he had with Rachel. She was pleased to be able to take them to Kalawao, but in the course of the trip she began to feel something quite unexpected and unwelcome. Watching Henry with his daughter she felt a twitch of sorrow at the thought that she would never have a child like this of her own. She thought she had reconciled herself to this before she’d taken her vows, but there it was—a nugget of envy and regret, impossible to deny, difficult to ignore.

  She had not planned to intrude on their time together and now made certain she did not. She concentrated on her chores—cleaning, dressing sores, washing soiled bandages in boiling water. She was in the midst of this latter, particularly onerous task when Sister Victor appeared in the laundry. She took in the tub full of bloody, soapy bandages and declared, “That looks utterly revolting.”

  Catherine lifted a handful of bloody suds and smiled with mock brightness: “Oh no, it’s quite the gay time. Join me?”

  Sister Victor blanched. “Almost as bad—Leopoldina’s talked me into chaperoning one of these bloody beach trips. Please say you’ll come, if I have to go with her I’ll surely go mad.”

  “Chaperoning? This is very out of character for you, Sister.”

  “A moment of weakness,” Victor said. “I don’t plan on making a career of it.”

  “Which girls are you taking?”

  “Molly, Bertha, Emily, Noelani, Priscilla . . .”

  “Not Rachel?” When Victor shook her head, Catherine asked, “What time?”

  Catherine still enjoyed these trips to Papaloa, and even Sister Victor seemed to be having a good time: she chatted away as Catherine kept one eye on Bertha, Molly, and Noelani. The three girls were treading water, waiting for another set of waves to roll in; but they’d chosen a spot too close to shore and instead of the wave lifting them up it broke right on top of them. They disappeared in a spray of foam, to the laughter of their peers.

  “I hear Dutton may get some Sacred Hearts brothers from Belgium to help out at Baldwin Home,” Victor was saying. “Bishop Gulstan is going to Louvain to ask for—”

  Catherine stopped listening. Molly and Noelani had surfaced again, but Bertha was still underwater. She’ll pop up in a moment, Catherine told herself.

  But she didn’t. Catherine’s eyes tracked up and down the surf, searching for Bertha’s crop of black curly hair above the whitecaps, but saw nothing.

  Catherine got to her feet.

  “What is it?” Sister Victor now stood as well.

  “Bertha,” Catherine said, hurrying toward the ocean, turning it into a cry, “Bertha! Bertha!” Now the girls in the water also began to look around for their friend.

  Catherine caught a glimpse of something pale under the surface of a wave as it shrugged to shore.

  “There!” Catherine yelled, pointing. Emily and Noelani immediately began swimming to the spot. Catherine threw off her veil, dove into the sea, and swam toward the pale shape in the water. The sodden habit weighed her down just as she’d always feared it would, but she swam as hard and as fast as she could. Emily and Noelani reached Bertha first, pulling her head—bleeding where it had apparently struck a rock—out of the water in which she had been submerged. Bertha didn’t respond in any way; they kept her afloat until Catherine arrived and hooked an arm around the child’s torso. With Emily’s help Catherine began pulling Bertha shoreward, but the girl’s underclothes were ballooned with water, the extra ballast slowing them down; Catherine tore off the underclothes and dragged the naked, unconscious girl through the surf and up onto the beach.

  Catherine laid Bertha on her back as Sister Victor ran up. The girl was in an advanced stage of leprosy, her whole body covered with suppurating sores, and the few unblemished parts of her skin were now a pallid blue. Catherine had no experience with drowning victims and what little she recalled from her nurse’s training seemed impractical. “Aren’t we supposed to—rub her body with salt—?”

  Victor shook her head dismissively, shouldered Catherine aside. She turned Bertha over onto her stomach, then straddled her. The girl’s back was a mass of ulcerated tissue, and seeing this Sister Victor hesitated a moment; but only a moment. Placing her hands firmly on Bertha’s back she pushed down as hard as she could, but nothing happened. She tried again, even harder, and Catherine thought she heard a bone crack. On the third try water suddenly spurted from Bertha’s mouth and Sister Victor zealously began pushing again and again, pumping as much water from the girl’s lungs as she could.

  On the last push Bertha started coughing, started breathing again. Sister Victor flipped her over again, began furiously massaging the ulcerated skin of her left arm. “Take the other arm,” she directed Catherine, “get the blood flowing!” They rubbed Bertha’s arms and legs until the bluish cast of her skin began to fade and Dr. Oliver—summoned by a frantic Emily—appeared on the scene.

  Oliver examined the child’s head wound; listened to her heart; opened one eye and looked into it. “Possible concussion, but respiration’s normal. She’ll need some stitches, but that’s the worst of it, I think. Fine work, Sisters.” Catherine felt an immense rush of relief as Oliver lifted the girl up in his arms. “I’ll get her into a hot bath straight away. Follow me to the infirmary and we’ll get you two cleaned up as well.”

  The two sisters became aware for the first time that their hands were sticky with fluid—pus and blood from Bertha’s sores. Catherine looked from her hands to her companion’s face. Sister Victor was kneeling on the sand, staring at the blood and yellowish discharge covering her hands with a look not of horror but of surprise—as though she were waking from a dream to find herself soiled.

  Catherine stood. Sister Victor did too, more slowly. “You saved her,” Catherine said softly.

  Victor was silent; she just kept staring, glassy-eyed, at her hands. Catherine repeated, “You saved her, Sister.”

  Victor nodded, as though merely affirming a fact.

  Leopoldina, who had followed in Dr. Oliver’s wake, took charge of the girls as Catherine and Victor stumbled up the beach and into town, to the hospital. There they stripped off their habits and scoured their skin with carbolic acid, then washed them again with soap.

  Sister Victor scrubbed her hands until they bled.

  In hospital gowns they stopped to see Bertha, now conscious, who thanked them weakly but sincerely. Their habits were taken to be washed in boiling water; on their return to the convent they took baths which seemed nearly as hot, then changed into fresh clothes.

  Catherine and Victor received a hero’s ovation from children and sisters alike. Mother commended them for their quick thinking and their courage. “Sister Victor is the real hero,” Catherine told them, but Victor seemed almost not to hear, her mind’s eye turning inward again.

  At dinner Victor ate a little sweet potato and part of a biscuit, then excused herself, retreating to the privacy of her room. Catherine considered following but decided to give her the time to herself; only after dinner did she go to her friend’s room, to find her sitting alone in the dark, rubbing incessantly at her hands.

  Catherine squatted, taking Victor’s hands in hers.

  “It’s all right, Sister,” she said, stilling Victor’s hands. “I get soiled al
l the time when I dress their sores. You wash up afterward, that’s all.”

  Victor nodded dully. Her hands twitched between Catherine’s.

  “You showed great courage,” Catherine told her. “You didn’t hesitate. Mother was proud of you—just like the old days, at St. Joseph’s.”

  Sister Victor glanced up at that, a ghost of a smile lighting her face.

  “Yes,” she said, a dim pleasure in her voice. “She was proud . . . wasn’t she?”

  Catherine nodded and let go of her hands.

  Sister Victor’s smile became less ghostly—more alive. Her whole face began to seem more alive, more vibrant.

  She said, “I just need a good night’s sleep.”

  Catherine started to leave, stopping at the door long enough to say, “You were very brave today, Sister.”

  Sister Victor smiled. It was a proud, radiant smile. Catherine would never forget it.

  She went to her room, said her nightly devotions, and as exhaustion overtook her she slid gratefully into bed.

  At three A.M., Catherine was awakened by a scream.

  At first she thought it was an animal being butchered in the village slaughterhouse. But as she sat up she heard a very human agony in the shrill cry and knew at once from whose strangled heart it came.

  She rushed out and down the corridor to Sister Victor’s room. The scream was long and ceaseless, changing only in pitch and tone—terrified one moment, mournful the next. Catherine flung open the door and in the darkness saw Victor sitting up in bed, backed up against the wall as though facing down some demonic intruder, body convulsing as if from St. Vitus’s dance.

  Catherine ran to her, held her, trying to quell her spasms. “It’s all right, Sister, it’s all right!” But the convulsions were so fierce that Catherine lost her grip and was actually thrown backwards onto the floor.

  Now the others rushed in, Albina and Crescentia and Leopoldina, clumping together in the doorway in mute, uncomprehending horror. Then, as Catherine got to her feet, Mother herself appeared—and all the sisters stepped aside to give her a path into the room.