The Black Thumb

by Frankie Bow

  Atticus seemed comfortable around Pat and Emma. Certainly much more comfortable than I would feel among three near-strangers at a sketchy downtown bar. Atticus was clearly more socially adept than I. Of course, most people are.

  We ordered French fries, the safest bet on the limited food menu. Pat got a cup of the Pair-O-Dice’s abysmal glass-carafe-on-a-hotplate coffee. I often wondered whether Pat was born without taste buds. It would explain why he never gained weight. Emma ordered one of her favorite local beers, and I got a bourbon straight (after a mix-up over the meaning of “soda” in “whiskey and soda,” I didn’t trust the Pair-O-Dice to do mixed drinks). Atticus asked after a number of obscure craft beers the young server had never heard of, and finally settled for what Emma was drinking.

  I would have told Pat and Emma about my running into Sherry in the church parking lot, but I really didn’t want to bring any of it up in front of Atticus. Fortunately, Emma kept the conversation going with a story about a sea turtle sighting at her paddling practice that morning. Then she turned to Atticus and said,

  “Hey, Molly says you’re spying on our email. Is it true?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “I DIDN’T SAY SPYING. Atticus, that’s not what I told them.”

  He laughed. “We don’t have the resources to read everything that goes through our servers. But sure, it’s all visible. I could read all your email if I had time.”

  “I never use my Mahina email account for personal stuff,” I said.

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter. I can see it all. Anything you do on our network. Even if you’re just using the Wi-Fi on your phone.”

  “Uh oh,” Emma said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have written those emails about my dean.”

  “What college?” Atticus asked.

  “Natural sciences.”

  “Oh, yeah, him. Don’t worry. No one likes your dean.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” he laughed, “in fact, someone called your dean and your associate dean Tweedledum and Tweedledumber.”

  “I think that was mine,” Emma admitted.

  “Nice job, Emma,” I said. “Lewis Carroll reference. Very liberal-artsy.”

  “Wait a second,” Pat said. “Is what you’re talking about legal? Isn’t there some expectation of privacy?”

  Pat’s hostility didn’t surprise me. Pat had never approved of any of my suitors. He’d mocked Stephen Park relentlessly until I’d started dating Donnie. Then Donnie became the bad guy. Pat had marked my engagement to Donnie by presenting me with a copy of Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper.

  “Privacy?” Atticus chuckled. “When you’re using your employer-provided email account? Nuh-uh.”

  “Atticus, while you were not poking around in people’s emails, did you ever happen to see anything about Scott Nixon? Chair of the English department? He’s apparently disappeared.”

  “Actually, yeah. Scott Nixon. I did see something about him. I mean, not that I’m looking on purpose or anything, but you saw emails about a big lawsuit, with the chancellor on the distribution list? You’d be curious too. By the way, isn’t there some rule against you professors getting involved with your students?”

  “Well, it’s not something you’d ever do,” Emma said. “But I dunno if there’s an actual written rule against it. Do you know, Molly?”

  “You mean something in the faculty handbook? I’d assume so. I never looked.”

  “It’s not exactly the kind of thing you ask about during your job interview,” Pat said.

  “So then what’s the latest?” I asked. “Have they found Scott? Or the student he supposedly ran off with?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, I don’t have time to read all your guys’ email. I just remember the one about Scott Nixon. ”

  “But you could if you wanted to,” I said.

  “Yeah. I could.”

  “Hey Pat, maybe you could put something about workplace privacy in your career advice book.”

  “Or you could do a story about it for Island Confidential,” Emma said.

  “You write for Island Confidential?” Atticus asked.

  “Pat Flanagan is Island Confidential,” Emma said.

  “Wow. Really? I read it every day. It’s the only real journalism on this island. Pat, you’re Island Confidential?”

  Pat warmed up to Atticus after that, and the conversation turned to crime and crime reporting. Pat complained even during the summer, when the crime rate went up, the really interesting crimes were few and far between.

  “So far this month I’ve had a chainsaw was stolen from an unlocked storage shed, a missing ukulele, and some shoes taken off someone’s lanai. Try to make an interesting story out of that.”

  “Might want to see where that chainsaw turns up,” Emma suggested.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon talking about some of Mahina’s more notorious crimes. These included the Musubi Murder, the still-unsolved Cockfight Murders, the recent Karaoke Murders, and the time someone distributed windshield flyers with an unflattering caricature of Police Superintendent Pereira.

  The windshield flyer case had never been solved, despite the fact Pereira had pulled most of Mahina’s police force from their duties and dispatched them to go door to door with a copy of the offending document. The fact that many of the officers seemed to have trouble keeping a straight face as they conducted their investigations had led some to conclude it had been an inside job.

  During a pause in the conversation, Atticus suggested going for a walk down to the Bayfront. Emma took it as a cue to leave, and urged Pat to do the same. Atticus and I strolled down toward the water, along the walkway in front of Mahina’s old-west style storefronts. Many of those were boarded up, but there were a few hardy survivors.

  A musty ginseng smell wafted out as we passed Natural High Organic Foods, which had been in business since the early 1970s. There were more smoke shops and tattoo parlors than one might expect for a town the size of Mahina, and a New Age card and gift store that sold devices enabling the user to communicate with dolphins. Betty Jackson in the psychology department had long ago disabused me of any illusions about dolphins being nobler or more advanced than humans. Communicating with them, she had told me, would probably be about as enlightening as eavesdropping in a frat house.

  “The check cashing store is new,” I said. “And I’ve counted three pawn shops. Depressing.”

  “Yeah, but there’s other cool stores here,” Atticus said. “Hey, is that a home brew shop? Mind if we go in?”

  “Looks like it’s closed.”

  “Oh, yeah, Sunday.” We approached the dusty window.

  “Not just closed for Sunday,” I said. “Look inside. There’s nothing there. Probably one of those businesses where the owner was really passionate about it, and didn’t bother to check whether there were enough potential customers around who felt the same way. I see it all the time in my business planning class.”

  “Aw, bummer. What do you think they shoulda done different?”

  “I don’t know how much one little business could have done. Since sugar collapsed, this whole island’s lost its economic footing.”

  “Except tourism.”

  “Tourists prefer the other side of the island. Even my parents, which is kind of insulting, considering I live here.”

  “And there’s the university. Aren’t universities supposed to be good for the economy?”

  “They are. And believe me, I’m glad there’s a university here. I’m thrilled to have a tenure-track job. But it seems like all we’re doing is graduating more and more students into an economy that doesn’t need or want them.”

  “I saw you haven’t been teaching business planning that long,” Atticus remarked as we walked on. “You like it?”

  “You were looking up my teaching assignments?”

  “Sure. It’s just the catalog information. Nothing secret.”

  “The class isn’t what I thought it would be. I h
ave to spend most of my time throwing cold water on people’s aspirations. Why would someone go to your sports bar, instead of Kimo’s Karaoke or the Pair-O-Dice? How many pitchers and plates of chicken wings would you have to sell to make rent and payroll? I’m a popper of bubbles, killer of dreams. Or so one of my online reviews described me.”

  “Popper of bubbles, killer of dreams. You should put it on a t-shirt. Hey, I liked the one about you being half-human, too.”

  “Pat wrote that one for me.”

  We reached the end of the main drag, where the road turned into a narrow bridge. Atticus and I seated ourselves on a lava rock planter and looked out at the ocean.

  “It’s so easy to talk to you,” Atticus said. “I feel like you understand me.”

  “I’m not sure I understand you. But I like you.”

  I don’t know where I got the nerve to come out with it. But it was the right thing to say, apparently. Atticus leaned over and kissed me. His beard scratched my face, and the lumpy lava rock planter we were sitting on was definitely not designed to be sat on. Other than that, though, the kiss was pleasant enough.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE STORM BLEW HARD from the ocean, funneling up the Hanakoa River behind the Brewster House. Even Mrs. Masterman, who loved sitting outdoors, had conceded to the elements and moved our little meeting inside, to the downstairs room.

  Iker Legazpi was already settled in with a cup of tea, and was complimenting Mrs. Masterman on her exquisite peanut butter cookies.

  “Well, I’m sorry about the weather,” Mrs. Masterman said.

  “The view is still spectacular.” I took the seat next to Iker.

  “And you are so kind to open your house to us,” Iker added.

  Outside the French doors, the wind grew wilder. The broad fans of the traveler palms jerked and bounced. The pale Garisenda roses shook on their trellises. Across the gorge, where the river ran unseen far below us, a tall mango tree swayed. I was glad to be indoors, sipping hot tea.

  “Oh, the view is even better from upstairs,” Fontanne Masterman said. “Molly, Iker, why don’t you stay after? I can give you a proper tour.”

  “Sadly, I have another engagement,” Iker said.

  “I have time. I’d love a tour. Leilani walked me through so quickly the first time. It would be nice to see all of the rooms.”

  A woman in a flower-trimmed straw hat entered the basement room. She was in late middle age and of a cheery disposition, the type even strangers called “Aunty.” I didn’t remember her being at the earlier Garden Society meeting, but she looked familiar.

  “Molly,” said Aunty, as she helped herself to hot tea and cookies, “I saw you got Davison to come to church this week. Good job, you.”

  I knew her from St. Damien’s. She always said hello to me when I saw her at Mass.

  “I’d love to take credit for getting Davison to come to church,” I said, “But I was actually surprised to see him there.”

  What was her name? Mrs. Almeida. No, not Almeida. It was a Portuguese name, though, and it started with an A. Araújo. Mrs. Araújo.

  Iker stood and introduced himself with a little bow.

  “I’m Luana Andrade,” she said.

  Andrade. I knew that. She and her husband owned Andrade’s Snack Shack, down at the beach by Emma’s canoe halau.

  “Please call me Luana,” she continued. “And of course I know Molly. Molly, sweetie, what is the thing on Davison’s face? Not permanent, is it?”

  “It’s a cobra tattoo.”

  “Never had any common sense, that boy.” Luana Andrade lowered herself into the rattan chair with a ladylike grunt.

  “You think that’s bad...” I started, but then stopped myself. Finishing my thought would require me to explain how I knew about Davison’s other, much worse tattoos. I had no desire to relive the appalling hotel room mix-up that had ruined my first romantic getaway with Donnie.

  “An’ poor Donnie, did what could,” Mrs. Andrade said, “but little Davison really needs a mother. The wife just wen’ left, remember, Fontanne?”

  “I never understood how a woman could leave her children,” Mrs. Masterman declared. “My daughter is just over in Honolulu and I miss her so.”

  “Know what, though?” Luana reached for a peanut butter cookie. “She looked a lot like you, Molly. The wife.”

  “She was much thinner than Molly, though,” Mrs. Masterman said. “The young lady looked like she lived on coffee and cigarettes.”

  “The hair, but. And the shape of her face. An’ look at the eyes. Donnie get one type, ah?”

  “Actually,” I said, “Donnie and I are sort of on hold right now.”

  Iker stirred his tea quietly.

  “Aw, I didn’t know, Molly.” Luana shook her head in sympathy. “So sorry to hear it.”

  “Oh, I expect it’s this Melanie business,” Mrs. Masterman said. “Donnie Gonsalves has always been so image-conscious.”

  Luana nodded knowingly.

  Nicole Nixon rushed in, holding a dripping umbrella.

  “Put it in there, dear,” Mrs. Masterman said. “Don’t let it drip on the floor. I have peanut butter cookies, lilikoi éclairs, coffee, and tea. What would you like?”

  Nicole stuffed the umbrella into the indicated stand and pushed her damp hair out of her face.

  “Tea, please. Do you have green tea? Great, thanks. Hi, Iker. Hi, Luana. Oh, Molly, I need to talk to you about the search committee. Not now, though. Afterwards. Wow, it’s bad out there. What did I miss?”

  At first I assumed Nicole was talking about putting together a search team to look for her missing husband. But then I realized she was referring to the committee responsible for filling the vacant position in the English department. I did not want to get stuck on a search committee, spending my unpaid summer combing through hundreds of pages of transcripts, recommendation letters, and teaching statements. I concentrated on drinking my tea, and pretended I hadn’t heard Nicole’s request.

  “We were just about to start,” Mrs. Masterman said. “Now Nicole, you had asked about fertilizers, so I thought we could review some soil basics today. Molly, as the newest member of the Pua Kala Garden Society, you will want to pay close attention. The foundation of a healthy garden is the soil. Now the two major soil types found on this island are Andisol and Histosol. Andisol is formed from the things that come out of volcanoes: ash, pumice, and cinder. On this side of the island, however, our heavy rain encourages vegetal growth, so our gardens will have a good deal of Histosol, which is decayed plant matter...”

  My mind wandered as Fontanne Masterman continued to describe soil types. Nicole was probably going to corner me and ask me to replace her missing husband Scott on the search committee for the full-time English position. Nicole was applying for the position herself, so she would want an ally. I could sympathize, but search committees were an unrewarding time-suck in the best of circumstances. And serving on this one would be like spending the entire summer preparing a meal I would never taste.

  Why was I hankering after this English job, anyway? As Nicole herself had observed, I was lucky to have a tenure-track position. Of course, Nicole might have said it to discourage me from applying.

  I couldn’t help feeling like a failure and a sellout. My parents told me they were proud of me, but I knew they were just being polite. I was certain they shriveled with embarrassment every time they ran into the Gjebreas. Bethany Gjebrea had been a couple of years behind me in school, so I never really knew her when I was growing up. Now she was a pediatrician, married to an anesthesiologist, and they had three kids.

  Well, I consoled myself pettily, Dr. Bethany Gjebrea, M.D. probably didn’t know anything about Andisol or Histosol. I turned my attention back to the conversation just as Mrs. Masterman was saying,

  “You could use blood meal and bone meal together, Nicole, but only if you needed to amend the soil for those particular...”

  Blood meal and bone meal? It sounded disgusting.
Did people really put that stuff in their gardens? Did vegetarians know about this? If I were a vegetarian, I think I’d be pretty upset. Imagine forgoing meat, only to discover your supposedly blameless soybeans had been cultivated in a gory welter of bones and blood.

  Iker asked a question about roses, kicking off a lively discussion about nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium. As long as there wasn’t a test at the end, I decided, I’d be fine. All I had to do was stay alert until the end of the meeting, and I’d be rewarded with a full tour of the Brewster House. I helped myself to another peanut butter cookie, hoping the sugar would keep me alert.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  I FELT AN UNPLEASANT little flutter in my stomach. It had been only two weeks earlier that Melanie had plunged to her death from this balcony. I tested the metal railing; it seemed solid enough, but its apparent sturdiness did little to counteract the sensation of the house leaning toward the river, tipping me into Fontanne Masterman’s lovely little garden three stories below. Beyond the garden, the ground dropped off even further into the gorge where the Hanakoa River rushed toward the ocean, swollen and muddy from the recent rain.

  “Isn’t this a magnificent view?” Fontanne Masterman exulted.

  “Dizzying,” I agreed.

  Atticus Marx would love this place, I thought. Unlike Donnie, Atticus seemed to appreciate classic style as much as I did. He had admired my 1959 Thunderbird, caressing the Bakelite steering wheel and marveling at the brilliant turquoise hue of my new-old-stock upholstery. Donnie had always treated my love for my T-Bird as an amusing quirk.

  Atticus wasn’t crazy about his unchallenging job at Mahina State, I knew that. But he could probably build a satisfying career here, maybe by doing some kind of computer consulting on the side. The Brewster House had so many rooms; each of us could have our own little home office. And we wouldn’t constantly be bumping into each other.

  I wondered what it would be like to spend every day with Atticus. He was awfully sweet, and he seemed quite intelligent, but he wasn’t exactly a compelling conversationalist. Maybe as I got to know him better, it would become easier to talk to him.