Rani Patel In Full Effect. Sonia Patel
here, let alone Gujaratis. I’ve had five years to stew about all this. It’s clear to me that the wheels of our severe family dysfunction had already been in motion on the East Coast, but they went into cruise control on our time capsule-island-of-turmoil—Dad’s ego stroked and inflated by his increased ability to do whatever he wanted without the meddling and gossip of our Gujju friends and relatives, Mom cut off from her protective Gujju connections. And me, fully dependent on Dad’s attention for any semblance of worthiness. A self-sustaining state of disarray. Our family roles became carved in volcanic stone. Dad—raja, the king. Mom—kam vaari, his servant. Me—rani, his queen.
But, slowly and steadily, the trade winds of seclusion have been eroding our rocky foundation. And Dad’s deceit started a landslide.
I rubbed my eyes. Must. Not. Cry. After all, I’d been looking forward to Kanemitsu’s all week. Couldn’t show up puffy-eyed. I cranked the stereo cassette player. Queen Latifah was rapping about the Evil That Men Do, a track I’d had on rewind for a couple of weeks. As I listened, I pretended she was the big sis I never had. Her supreme vocal presence soothed me.
Womaned up, I pulled out of the gravel parking lot.
The single lane “highway” between Maunaloa and Kaunakakai was pitch black—nothing new because there aren’t any street lamps. No stop signs or traffic lights either. Nothing to break the tedium of the twenty-five minute drive. Most nights I don’t pass any cars.
A while back, Pono told me something that still kinda freaks me out every time I’m driving back from Maunaloa. He said that at sunset or sunrise I should be wary of huaka’i po, particularly near the sacred Kapuaiwa Coconut Grove that’s one mile before Kaunakakai. Makai of the highway. When I’m driving alone in the dark, even if it’s way past sunset, I get scared I’ll hear the drums of the ‘oi’o. And they’ll be chanting and marching near me. If you look the ghosts of the departed warriors in the eye, you’ll die. No thanks!
But thankfully my rumbling tummy directed my attention to images that weren’t frightening: Kanemitsu’s famous hot bread slathered with melting, gooey cream cheese and sweet and tart liliko’i jelly. Wiping the drool from my lips, I swerved a bit. Driving was a challenge when all you could see was fresh bread.
Finally I saw the Chevron. I slowed down and turned left onto Ala Malama Avenue, the main street in Kaunakakai. Everyone on Moloka’i calls Kaunakakai “town.” Most people on the island live in town, in small, single-wall construction homes spreading out in a three-to-four mile radius of the main street.
Technically that makes the short strip of one-or two-story business buildings on Ala Malama Avenue “downtown.” Downtown’s got the two best-stocked grocery stores on the island: Friendly Market and Misaki’s. It’s got the only pharmacy. It’s got a couple of restaurants and banks. A library. A post office. The police station. A fire station. A few other retail stores. Some state and county offices. And of course, Kanemitsu’s Bakery & Coffee Shop.
Kanemitsu’s was jumping. I counted ten trucks and cars already out in front. Instead of hanging out with friends, my weekly Saturday night social reality has been standing in line with a bunch of people I only sort of know. Together we wait for a delicious late night treat.
It’s an adventure that only locals know about. The bakery’s storefront is actually closed this late at night. To get the prized loaves, you have to walk to the back door that’s tucked away from the main street. Every time I make my way down the shadowy alley to get there, I hear Duran Duran’s A View to a Kill play in my mind’s boombox. I’m always alone on the stealth walk so I pretend it’s dangerous. Like I’m heading to some big drug deal. Not that I’ve ever used drugs. Or alcohol. Or even cigarettes. Although I am kind of an underage dealer since I sell booze and smokes on the daily at the store.
I parked next to a Moloka’i Ranch flatbed.
Is that who I think it is?
If Mark was in line, that would take the night to a whole new level. I pulled my hair into a high ponytail and did an appearance check in the rearview mirror.
Ok, somewhat passable.
I quickly sniffed my pits.
Uh-oh, barely passable.
I shrugged and hopped out of the truck. Girl’s gotta eat.
The prospect of seeing Mark in line distracted me from making my usual 007 jaunt down the alley. Before I knew it, I was queued up behind twelve other hungry souls. The lady at the front of the line knocked on the dilapidated wooden door. Then she stepped back to wait for the mysterious bearer of bread—a curiously odd, delicate man with a raspy voice—to take her order.
Marky Mark—sans the Funky Bunch—was the last in line. Oh yeah. I welcomed the Good Vibrations.
He was standing with Stan Lee, a newbie at the Ranch. Stan recently moved here from Honolulu, so I don’t know much about him. Except what I could see. That he’s full Korean and about twenty-four. A couple of weeks ago, Mark and Stan Lee came into the store after work, engrossed in a conversation. I overheard Stan Lee saying something about his mom’s batu-smoking boyfriend beating her up again. Stan Lee said he felt guilty because he’d been out when it happened. I wonder if he moved to Moloka’i to protect his mom.
So there I was, standing behind them in the bread line. I heard Stan Lee speaking all hush-hush to Mark. For a second I considered staying quiet, thinking I should let them go on with their convo. But I changed my mind. I decided a loud clearing of my throat was the most logical way to interrupt. Mark whisked around at the sound.
“Hey Rani, howzit?” His speech and smile told me that he was well into the cold pack he bought earlier.
I lifted up my glasses by their corners. “Oh hey, Mark. I didn’t expect you here.” Hoping my speech and smile didn’t tell him that I was well into thinking about the six pack I knew he had under that shirt. “Just finished work. I’m starving,” I added, as lukewarm as possible to douse the heat rising in me.
“Yeah, us too. We’re going down to the wharf to eat. Come hang out,” Mark suggested.
Butterflies.
Stan turned his back to me at that point. I swear I heard him let out a small grunt, a mixture of an annoyed sigh and a half-whispered fuck. I was about to say yes to Mark when I heard my dad’s laugh behind me. My head swiveled around at the sound. Even though it was dark, I could make out his tall thin build and Indro. He was walking with some woman down the alley. Dad skyscraped over her. They sauntered arm-in-arm. When they got near the only faint light fixture, I saw him chatting away and gazing down at her. She was looking up at him, all bright-eyed, like a fascinated student. The way I used to look at him. They stopped for a second and he leaned in for a kiss.
My thoughts sprinted.
Fight or flight? Fight, then flight.
What happened next was a blur of tears, confusion, jealousy, and contention.
I charged towards them. My arms moved purposefully, strictly in sync with my steps. As if someone ordered me to do a military quick march.
Dad’s never walked arm-in-arm with Mom.
I stopped.
Dad’s never talked with Mom like this. And he hasn’t confided in me since the end of last school year.
I took a second to knuckle up, then bolted forward again.
Dad’s never kissed Mom in public. Come to think of it, I’ve NEVER seen him kiss her. But he’s kissed…
My body was paralyzed at that point. It was as if I was standing on a track and a train was charging at me. I could see the conductor and he sounded the whistle. But I couldn’t move. I was about to be bulldozed when in an instant