The next morning my father and I stopped on the way to his office and got coffee and malasadas from a van in a shopping center parking lot. We sipped and ate in silence, and I wondered if this was what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
There were worse things. My father’s business was winding down, but perhaps Haoa and I could revitalize it. With his advice, we could be as successful as he had been, maybe even more. My notoriety might even help. Long lost classmates would remember who I was from having seen me on the evening news. We could even develop a subspecialty among Honolulu’s gay population. Build houses with extra-large closets and dressing areas for the fashion plates, and big, comfortable kitchens for the aspiring caterers. Forget about kids’ rooms and play areas. I knew a contractor in California who specialized in kitchens for Orthodox Jews, with extra storage space for their second set of dishes, and separate dishwashers, even separate refrigerators, for keeping milk and meat apart. There had to be a similar sub-specialty for the gay population.
We pulled up at my father’s office, on the second floor of a strip center he’d built near Salt Lake Park. The ground floor was filled with your usual variety of tenants: dry cleaner, deli, karate donjon, beeper store, and mattress warehouse. But unlike the Kahala Mall, this center somehow seemed uniquely Hawaiian. The truth came in the details.
My father was big on details. All the storefronts were set back behind a colonnade that provided shade from the hot tropical sun. He’d had a template of a palm tree made, and pressed it into the front of each of the supporting columns, so the implication was that the roof was supported by a row of palms, like the caryatids in Greek architecture.
When I was a kid, he’d had fancier offices, always moving around from project to project. When he was building homes, it was important that the style of his office match the kind of construction he was doing, and as he built more expensive and lavish homes, the style of his office improved. Now that he was building malasada stands and small warehouses, he had three simple rooms. His office, a reception area, and a conference room where he could lay plans out on a big table.
In each room there were framed photos, artists’ renderings and architects’ elevations of homes, offices, stores and shopping centers he had built. As I walked from room to room I marveled at the range of things he’d built, what he’d done to keep us all in food and clothes and pay our school tuition, take my mother on vacations and buy antique furniture for her in San Francisco and ship it to Hawai‘i. Over his desk there was a photo of a small bungalow I didn’t recognize.
“What’s this?”
“The first house I ever built,” he said. “Before Uncle Chin’s, even. I built it nights and weekends while I was still working for Amfac. I found it two years ago and took the picture. Nice, eh?”
The house was nice, but the photo was even nicer. Richly saturated colors, strong contrasts between light and shadow. It looked as professional as any of the promotional shots on the walls. “You took this?”
“I have grandchildren,” he said shyly. “You take a lot of pictures. You learn a few tricks.”
“More than a few,” I said.
It was interesting, getting to know my father again. He set me up in the conference room with a set of electrical plans and a list of items, from light fixtures to dimmer switches to outlet face plates. I had to count each one and then multiply by unit costs. “This is the worst part of the job for me,” he said. “These details are so tiny, but if you miss a couple of expensive light fixtures, there goes your profit.”
I worked diligently all morning, surprised that I could concentrate. It was like going surfing with Harry, getting something into my brain that pushed everything else aside. In the other room, I could hear him on the phone, schmoozing with potential customers, calling suppliers, checking schedules. I wondered if I could do that.
As a police officer and then a detective, I always had a sense that my work mattered. I was protecting the people of Honolulu, the office workers, hotel maids, and visiting tourists from bad elements of the population. Then as a detective, I was righting wrongs, bringing society back into balance. I supposed that building houses mattered too, though I wasn’t sure about strip malls and malasada shops. Then again, maybe part of my problem was looking for meaning in everything. Maybe all that really mattered was supporting your family, living a good life, having a little fun on Saturday nights, and not treating your fellow man in a way you wouldn’t want to be treated.
So I thought and counted switch plate covers, and around noon my father got me and we drove into Chinatown to meet Uncle Chin for lunch. We ate in a luncheonette with dingy windows and a long row of booths with peeling vinyl. The food was only mediocre, but they knew Uncle Chin there and we were served without even ordering, steaming platters of chicken and shrimp and sticky white rice in chipped porcelain bowls.
Uncle Chin poured us tea and said, “You know my grandson, yes?”
I nodded. “Tell me what he like.”
I didn’t know what to say at first. Did I say he was learning the family business? That I wasn’t sure what role he had played in his father’s death? Finally I said, “You read about me in the newspaper?”
Uncle Chin nodded. “Derek is like me. He lives in an apartment downtown with a guy he went to Yale with. Derek and his friend will probably take over the Rod and Reel Club.”
Uncle Chin cupped his hands around his teacup, and I noticed how old and frail they seemed. He looked down at the table and spoke softly. “Tommy not tell me much about Derek. I knew something between them but I don’t know what.”
“Derek loved his father, I can tell you that,” I said. “Even though I don’t think his father ever accepted him.” I paused to scoop up some sticky rice with my chopsticks. “I can’t tell you much more about Derek, because I didn’t talk to him much. I know he’s intelligent and well-educated. He likes art. He wants to open an art gallery, and his apartment is filled with paintings.”
“I want know him,” Uncle Chin said. “To become man, boy needs much guidance. Took so long know his father, give him what I could. Maybe I start earlier with Derek.”
“I know he met you once. He mentioned you by name. I don’t think he knows you’re his grandfather.”
He nodded. “Sometimes easier learn such information from third party. Easier for me, sure. You make arrangements?”
I wasn’t supposed to be involved in Tommy’s death anymore. But did that prohibition reach to contact with his son on a family matter? My father and Uncle Chin were both looking at me, and to deny this request would disappoint them both. I decided I had disappointed my father enough. I said, “I will. I’ll call him.”
Uncle Chin smiled. We cracked our fortune cookies, and they were all light-hearted, promising Uncle Chin a promotion and my father great happiness. My fortune said, “You are loved more than you know,” but at that moment I felt that, in spite of my troubles, I knew how deeply those around me cared for me.
We got up to leave. I said, “What about the bill?”
“No bill,” Uncle Chin said.
“Uncle Chin owns the restaurant,” my father said. On the way out the waiters and busboys all bowed to Uncle Chin, who bowed slightly back.
“How about a little drive?” my father asked after we said goodbye to Uncle Chin. “I’m bidding on a renovation at the Mandarin Oriental and I want to take a look at the room again.”
“Sure.” We rolled the windows down on the truck and the warm summer air washed over us. My father even turned the radio on and we listened to Keali‘i Reichel and The Pandanus Club and Israel Kamakawiwo‘ole as we drove. He wanted to introduce me to the hotel manager, but I didn’t think the time was right, so I went wandering in the gardens while he went inside.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I remembered Haoa talking about a job at the Mandarin Oriental, but it was still a surprise to me when I rounded a corner and came face to face with him, supervising the planting of a row of yellow ‘ilima plants along a walkway. He was wearing a big chambray shirt with Kanapa‘aka Landscaping on it, and a pair of khaki shorts. “Hey, brah,” I said.
“É, Kimo. What brings you out this way?”
I nodded back toward the hotel. “Dad,” I said. “Today’s his turn to watch me. He wanted to take another look at a remodeling job he’s bidding on.”
“He finished that ballroom two weeks ago.” Haoa looked at me, and then at the work. “Keep going like that all the way down the line,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few.”
He pointed off toward the pool. “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”
It was funny, but I hadn’t spent much time alone with my brother for years. We usually saw each other at family parties, luaus and christenings and such, and Tatiana was always around, or Lui, or some other relative or family friend.
I looked at Haoa as we walked through the manicured grounds toward the pool bar, this stranger who was also my older brother. He’s as tall as I am but seemed larger, because of his broad shoulders, big belly and stout legs. Our hair was the same jet black, though his was increasingly shot with gray. In family pictures I could see that we had the same cheekbones, the same eyes. Funny how we almost never talked but I still felt close to him, felt the blood in my veins calling out to his, remembering the time we had both spent in our mother’s womb, however many years apart.
He ordered us a couple of beers and we sat on high stools around a table with a mosaic tile top. “I don’t know what happened to me,” he said, after we had sat together for a few minutes in silence. “I acted like an asshole. Tatiana says it’s easier for me to blow off steam than to actually confront my feelings.”
He put the bottle down on the table and it made a hard sound. “Here’s the thing. I don’t like fags. It’s as simple as that.”
I nodded. “I don’t either.”
He looked at me curiously. “But you’re a fag.”
I shook my head. “You don’t get it. You don’t like effeminate men. Guys who flounce all over the place and call you darling.”
“Like Tico.”
“Like Tico. But I don’t do that, do I?”
He hesitated. “Go on, you won’t hurt my feelings.”
“Once in a while you get like that. I always figured you were acting like the baby.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe I can be a little faggy sometimes. But it doesn’t define my personality, is what I mean. I mean, I’m the same person I was before you knew I liked to sleep with men. Right?”
“I guess.”
“So you don’t have to put me in that group of people you don’t like, if you don’t want to.”
“I just got so mad,” he said. “It was like the fags had come and recruited my little brother. I wanted to go out and bash some heads.”
“Nobody recruited me.” I took a drink from the bottle. “This is the way I was born, just like you were born big and Lui was born sad-looking.”
“Sad-looking,” he said, and laughed. “You’re right. He always looks like somebody just ran over his dog.”
“Remember that dog we had, what was his name, Pua? Mom used to go crazy when he got up on the furniture.”
“She tried to keep him out in the yard, but you cried,” Haoa said. “You convinced her to bring him back in.”
“You guys put me up to that! I never would have cried otherwise.”
We laughed for a couple of minutes and drank our beers. “So do you fool around a lot?” Haoa asked after a while.
“I haven’t quite gotten it figured out yet. But I think when I was with women, I was looking for ones that wouldn’t tie me down, because I knew deep down it wasn’t what I wanted. Now that I can admit it, I just want what you and Tatiana have, and Lui and Liliha. Somebody to love, to hold onto at night.”
“I was so jealous of you,” he said. “You know I love Tatiana. I can’t imagine what my life would be like without her. But man, I used to see you with a different wahine every week, and it was like, I want to be there. Just let me be single one weekend, Lord. Let me have Kimo’s life for one weekend.”
I laughed. “Guess you don’t want it now.”
“So maybe I was mad because I was wrong about you, too,” he said. “I mean, here you were, living out my fantasy life, and then it turned out it was all a lie. It just kind of made me crazy.”
We had almost finished our beers when our father came up. “The landscaping looks good, Haoa,” he said. “You should be pau soon.”
Haoa nodded. He drained the last of his beer and said, “Got to get back.” He looked at me. “Take care, little brother.”
“You too.”
My father and I walked slowly back to his truck. “You saw your brother.”
I nodded. “We had a talk.”
“Good.”
“How about the job you’re bidding on?” I asked. “Did you get a look at it?”
“Nice job,” he said. “We can talk about it sometime.”
It was almost three o’clock by the time we got back to the office. I spent another hour or so on the electrical drawings, and then my father announced it was time to go home. “Benefit of being semi-retired,” he said. “You can make your own hours.” He looked at me. “Of course, if you were running this business for real, the hours are much longer. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
“I won’t,” I said.
In the newspaper that evening there was a further article on Evan Gonsalves’s death. They had found a fingerprint on the jewelry box that matched Tommy Pang’s, making a strong connection between the two of them. There was speculation that, as a cop, Evan couldn’t live with the idea that he’d killed Tommy, and killed himself over the guilt. I thought it was rotten that the story had to break the same day as Evan’s funeral, and hoped somebody was keeping the papers from Terri.
After dinner I called Akoni at home. Mealoha answered and we talked awkwardly for a minute, her asking how I was and me saying I was doing okay. “Hey, brah, howzit?” I asked when Akoni picked up the receiver.
“Okay,” he said. “How’re you doing?”
“I’m getting by. Yesterday I went shopping with my mother, and today I went to the office with my dad. I don’t know who’s going to get me tomorrow.”
“You’ll get through this.”
“I read about the fingerprint match in the Advertiser. You really think Evan could have killed himself out of guilt?”
“I don’t know. Shit, you were my partner for a long time and I didn’t know you. How’m I going to speculate on Evan Gonsalves? Hey, by the way. We got notification that the girl in that drug bust, Luz Maria, she went back to Mexico.”
“You ever get to interview her?”
“Nope. Just saw the paperwork. And you know there’s no way we’ll talk to her now. If she knew anything about Tommy Pang she took it back to Mexico with her.”
We said our goodbyes and hung up. I was edgy, worrying that my case was still going on and I couldn’t work on it. What was I going to do? I ought to go home, I supposed. There wouldn’t be anybody hanging around my doorway, and it was a step toward getting my life back together. It was something. I packed my suitcase and assembled all my equipment—the roller blades, surfboards, all the other stuff I’d brought.
I carried it downstairs, and walked into the living room, where my parents were watching TV. “I want to go home,” I said. “I think it’s time.”
My mother looked at my father, and he nodded. “Why don’t you take my truck,” he said. “Your mother can bring me by to pick it up tomorrow.”
“Okay.” I started for the door, then stopped and turned back around. “Thanks,” I said. “For everything.”
Then I turned back to the door and went out into the night.