Do you believe in destiny, is what Noa asked on the phone that one time. About what we’re supposed to be, if it’s written from the start.
That maybe what he felt in the islands and what I felt on the court were the same thing, and I could be like he was.
It’s too late for that now, Noa. But I can still be what we need. There was basketball, now there’s this. Both supposed to end in money.
“Listen,” I say to Trujillo. “Howbout there’s a way I can help you out with that vacation.”
* * *
AFTER THAT IT WAS EASY. Look. When I was back in Hawai‘i I knew some guys that would do things, move things, without really thinking about it. That’s how I could get what I needed back in high school, these guys already understood was all sorts of things out there you could have if you just had the strength to take ’um. I still know guys like that. That’s where this starts. Then it goes to Trujillo.
Next thing you know Trujillo and probably one or two other guys is bringing things through, doesn’t take much of a markup to make it work, they even got some space at the commissary to store some of it, since it’s not like they can just walk into the office with boxes full of used panties from people’s girlfriends and cocaine, like that. No one knows about the commissary thing except me and Trujillo and his guys. But I mean, it’s not like this is max-security federal with guys in face tattoos and life vows to MS-13 or whatever, it’s got plenty knuckleheads like me, made a few dumb choices or whatever, or guys that just can’t keep it together.
Mostly, anyway, you figure. But then one day Rashad sits down next to me at a lunch table.
“A few of us figured we’d let you know straight,” he says. “Wild Eights is talking about how maybe you should close up shop.”
“Wild Eights,” I say.
Rashad laughs. “That’s right.”
“Like those two fat guys always hanging over by the track at rec? Then there’s that one dude with the big ears—”
“There’s almost always a few of ’em rolling through County at the same time. Usually it’s the new guys since it’s all low-level things. But still.”
“And I take your story on it because…”
Rashad had been getting cough syrup through me and Trujillo, another satisfied customer, had some sort of recipe that was getting him as stoned as a rap star. So I guess there’s that.
“Listen, man,” he says. “There’s this guy I know.”
“There’s this guy everyone knows,” I say. “Everyone got a guy they—”
“Listen,” Rashad says. “His name’s Justice. He’s, like, legit. Wears suits, clean fingernails, and all that.”
“And?”
“He doesn’t come down here,” Rashad goes on. “But he’s got guys you can call, they know how to talk to guys like the Eights. Before shit gets serious.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Matter of fact, it already is serious, you just don’t know it yet.”
“So this thing’s turning into, like, Blood In Blood Out all of a sudden,” I say.
“Just saying,” Rashad says. “Probably wouldn’t even come to that in here, shanks made out of spoons and shower mobs. That’s not Justice’s style. Anyway, Negroes in here is just trying to get out, you know? Shit ain’t Death Row.”
“And what,” I say, “you’re telling me how come.”
“Those Wild Eights motherfuckers got their own they help out and that’s it,” he says. “They don’t want to share. Not like you.”
I let a breath go through my teeth, yeah, I can feel the whole thing turning. “I’m not a criminal,” I say.
Rashad laughs, his sharp nose and those happy teeth. Kid could be a model if we wasn’t in here. “I know,” he says. “Me, too. Even Kevin.
“Right, Kevin, what you in here for?” Rashad calls out louder.
“Couldn’t prove nothing,” Kevin says. Dude might as well be in one of those heavy-metal bands, haole boy with his long sharp beard and hyped-up eyes. “Nigger couldn’t prove I was choking him.”
“Love you, too,” Rashad hollers. Turns back to me. “See? No criminals in here. Just perfect gentlemen.”
I sit there, like, forever.
“You want to call?” Rashad asks.
This is another one of those times, right? Just like the car, me and Kaui. Where there’s the one side and the other side, and you take the wheel or not.
“People needed things,” I say. “I got ’um things. That’s all it was gonna be.”
“Yeah, well”—Rashad raises his hands, then lets ’um back down on the table—“it’s more than that, now. Your choice.”
31
MALIA, 2009
Honoka‘a
There’s the remembering I don’t tell anyone about, the remembering I do every day, alone, like this: tucked in the bedroom, burying my nose in the last of your clothes that you left with us before you went into the valley. The shirt is my favorite, because it was pushed farthest back in the drawer, and some of you clung to it, so that I can still smell you strong in the cotton.
No one can tell me not to do this. Not to be close to you this way, to have your scent and think about my son and the hole you’ve ripped in me that feels like it’s doing the opposite of closing. Howl, I want to tell that hole. Swallow the entire world, swallow me, too.
But for just the little bit while I’m here, with your clothes, if I don’t smell too close and I don’t keep my eyes open, it’s almost like you’re back, and we’re in Honoka‘a before that boat ride and the sharks, when your father still had a cane job. We had so many jokes! Dirt and school grades and bills didn’t matter. The news didn’t matter—
“What are you doing?”
It’s Kaui’s voice. You plunge away and I turn to face your sister with open eyes. We both stand still. My hands still on your shirt, which I bring down to my side.
“I could make something up,” I say, “but I think you can see what I’m doing.”
Her mouth opens, but she closes it and crosses her arms.
“You’re judging me,” I say. “Don’t judge m—”
“No,” she says.
“You’ll have to be a mother before you can understand the craziness of it,” I go on. “Until then—”
“Mom! It’s not that.”
“When it’s your child—”
“You’re not listening,” she interrupts again.
I ask her what it is, then. What she saw.
“There’s nothing wrong with missing him, Mom,” she says.
“It didn’t seem like that when you stepped in the door just now,” I say.
“It’s nothing,” she says. “I was just surprised.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say. “I see the way you’re looking at me.” And my voice gets louder.
“Nothing,” she says. She scratches her arm and looks away.
“You walked in and saw me smelling his clothes,” I say. “And then you gave me a look.”