Moloka'i (35 page)

Kenji had studied business at St. Louis College, and a month after graduation he was offered a job at a Honolulu stock brokerage, Halstead & Company. “I might not have been the most brilliant student in school, but I was a hard worker, and I was going to work just as hard in my new job. I had dreams of buying my family a new house, maybe someday working on the mainland.”

He looked down at his cooling coffee. “The bounty hunter came for me my first week at work. Right there in Halstead’s office on Fort Street, with my boss looking on, he said, ‘Charles Utagawa, you must come with me to Kalihi Hospital on suspicion of being a leper.’ Everything just . . . stopped around me. I could feel my life, my future, end in that one moment. Even if the tests had been negative I knew I would never have gotten my job back.”

“You lost a lot,” Rachel realized. “No wonder you get angry.”

“It’s what I deserve,” he said, much to her surprise. His voice was low. “I shamed my family; my ancestors. When a Japanese gets leprosy, it disgraces the entire lineage for all time. It’s written into the
Yakuba,
a neighborhood archive for family histories—a black mark that can never be erased. The family with leprosy is shunned, no one wants to marry into it.”

His eyes looked away from her and out to sea. “And all the money my father and brother put into my education, that’s all wasted. I’d hoped to repay them if I became a successful broker. Now I never can.”

Without thinking about it Rachel took his hand in hers and they sat there wordlessly, sharing more than silence.

The next day they went riding together, and the tenor of it was entirely different from her rides with Jake Puehu. With Jake she had been the resident showing the sights to a welcome guest—for that’s all he was, really, no matter how long he might stay. But she and Kenji took in the same landscape with the eyes of those for whom this green triangle, these six square miles of shore, rock, and
pali,
were all the world they were ever likely to see. They knew that within these boundaries—the implacable geometry of their confinement—they would have to make a life for themselves. And they began to suspect it was a life they would share.

Kenji was unlike either of the men Rachel had truly loved in her life: her father, easygoing and affable; Uncle Pono, boisterous and funny. But Kenji did have a sense of humor, a dry one, and the fact that he was unlike any man she’d ever known only made him more appealing. She waited for the angry outbursts of the sort she had witnessed on the baseball field, but they never came; perhaps the anger had burned itself out, as leprosy sometimes did, that day on the sea. Or was it, like leprosy, merely lying dormant?

The first time they made love Kenji kissed her in places no one had ever touched before (certainly not Nahoa). If Rachel became at all hesitant or self-conscious he would hold her until she was ready to go on. And when Kenji entered her, that was different, too—having the privacy of her body breached but rejoicing in it, giving it up for an intimacy both frightening and wonderful.

No one was more thrilled for Rachel than Leilani, who often shared breakfast with the new couple and only occasionally forgot to drape her lovely breasts in front of Rachel’s beau. Once or twice Rachel thought Kenji would literally die of embarrassment right before her eyes, but not only did his reserve remain intact, he even warmed to Leilani in time. And since Rachel hadn’t revealed Lani’s true gender to him, Kenji would listen to Leilani’s opinions on men, women, and love and find himself marveling, “That girl really understands men,” and Rachel would agree that yes, Leilani was uncommonly perceptive.

But in February Lani caught what she believed to be a cold; within a matter of days it was apparent she had contracted influenza. Dr. Goodhue admitted her to the infirmary at once and placed her in isolation. He treated her with salol, quinine, and aspirin for the fever that soon spiked to a hundred and three degrees. The same disease that had given Leilani her womanly body now sapped her resistance to the virus, her condition rapidly deteriorating. And for someone as hungry for touch as Lani, being placed in isolation was the most terrible of ends.

Rachel was allowed to visit for very brief periods and only while wearing a mask and gloves, which would be burned afterward—as much because of Rachel’s disease as Leilani’s. She held her friend’s hand, called for the nurse when Lani collapsed into a coughing fit, even held the bedpan when Lani needed it. Still grieving for Emily, Rachel was terrified for what tomorrow might bring, but Leilani claimed to be at peace. “I would happily live a hundred years as a leper,” she said, “for one day as a woman.” She thought about that, then smiled wanly. “And I believe I have.” On the next visit she amended that: “I’ve changed my mind. I’d like
two
days.” There was no next visit.

She was buried on a clear, cold morning in the Mormon cemetery, the pastor believing that his late parishioner had been nothing more remarkable than a devout young woman. Rachel stood at the graveside with Kenji, pleased that he was here to share her grief; but aware too that no one could ever quite share another’s grief, that no one would miss Leilani in the same way as Rachel would. Before the casket was closed she took one last look at her friend. In death the outward signs of leprosy had vanished and Lani’s face was as clear and finely featured as the day she had stepped off the SS
Likelike
. Laid out in her favorite floral dress she looked, Rachel thought, like Sleeping Beauty awaiting a prince’s kiss. Because she was, she truly was, the most beautiful woman Rachel had ever known.

Chapter 16

1913–16

H

enry Kalama stood on the rolling deck of the steamer
Claudine
, tossed on the perpetually angry waters of the Kaiwi Channel. Foaming surf broke over the bow as the ship plunged down the steep face of a wave, water streaming up the tilting deck to soak Henry’s shoes. His knees, already inflamed by gout, were jolted with every spasm of the ship; his hands, stiff with arthritis, gripped the railing like pincers. The blustery wind chilled him under his wet clothes, the salt spray stung his eyes, and the roar of the engines conspired with the wind to deafen him.

He hadn’t been so happy in years.

He hadn’t been to sea in years, and hadn’t realized how much he missed it. He missed its moods, one moment becalmed and the next stormy, the exciting inconstancy of it. He had seen some of that in Dorothy, so fiery and unpredictable, and had loved her for it; and after he lost her the sea had been both balm and bitter reminder. And then he lost the sea as well, and his life these past two years had been one of landlocked stability, the ground dull and steady beneath his feet.

But now he felt alive again. Not to say he didn’t feel some nasty pain in his joints, and his doctor would harangue him about making this voyage—but no way could he have missed it, whatever the cost in aches and pains.

Now land crept up from below the horizon: the green towering
pali
brooding above the low plain. It had been a while since Henry had made this trip and he was surprised to see how lush the peninsula looked, how tall the trees had grown: eucalyptus, algarobas, and ironwoods shouldering one another on a plain once flat as a griddle, and just as hot. His heart rose as the steamer neared shore and the crowd clustered at the landing. Rachel was not, as best he could see, among them, but he did spy a tall figure robed in black, a cowl of white framing her face, and he smiled.

The
Claudine
anchored and put out its boats, and soon Henry was climbing stiffly up the ladder at Kalaupapa Landing. From above a woman’s hand was offered in assistance: it was, like his, a hand worn and callused by hard work, and as he took it he looked up into the smiling eyes of Sister Mary Catherine Voorhies.

“Welcome back, Henry,” she said, knowing better than to try and call him “Mr. Kalama” after all these years.
“Aloha.”

“Aloha
, Sister!” In one hand he hefted a pair of duffel bags, filled with two weeks’ worth of sea rations and clean linen, as he stepped off the last rung. He squeezed the nun’s hand affectionately. “Good to see you.”

His gaze as it swept across the crowd revealed his puzzlement at what he didn’t see. Catherine explained, “Rachel asked me to come and take you to the visitor’s compound. She’ll meet us there.”

“Ah, good, good.” Henry took in the sleepy town, somewhat energized by the arrival of the steamer, and smiled as if he were a traveler coming home after a long absence. “Kalaupapa,” he said in a tone of affection few in the islands would have echoed.

He followed her off the breakwater and onto the well-trod shoreline path, and now he noticed for the first time the stutter in the sister’s step, the way one leg hit the ground with a slight roll of her hip. “Sister, what’s the matter with your leg?”

“Oh, I just took a wrong step, a while back.” She changed the subject. “Rachel wanted to meet you today—”

“I know, she’s gotta be busy. I remember when Dorothy and me got married—so much running around that day I thought I was gonna die.”

“My brother Jack very nearly did, or so he claims. Before the ceremony he was standing in front of a mirror, clipping his
nose hairs
—I swear this is true”—she stifled a laugh—“and he was so nervous he cut his nostril with the clippers, a deep cut. He was so mortified he was afraid to leave the bathroom”—Catherine did laugh now, and Henry with her—“but luckily the family doctor was among the guests and stitched him up with a little catgut, so he didn’t bleed to death on his wedding day.”

“You saw this?”

“Would that I had! But by that time I was already here in Hawai'i.”

“You go back, ever, to see him?”

Catherine said wistfully, “No. We write letters—talk on the telephone, sometimes—but I haven’t actually seen either him or my sister in . . . twenty-one years.”

Henry nodded, understanding all too well how the healthy also suffered from “the separating sickness.”

They walked in silence a moment, then Henry said with studied casualness, “This Kenji sounds like a nice boy.”

Catherine heard the nervous question in his voice and nodded. “He is. He’s a very nice young man.” Henry looked visibly relieved by her endorsement, but before he could say anything more Catherine stopped and announced, “Here we are. The visitor’s compound.”

They were standing before a two-story plantation-style building with a number of individual
l
nais
on each floor. Fronting it was a well-kept yard with lawn and garden seats, encircled by not one but two corral-style fences, one an interior fence.

“Big,” Henry said, impressed. He looked around at the other buildings, many of them still sporting their first coat of paint. “Things’ve changed a lot.”

“Yes,” Catherine said, a bit softly, “they have.”

She escorted Henry into the house and into a dormitory-like room with six beds; there were six on the other side of the house, she said, for women.

Henry quickly gleaned that he was the only occupant of the men’s dormitory. “Guess I got my choice of bunks, ’ey?” he laughed, tossing his duffel bag onto the nearest. “So, when can I see Rachel?”

Catherine looked and felt acutely uncomfortable. “As I said, things have . . . changed. The rules against . . . fraternization . . . are more strictly enforced these days.”

Puzzled, Henry followed the sister out of the dormitory, down a long hall, and into what Catherine called the “reception room”—a comfortable sitting room with chairs, tables, and curtained windows through which sunlight sifted brightly. So comfortable, so pleasant, that it took Henry a moment to apprehend its most salient feature.

Bisecting the room—from wall to wall and from nearly ceiling to floor—was an enormous pane of plate glass.

And on the other side of this transparent barrier stood Rachel.

Her father stared, dumbstruck. Catherine was chagrined. “I’m sorry, Henry. I think it’s ridiculous myself; if one could contract leprosy from casual contact I’d have come down with it years ago.”

“Then why?”

“Alas, I don’t make the rules. Bureaucrats in Honolulu and Washington make them, and they’re still very much afraid of leprosy. And even more afraid that they’ll be accused of endangering the public welfare. If you wish,” she added sheepishly, “you can go outside and sit on opposite sides of the inside fence, if you find that more . . . sociable.” Embarrassed, she slipped quietly away to leave father and daughter alone, if not quite together.

“Hello, Papa,” Rachel said, her voice slightly muffled by the glass. Henry slowly approached and touched the pane with the tips of his fingers. Rachel did the same, their fingers separated by less than a quarter of an inch—only light slipping through the barrier, no warmth.

“At least at Kalihi,” Rachel said, reading the thought in his face, “you could feel something through the mesh.”

“Bastards!” Henry’s astonishment gave way to anger. “I come alla way to Moloka'i for my daughter’s wedding, and I’m gonna see it from behind some damn window?”

“No, not for that. Sister Catherine talked to Mr. McVeigh, they’ve made an exception for the wedding.” She looked at him, his hair speckled with gray, his face deeply lined, and said softly, “I’ve missed you so much, Papa.”

“I missed you, too, baby.” Henry looked at her—at
her
, and not the glass wall—for the first time. “My God, baby . . . you’re so beautiful. Such a beautiful woman!”

Rachel felt herself blushing. “Thank you, Papa.”

They sat down, pulling their chairs closer so that only a few feet—and the glass—separated them. They chatted about his steamer trip for a while, then Rachel asked him, “Do you ever see Ben and Kimo and Sarah?”

Henry seemed flustered by the question. “Oh sure. Now they’re all grown up, they invite me over alla time. Mama’s not so much a problem like before.”

“How are they?” she asked.

“Well . . . Kimo’s a salesman. At McInerny’s Shoe Store.”

Rachel whooped. “He hated shoes worse than Sarah!”

Henry chuckled. “Yeah, well, not now! He sells five, six, seven pair a day, makes a good commission too. You know Kimo, he could talk a fish right out of the water!”

“Is he married? Am I an auntie?”

“Yeah, sure. Two boys.”

“And Ben?”

“Oh, Ben’s building fishing boats in Kaka'ako. Says that’s as close to the sea as he wants to get—he builds ’em, somebody else goes out on ’em. I told him that was okay by me. Still not married yet.”

“Sarah? She’s got
keiki
, right?”

“Yeah, sure.” Rachel looked at him expectantly and he elaborated, “There’s Charlie, he’s the oldest, Miriam, and Gertrude, everybody calls her Gertie.”

“And how’s Mama?” Rachel felt a sudden weight in her heart.

“I . . . don’t know,” Henry admitted. “I don’t see her.”

Rachel decided to let it go at that.

“Papa,” she said, “would you like to meet Kenji now?”

His face brightened and he said that he would.

Outside there was more distance between visitor and patient, but the picket fence was somehow a more decorous barrier. Out here, at least, patient and visitor shared the same air. Rachel joined Kenji on their side of the interior fence. Kenji seemed to Henry a fine handsome young man, if a little more serious than he had expected; but the moment Rachel’s hand slipped into Kenji’s Henry saw the faint flush of color in his daughter’s cheeks, saw the happiness in her eyes and an answering gladness in Kenji’s.

“I’m pleased to meet you at last, Mr. Kalama,” Kenji said. “I only wish I could shake your hand.”

“Me, too.” They all settled into lawn chairs, and but for the fence between them it might have been a meeting between any anxious father and prospective son-in-law.

“How was your trip over?” Kenji asked.

Henry shrugged. “The usual.”

There was a moment of nervous silence and Rachel filled it with, “Papa, did I tell you we’re holding the ceremony in Kana'ana Church?”

“The little church down near the landing?”

“Yes. And you remember Francine? She’s my bridesmaid.”

Henry smiled, nodded. Another awkward silence as father and groom sized each other up; then Kenji cleared his throat and said, “Yes, there’s only one detail we haven’t decided, and that’s where to go on our honeymoon.”

His tone was so dry it even took Rachel a moment to realize it was a joke; but Henry got it a moment after her, and burst into laughter.

“Maybe you try Kalaupapa, eh?” Henry suggested with a smile.

Rachel joined in. “Or maybe, I don’t know, Kalaupapa?”

“Then again,” Kenji said, straight-faced, “I understand Kalaupapa is quite lovely this time of year.”

They all laughed with equal measures of mirth and rue, and conversation came more easily after that. Kenji spoke of his family back on O'ahu and it turned out that Henry had even been in Haru Utagawa’s shop more than once. Henry shared the latest news from Honolulu, principally the pride and excitement generated by native son Duke Kahanamoku, now world-famous. A Waikiki beachboy of no special ambition, Duke was cajoled into entering his first swimming meet in the summer of 1911; and to the astonishment of the judges he casually broke the world record in 100-yard freestyle. The following year he did it again at the Olympic Games in Stockholm, earning a gold medal. Six foot one, 190 pounds, he was a godlike bronzed figure, cleaving the waters with his massive hands, feet kicking up almost as much chop as a propeller. Even more exciting to Rachel was Duke’s prowess at surfing. She was delighted to hear that the sport was enjoying a renaissance in Waikiki, no longer the “godless” activity reviled by missionaries. Hawai'i was beginning to reclaim its past, and in Duke Kahanamoku—handsome, unassuming, whose accomplishments could not be denied—Hawaiians found again the royalty they had lost, and which this time could not be taken from them.

Henry, Rachel, and Kenji talked well into the evening, skipping the supper they could not share, feasting on one another’s company instead; and Henry went to bed content. Walking home with Rachel, Kenji said, “Your father obviously loves you very much to come here.”

“I’m sure yours would have, too.”

Kenji shook his head. “It would have been a great shame for him or my mother to come. Even just inviting them would have put them in an embarrassing position.”

“So you’d never see your family again, just to let them save face?”

“You don’t understand what it’s like for the
Issei,”
he said sharply. Rachel didn’t press the point. He took her hand in his, squeezed it, and they walked on. Tomorrow at this time, they would be married. And despite whatever differences there were between them, it was still a thought that warmed her in a way nothing ever had before.