“Well, over here every Hawaiian knows you’re my son.”
“That might keep me safe,” Kawika agreed. “Over here.” He put a hand on his father’s massive arm. “Unless Carolyn comes here and kills me. That’s the other pilikia.”
Jarvis frowned. “Son, when you came back from Seattle, that Chinatown thing, didn’t you tell me the greatest dangers in life probably aren’t physical?”
“Something like that. I was quoting Father Brown—a detective priest, in stories.” That triggered something. What was Father Brown talking about? Kawika asked himself. The dangers of high places—dangers greater than falling.
“Well,” Jarvis said, “Carolyn won’t kill you. But she might dump you. You ready for that?”
“No.”
“You ready to give up the other one?”
“No.”
“Ugh,” Jarvis grunted. “Pilikia.”
“Dad, it’s Patience. Patience Quinn.”
“Son, I figured that would happen the first time you said her name.”
Kawika didn’t respond. Just hung his head.
“You look miserable.”
“Yeah, I am,” he replied. Then he began to talk.
Jarvis listened to what became a waterfall of words. As a boy in shorts, going to school in Waimea, Kawika had been happy to be Hawaiian, he said. Then in Seattle, he became just a kid who looked different, a kid other kids sometimes teased. Most thought it was cool Kawika’s dad lived in Hawai‘i, and even cooler—you’re so lucky, dude—that Kawika spent summers there. He grew up, went to college and the academy, joined the Seattle police. There, among his fellow officers, he encountered serious racism for the first time. But it hadn’t fazed him. Then he’d gotten fired. He hadn’t failed as a detective, but as a Chinese—a thing he wasn’t, a thing he’d never even thought about, not for a single moment.
“Did you ever consider yourself Chinese, Dad?” Kawika asked. “Because of the name Wong?”
“No,” Jarvis said. “Never.”
“And you’re a quarter Chinese,” Kawika pointed out. “I’m only an eighth. How can anyone be considered X or Y or Z when he’s only one-eighth?”
Jarvis shrugged, seeming to recognize that this wasn’t Kawika’s real question, the one that needed an answer.
“So I came back,” continued Kawika. “To Hilo, thanks to you.”
In Hilo, he explained, he’d felt relieved to become Hawaiian again. Even happier, once he met Carolyn, an authentic and serious Hawaiian. Also an authentically good person—generous, lively, intelligent, loving—and beautiful. She was perfect.
“Two years together, and she still seems perfect,” Kawika continued. “But there’s a sadness in her, Dad. About what’s happened to Hawai‘i. She needs a real Hawaiian, someone who can share that sense of loss with her. But me, a real Hawaiian? I’m just not, Dad.”
Kawika sighed and shook his head. “Then out of the blue, I meet Patience. She’s also generous and loving and smart—all that. Beautiful, for sure, and playful; she teases me a lot. She calls herself a kama‘aina, but really she’s a long-time visitor. Yet here’s the thing: my being Hawaiian doesn’t matter to her. And when I’m with her it doesn’t matter to me either. I really like that. It feels good—like coming home somehow, not having to think all the time about being Hawaiian or hapa, a Mainlander, or anything else.”
Worn out, Kawika stopped talking. “So, Dad,” he said, “what do you think?”
“Well,” Jarvis began sternly, “For starters, I think you can’t keep a woman in Hilo and a woman in South Kohala, no matter what. Holding hostages while you make up your mind. It isn’t right, and it isn’t fair.”
Kawika grimaced.
“Plus, you’re leading a double life. That’s why you’re miserable. You know that, right?”
Kawika nodded glumly.
“A person can’t live two lives,” Jarvis went on, more gently. “You gotta choose one life, then live in it—same as you’d live in a house.”
“But that’s what I don’t know, Dad—that life.”
Jarvis paused briefly. “Son,” he then said, “I can’t tell you who you are. Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out. But I can tell you a few things. Might help.”
“Please,” Kawika responded.
“Okay, now I don’t know Flea well, but I’ve known her a long time. She’s not just a beautiful rich haole—she’s got more going for her than that. Still, some haole women do like Hawaiian men because they’re Hawaiian. They like the idea of a Hawaiian man. Maybe they like the idea more than the man himself. Trust me on this, okay?” Jarvis raised an eyebrow at his son, warding off questions.
“Okay,” replied Kawika. He sensed they were on dangerous ground.
“So you might be wrong about Flea,” Jarvis said. “Maybe what she likes most about you is the Hawaiian part. Maybe she doesn’t realize it. Not yet.”
Kawika waited, sensing Jarvis would say more.
“I think,” Jarvis continued, “what your mom liked most about me was the Hawaiian part. I think she realized that—in the end, not the beginning.”
“Oh,” Kawika didn’t know what to say.
“Do yourself a favor, son,” said Jarvis. “Ask her.”
“Who? Mom?”
“Yeah, your mom. Ask her about Carolyn and Flea. She’ll give you good advice.”
“But Dad,” protested Kawika, “Mom’s never even met Patience.”
“Yes, but your mom is Patience. She never could sit still; she couldn’t relax. Can Patience?” He sounded sympathetic, almost wistful, leaving Kawika to ponder several mysteries at once.
Kawika knew they’d reached the limits of what they could ask one another, what they could answer, even though Kawika didn’t feel much better. And both needed to get back to work.
Jarvis walked Kawika to his car.
“Another house for sale down the road,” Kawika said, changing subjects. “Noticed it driving in.”
“Your buddy Fortunato’s, actually,” said Jarvis. “His widow’s selling it. Unlucky house. Guy drowned, the one who owned it before. Tom-Tom Gray. Fell off his boat.”
“I just heard about that,” Kawika said. “Did you know him? Did you think it was an accident, him falling off his boat?”
“Yeah, I knew Tom-Tom. Did someone say it wasn’t an accident?”
“No, but he sold Fortunato the land for KKL. And Fortunato was a bad guy, like you told me.”
“Huh,” Jarvis said. “I did wonder, was it really an accident? I saw Tom-Tom’s kids at his service. Kam and Emma. Watched
