My father watched her stroll to the forward galley. In a few minutes, she carried his drink down the aisle.
He unlocked his tray, and she placed his martini in the slot. He thanked her, and she sauntered off. Dadio stuck his index finger in the drink, stirred, and the submerged olive bounced off the sides of the glass. He elbowed me. “When do your classes start?”
“A week from Monday,” I replied.
“What’s your first subject?”
“Writing.”
“The professor will make you analyze texts and teach you how to write good essays.”
Getting grilled by Dadio was pure agony. He informed me that my low GPA proved I was lazy. He claimed the admissions committee only gave me the green light because they wanted out-of-state tuition. He was so preoccupied hunting down flaws he failed to see the good. I wasn’t his only target. He thought June Spoon was stupid and a spendthrift. He considered Troy a coward. He said Jen had zero willpower. I realized hate was his fuel. He was using his family as pumps to propel his glorious engine forward, a rage machine forged for success and strength-tested during his impoverished childhood. He’d invested in my eventual failure, so that by failing I’d prove he was right all along. What he didn’t know was I’d been studying him. His speech, gestures, and mannerisms revealed a man who only felt good about himself when he tore others down. His soul was dark. It was a dark pit of poison feeding off hate and resentment. He’d never praised us for anything we’d done at Punahou, including graduating. He harbored contempt for us because, in his mind, he’d given us all the advantages. We’d squandered his gifts. His hatred was rooted in his impoverished youth, being a bastard, and getting abused by a trio of uncles. They’d swiped the savings he kept in a buckskin marble bag, invited him to fake dinners at Chinese restaurants, and teased him for being “keiki manuahi.” Uncle Sharkey had thrown him off the dock at Fisherman’s Wharf. “Sink o’ swim, keed,” Sharkey’d called down. I grieved for his past. But I also realized that, instead of learning from it, he’d stored the hurts deep inside.
I thought about Troy. He worked construction in Waikiki as labor #3, a pick-and-shovel job leveling foundation on Kuhio Avenue. He’d said flies swarmed his plate lunches and scorpions crawled the Porto-Potty. He wanted to prove to our father that he didn’t need college. Our last shared Moloka’i summer had been bittersweet. Troy’d seemed relaxed in the primal setting of Wailau Valley, but I realized we were going opposite directions.
I pulled out Jen’s envelope out and tore it open. It was a Bon Voyage card. She wished me a safe flight and had scrawled a personalized version of an Elton John song:
Kirby, my brother, you are older than me.
Do you still feel the pain of the scars that won’t heal?
Your eyes have died, but you see more than I.
Kirby, you’re a star in the face of the sky.
Oh, God, it looks like Kirby, must be the clouds in my eyes.
I tucked the card back in its envelope. I’d pretended those scars no longer hurt and that our father hadn’t killed our innocence. My sister would return to her pink room knowing my room was empty. She was on her own. I hoped that, if she ever did marry, she would find someone who might comprehend the depth of her pain.
***
The pilot said the sun was breaking over the Rockies. I got up and looked through the window in the emergency door. Colorado looked like crumpled brown wrap. This all felt like a mistake—being with my father, heading east to school, and attending a university filled with strangers. I returned to my seat and watched Dadio gulp orange juice. His hair was more salt than pepper, and his sideburns had grown in. He folded his tray, locked it in place, and shook his plastic cup of ice.
I fingered my leis. The plumeria had turned brown and the orchids hung limp. I took them off. A chubby steward approached.
“Say, fellow,” my father said, “what’s the current temperature in Denver?”
“52,” the steward said. “But it’ll warm to the mid-seventies.”
“They call it ‘The Mile High City,’ don’t they?”
“That’s right, sir. It’s a mile high.”
Dadio handed the steward his cup. “A village in the clouds.”
***
We rented a Buick Skylark and drove to the Brown Palace. We ate omelets at a greasy spoon on Colfax before returning to a tiny room with double beds. The red carpet was worn, and the bathroom reeked of cigarettes. Being alone with my father in a shabby room made me feel like a fool. We flopped on our beds and slept until twilight.
***
19th Century French warfare was the theme of The Palace Arms Restaurant at our hotel. Military regalia hung from maroon walls, including long skinny rifles and swords from the Napoleonic Wars. There were candelabras, crystal chandeliers, and gold flags with fleur-de-lys emblems. Waiters rushed by in blue tuxedos. My father was disappointed Rocky Mountain Oysters were no longer on the menu. He ordered a double martini from a cocktail waitress dressed as a French maid. A black waiter took our order.
“Kirby,” my father said, “have you chosen a major?”
I sipped water. “English.”
“Good. Composing term papers sharpens your analytical skills and teaches you how to write.”
“I like a different kind of writing.”
“Oh? And what kind of writing is that?”
“Poetry.”
Dadio’s eyes bugged out. “Poetry doesn’t pay a goddamn thing.”
“Some poets make money.”
“Name one.”
“Robert Frost.”
“That’s only because JFK invited him to his inauguration. Ninety-nine per cent of poets don’t have a pot to pee in.”
“Allen Ginsberg does.”
“Ginsberg’s a mahu and a Columbia drop-out.”
“But he’s rich and famous.”
“Look, Kirby, I didn’t pay for you to come all this way to write poetry. You’ll end up digging ditches alongside your brother.”
“Troy works construction.”
Dadio pulled off his glasses. “Construction work in Waikiki means digging ditches. Don’t you know what’s under that asphalt?”
“Coral?”
“Water, and lots of it. I should know. I draw up all the contracts for the big hotels.”
“But Troy makes good money.”