gone, at least for this minute.
Sniffling interrupts the tranquility.
It’s my mom. She’s behind me. She says, “I heard the buzzing, Rani.”
The wooden deck planks creak as she takes a step closer. Then I feel her rough fingers running down the back of my head. I don’t turn around. Or move.
“Betta, why?” she asks in a heavy Gujju accent. The concern in her voice is unsettling. I haven’t heard that before.
Really? I had to shave my head for you to notice me?
She walks around me, inspects me as if I’m a statue. “Widows are forced to shave their heads in India,” she mumbles. She crosses her arms and pauses, ruminating. Then she laments, “Vidhwa ne kussee kimut na hoi. Thuu vidhwa nathee.”
Yeah, Mom, I feel just like a worthless widow. A kimut-less vidhwa.
I picture myself in a thin, white cotton sari. It’s draped over my bald head. I’m standing close to a scorching funeral pyre. Like countless other widows in India, I’m ready to fling myself into the conflagration. For a second, the sati is almost real. I feel my skin burning. I flinch and my hand immediately checks.
Skin cool and intact. No burn.
Just a mental scorch.
Mom asks again, “Betta, why?”
Finally I whisper, “It was this or banging my head.”
She collapses on the teak-slatted chair. Her face is frozen in suffering: Picasso’s Weeping Woman.
Then she pulls herself together. “Betta, I didn’t know what else to do,” she says. She gets up from the chair and approaches me. “Sunil dada taught me that husband is God, so husband’s word is law.”
I look the other way. Is she talking about the same Sunil dada, my grandfather, who lives in Nairobi, the one who encouraged me to pursue a career and not get married?
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Mom,” I say after a while, “Dad’s so busted. It’s Wendy Nagaoki. I saw them together at Kanemitsu’s.” I move to the edge of the deck and lean against the railing. Looking up at the moon, it hits me again.
Dad’s gone and I don’t have anyone. I turn to face Mom. “Look, I didn’t know what else to do either. But I figured shaving my head was a good start.”
Mom breaks down and falls into the chair again. Her head’s in her hands as she rocks back and forth. She sobs, “I wish I was dead, I wish I was dead.”
I’m not saving you this time. It’s your turn to save me. Only I know you won’t.
“Rani, whoa!”
I don’t hear Mark’s voice or the sound of his heavy work boots striking the rickety, wooden steps.
It’s a slow Sunday morning at Maunaloa General Store. No customers means I get time to sit on the front porch. It’s in bad shape, like the entire store building. Hardly matters, the porch is many things to many people. A town hall for some. A living room for many. A studio for others, allowing for spur-of-the-moment ukulele and percussion jam sessions. For me, it’s my clandestine lyrical lab. The place where I write my best rap.
Today I’m writing something different, something to write away my sadness and my worries. Hunched over my notebook, I’m lost in the words.
Mark taps my shoulder. I push my glasses further along my nose and look up. My eyes refocus. I see his baby blues fixated on my head. Uhh. Immediately I’m under the spell of his hotness.
He raises one eyebrow and gives me a closed mouth smile. Then he nods and says, “You look fierce, girl.”
Only I don’t take in what he’s saying because I’ve been cast into some kind of dreamlike state. And I can’t hear. All I can do is stare at his heavenly face.
Ahhh, Mark. Mark Thoren.
I’ve known him for a couple of years from the store. He’s by far my favorite customer. Even when he comes in dirty, sweaty, and shirtless. Especially when he comes in dirty, sweaty, and shirtless. He’s a groundskeeper for Moloka’i Ranch. His last name says it all. He’s strikingly handsome and built. Exactly how the god of thunder should be. His surname, blond hair, ocean eyes, square jaw, and height—about 6’2”—make me think he’s Swedish. His body is cut, like Tupac, only white. He looks like he’s in his late twenties. When I’m working the register, he’s always friendly, asking me about school and stuff. I get butterflies every time I see him, which is practically every afternoon. But all of this is strictly on the down low.
“Rani?”
“Huh?”
“Girl, you’re fierce.” He whistles in approval.
Embarrassed, I remember that I’m bald. I touch my scalp. “Oh. This. Thanks. It’s kind of crazy, right?”
“No way. You look fine.” He squints his eyes and bites the side of his lower lip. It’s like he’s gawking at a table of chafing dishes overflowing with kalua pig, lau lau, lomi lomi salmon, poi, and chicken long rice. And he wants to gobble it up ASAP.
I feel myself shrinking at the hungry look on his face and the generous words he spoke. Fine is not an adjective anyone has ever used to describe me. I’m not even that good-looking with a normal head of hair. He probably thinks it’s a rebellious teen angst thing. And pity compelled him to give me some feel-good comments.
“I wouldn’t say that,” I mumble.
My favorite customer sits down on the bench opposite me. Hmm. To what do I owe this privilege? I have nothing to offer Mr. Thunder God. And he’s never sat on the porch with me before. Usually he buys his packs—Salem Lights and Bud Light—and chit-chats a bit while I’m ringing him up. Then he leaves, with my eyes searing through his jeans as he exits. Little does he know he’s the sole reason I look forward to work. I’ve even fantasized about delivering groceries to his light blue plantation house near Maunaloa Elementary School.
I knock on his door. He opens it, shirtless of course, but this time smelling of Drakkar Noir. Leaning against the door frame, he asks me in. I set the grocery bag on the kitchen counter. An orange rolls out then falls to the floor. I bend down to pick it up…
“What’re you working on?” he asks, his incredible eyes perfectly matching the Pacific behind his head in the distance.
I hesitate. No one knows that I write.
Actually, no one knows much about me. Anonymity suits me just fine. I realize that’s about to change because Mark’s sexy smile drags the words out. “A poem, a slam poem,” I say, uncrossing my legs and pulling my jean shorts down a little. I close my notebook and lay it flat on my lap. I’m sweating. I don’t want to let go of any more secrets.
“Sorry,
