Moloka'i (42 page)

“You don’t flinch. That’s good. Most patients, even though they can’t feel anything, they flinch a little when they see the scalpel coming.”

“I’ve gone through this often enough,” Rachel sighed, “with Dr. McArthur and Dr. Goodhue.” After the latter’s retirement it seemed as though there were a constant rotation of doctors through Kalaupapa, either lacking Goodhue’s commitment to the settlement or, frustrated by the old Board of Health, walking away in disgust.

Luckie glanced at her chart. “So I see. This is your . . . fourth snip this year? All negative.” He swabbed her earlobe with alcohol, then moved on to her right hand. “Two more after this, you know, and you’re eligible for temporary release.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “You know how many time I’ve gotten my hopes up, only to have the rug pulled out from under? I swear the damn bug is in there laughing at me.”

“Speaking as a physician, I can assure you that
bacilli leprae
rarely laugh. They don’t have much in the way of a sense of humor.”

Rachel said, “Fourteen.”

Luckie tapped the shavings onto a slide. “Pardon me?”

“That’s how many patients got T.R. last year. Fourteen out of six hundred! Lousy odds.”

“If that’s how you feel, why even bother with this?”

“I only do it because my husband wants me to.” This was not strictly true but she was feeling obstinate today.

“Yes, he’s next. He’s had two negatives in a row, I believe.” Luckie labeled the last slide. “Well, that’s it. I’ll have the results in a day or two.”

“Take your time,” Rachel said lightly, as if she didn’t care. She waited as Kenji had his snips taken; then as they walked back home together he asked, “What would you do if we tested negative all six times?”

“Buy a house in Honolulu. With our winnings from the Irish Sweepstakes.”

“Seriously, what if we did?”

“It’s called
temporary
release,” she reminded him. “We’d still have to get tested every two months, and the first time we went positive again—”

“I know. But even just two months of freedom . . . what would you do?”

Rachel conceded, “I . . . guess I’d try to find Mama, if she’s alive. And Sarah and my brothers.” After a moment she added quietly, “And I’d like to see her. Just once.”

Kenji knew that by “her” Rachel did not mean her mother or her sister. He took her hand in his.

The next day, when Dr. Luckie confirmed that both their snips had been negative, Rachel just nodded and thanked him, a bit tersely; and when Kenji expressed excitement at their prospects she dismissed it with a short, “Don’t count your chickens before they’re snipped,” which didn’t make much sense but he understood nonetheless.

She said much the same thing two months later, when Kenji’s fourth snip and Rachel’s fifth again tested negative—but secretly she found herself dreaming of Honolulu, and cursed the bug for doing it again, for getting her hopes up one more time.

W

ith the long-overdue arrival of electricity in their homes, Kalaupapans embraced American domestic engineering with a vengeance. Now Steamer Day became more than just the day the mail arrived and the groceries were delivered. Steamer Day was standing on the shore waiting for the new Frigidaire you’d ordered, the excitement of seeing the big carton with your name on it, the pride of showing it off to your neighbors. It was getting your first Philco so you could listen to the Army-Navy football games on KGU, or music broadcast live from the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, or
Lum ’n’ Abner
. It was vacuum cleaners and phonographs and waffle irons and toasters and even cocktail shakers . . . all the little luxuries and indulgences that helped make life at Kalaupapa seem a bit more normal.

(And when, after the repeal of Prohibition, Governor Judd quietly rescinded the settlement’s long-standing ban on beer, Steamer Day also meant Schlitz and Pabst and Anheuser and Blatz.)

For Rachel and Kenji, this particular Steamer Day meant the arrival of a brand-new short-wave radio, which promised contact with the far corners of the earth: station XEWW from Mexico City, ZRL of Capetown, South Africa, PLP from Bandoeng in Java, XGOY all the way from Chungking, China—they would even receive a signal from the distant shores of Ankara, Turkey!

There was human cargo aboard the SS
Hawaii
as well, and these new arrivals to Kalaupapa were welcomed with a
l
'au
of splendid proportions. Like everyone who had ever come from Kalihi these exiles arrived believing that banishment to Moloka'i was tantamount to a death sentence, only to find themselves feasting on roast pork and fresh
poi
and
haupia
pudding, surrounded by music and laughter, looking confused but relieved.

One of the newcomers, a young man in his twenties named David Kamakau, soon found a fast friend in Kenji. Both had attended St. Louis College, though twenty years apart. David had gone on to the sort of career which for Kenji had been stillborn, as a loan officer at the Bishop Bank. The first time Kenji and Rachel had him over for dinner he and Kenji talked long into the night, principally about economics and the current downturn:

“It’s a normal cyclic decline,” David maintained. “Stocks bottom out but open up possibilities for investments and profits; unsound companies are weeded out.”

Kenji, who followed world events via several newspaper subscriptions, didn’t agree. “Even before the stock market crashed the banking system was a house of cards, it’s a wonder it didn’t collapse before this . . .”

“There are rumors this man Roosevelt plans to take us off the gold standard—”

“We’re already off it, it’s just not official!”

Rachel was able to follow, if not contribute much, to the discussion so far, but as terms like
multilateralism
and
hyperinflation
began flying over her head she felt herself taking on more and more the aspect of a floor lamp. Sensing her unease Kenji shifted the subject; but it wasn’t just economics that intimidated Rachel. The more they saw of David, the more Rachel realized she didn’t know: the philosophy of Santayana, the theories of Spengler, the writings of Jung and Freud. . . . For the first time she realized how inadequate her education at Kalaupapa had been; true, she was a voracious reader, but there was only so much one could teach oneself. Every time Kenji paused to explain something to her, the more ashamed she felt. Her genuine pleasure that her husband had found someone he could talk to on a certain level was quickly joined by jealousy that she was not that person.

She was careful to keep her feelings of frustration and inferiority from him; she couldn’t allow them to ruin his friendship with David. And Kenji certainly wasn’t remiss in his attentions to her—they still discussed books they’d just read, the poetry of Frost and Yeats, the novels of Somerset Maugham. But now she had knowledge of her lack of knowledge, and as the date of her next snip approached, a furtive, ugly thought began festering in her: what if she and Kenji
did
get temporary release? And what if, upon reentering the world at large, Kenji discovered that what bound them together had been exile, not love? That here in the smaller world of Kalaupapa they had more in common with each other than they did with anyone else, but once outside it, he would quickly see how little they truly shared?

She would wake in the middle of the night unable to think of anything else, telling herself that maybe she shouldn’t get the last test; maybe that way she could stay here, she could keep him. By the time the sun rose on a sleepless night she had talked herself into it, made her decision: she wouldn’t go for the sixth test.

Then in the light of dawn she would watch Kenji as he slept, his half-open eye stirring some depth of emotion in her; he would wake, smiling sleepily as he saw her, grazing a finger gently against her cheek as he wished her good morning; and Rachel’s plans vanished in a word and a smile. She couldn’t do that to him; he had lost so much. She would get tested, and if the result was negative—if Kenji’s next two tests were also negative—they would apply for temporary release. And if she found herself released from her marriage as well, then she would bear it as she had borne so much else in her life.

But oh, how much worse it would be than everything else!

I

t was a slow, rainy day at the store—Mack and Ehu didn’t even show up to argue over FDR’s latest accomplishments or transgressions—and Kenji was sitting in a wicker chair reading
The New York Times
when Dr. Luckie entered, shaking water from his coat.

“Quite the monsoon out there, eh Kenji?” he said.

Kenji looked up, nodded, but didn’t quite smile. It was not lost on him that he and Rachel had had their snips taken just the day before. “I like rainy days. They’re quiet. How are you, Doctor?”

“Wet, cold, and embarrassed.” Luckie peeled off his coat, sighed. “It probably won’t come as a surprise to you to learn that until recently, the medical department kept little in the way of case files on individual patients.”

Kenji stood up. “No, that doesn’t surprise me.”

“Before the new Board took over each physician was pretty much his own secretary—and most of them, frankly, were better physicians than they were secretaries. Anyway, the upshot is, things got lost. Excluding yesterday’s test, I’ve performed four ‘snips’ on you in the last year—all negative—but now I find that your last ‘snip’ under Dr. McArthur was also negative. That makes five.”

“Four plus one is five? Are you sure?”

Luckie laughed sheepishly. “Well you might ask. Clearly mathematics is not my strong suit. Well, the long and the short of it is, you and Rachel both had five negative snips going in to yesterday’s test.”

“And?”

“And,” Luckie said, “I’m afraid that Rachel has tested positive again.” He paused. “You, on the other hand, tested negative.”

Kenji just stared at him.

“What?” he said, uncertain of what he’d heard.

“Your snip was negative, Kenji. Your leprosy is biologically inactive. You’re eligible for T.R.”

Kenji could not, for the life of him, formulate a response. He was completely unprepared for this. Finally he said, “Temporary release?”—the words seeming to ring in his ears.

“Now, understand,” Luckie explained, “you’ll be free to leave Kalaupapa, but every two months you’ll have to report in for another snip, either here or in Honolulu. If you test positive again at any time you will be considered to have relapsed and will be readmitted to Kalaupapa.”

The reality of it was starting to sink in. Kenji asked, “What about Rachel?”

“She’ll continue to be tested here. And when she tests negative six times in a row, she’ll be eligible for T.R. and can join you.”

Kenji’s mouth was dry. “What if she doesn’t?”

Luckie didn’t answer.

Kenji had dreamed of this, had often tried to imagine how he might feel if this moment ever came; but never had he expected to feel merely numb.

“I can’t leave my wife,” he said.

Luckie spread his hands. “It’s not necessarily a permanent separation.”

“You don’t know that,” Kenji said sharply. “She’s my family, my
'ohana
. I’m her
'ohana
, the only one she has.”

“You can come back anytime, Kenji. See her whenever you want, as often and as long as you want.”

“A part-time marriage, you mean?”

“Surely,” Luckie said, “you have family back on O'ahu you’d like to see again?”

Kenji declared flatly, “Rachel is my only family.”

Luckie nodded. He may even have expected this.

“Well, we do have several parolees who’ve chosen to stay here at Kalaupapa,” he said. “Apply for T.R., stay here with your wife, and if you ever change your mind—”

“I won’t change my mind. I don’t need T.R. status. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention any of this to Rachel.” He picked up his paper again and sat down in his chair, signaling that the discussion was over.

“Yes, of course. Whatever you wish.” Luckie shrugged on his wet coat, gave Kenji a little nod of farewell, and hurried out into the rain again.

Kenji returned his attention to
The New York Times
.

At five o’clock he closed up, walked home, and saw Rachel, back from a day at Bishop Home, playing tug-of-war with H
ku and Setsu. He joined in for a while, then suggested they go inside. “I have bad news,” he told her as they entered the house. “Dr. Luckie stopped by the store. We tested positive.”