“We dodged another bullet, yeah,” Samuel said, handing him a beer from behind the koa counter.

Koji nodded. “Lucky this time.”

“Now let’s hope the boys arrive soon,” Nori added.

Koji heard the worry in her words. The room hummed as voices rose with relief and laughter. Before Koji could respond, he turned toward the whine of the screen door opening and watched as Daniel stepped into the market just ahead of Wilson and Mano, the three of them talking and joking like boys again. Wasn’t Koji once that young and full of spirit? Nori and the aunties were the first to pull him into their hugs. Koji stepped back to steady himself when a smiling Daniel turned his way. It was her smile, just a glimpse, but enough that he felt the warm rush of the past return to him.

8. In the Quiet

8

In the Quiet

It was late by the time Daniel returned home from the market. He stepped inside the green bungalow for the first time in more than two years, closed the door, and stood a moment in the quiet of the darkened room. In the air warm as breath, the slight scent of his mother’s perfume lingered, or so he imagined. Before his mother died, she told him to scatter her ashes in the wind from Pilani Point. “Finally get to see the world, yeah,” she’d said. She smiled and Daniel could only nod his head, his throat so dry he could hardly speak. Tonight she was the only one missing at the party, the only one who would forgive all his mistakes. When Daniel switched on the light to see the spare and comfortable living room, a small part of him still hoped his mother would be standing there waiting for him.

All night at the party, laughter and words had flowed with the ease of music. Seeing his Hilo family again, Daniel realized just how much he had missed them. He was happily slapped on the back and pulled into tight hugs by the locals as the room suddenly vibrated with their energy, Mauna Loa momentarily forgotten. Daniel knew every inch of the market, having crawled as a baby across the wood plank floor of the vast room, racing along in diapers with Mano. Born weeks apart, they were as close as twins growing up. Here he was, surrounded by the Hilo aunties and Uncle Koji, so unlike the cold or curious stares directed his way in Chicago, where he hated the whispers, the occasional remarks that followed him as he walked down Michigan Avenue or Rush or Division Streets, “Slanty Eyes,” or “Chop Suey Louie,” or “Ching Chong Chinaman go home.” His blood boiling, gut pulling, he had pushed past the insults and kept going.

No use in causing trouble.