“Morning,” I said. I nodded at Haoa, who gave me a cursory nod in return.
“It’s nice to have two of my boys back home,” my father said, emptying Haoa’s eggs onto a plate and passing it to him. The bacon was already draining on paper towels. I got up and poured orange juice for all three of us while my father scrambled my eggs. I wondered if he got up this way every morning, made himself a solitary breakfast while my mother slept in.
Haoa buried himself in the Advertiser, reading the sports section first. I scanned the front section, then the metro, looking for familiar names. And there they were, surprisingly anglicized, our real birth names, James and Howard Kanapa‘aka, though fortunately the two articles, a page apart, had been written by different writers who hadn’t made the connection between us. My story was brief, a simple paragraph about an internal disciplinary action by the Honolulu Police Department. The only person quoted was Hiram Lin, the dried up prune, who said “No comment.” Right on, Hiram.
Haoa’s story was two paragraphs concerning a fight between several men in front of a Kuhio Avenue bar. The bar wasn’t named, and the whole gay-bashing context was missing. Haoa’s name was there, along with the names of two of his workmen, as well as Roberto Robles and two other men I assumed were the leather boys who intervened. I wanted to seek them out and congratulate them. Instead I casually mentioned, “You made the paper this morning, Haoa,” and passed the section to him.
Our father looked at me, then at Haoa, but didn’t say anything. We both finished eating at about the same time. He got up and took his plate to the sink, ignoring mine. As he turned the water on to rinse it, I stood up and carried mine to the sink as well.
He positioned himself to block me and I tried to slip through, but he hip-checked me. I pushed him to the side and put my dish down in the sink. He pushed me back.
“Don’t push me.” I slapped his chest with the palm of my hand.
“It’s your fault. All this trouble.” He pushed hard against me with both hands.
“Haoa! Kimo! Stop this right now!” our father said, and we backed away from each other, sullenly.
“Spoiled baby,” Haoa said. “Dragging everybody else into his problems.”
“You get drunk and beat up a poor helpless hairdresser and blame it on me,” I said. “Big brother. Great example.”
“I mean it,” our father said. “No more fighting.”
“You’re such a loser even your wife doesn’t want you around,” I said. “Have to run home to Mommy and Daddy.”
“You bastard,” he said, and he came at me, swinging.
I lunged at him. All my anger and fear and desperate sadness welled up in me with a terrible strength, and I remembered every time Haoa and Lui had picked on me as a kid, when I hadn’t been strong enough to fight back. Now he was forty and fat and even though he often did physical labor I was strong and I knew I could take him. I got in first with an uppercut to his chin that knocked his head back. He gave me a strong punch to the solar plexus that had me doubled over, and then we were all over each other, grunting and punching and trying to rip each other’s heads off.
“Boys! Stop! I’m ordering you!” It did no good. We were beyond paying attention to our father, each of us working out fights that were too strong for reason. Then he waded in to us, trying to separate us, and he was between us and we both hit him, and then realized what we had done, and fell back in horror.
“My god! What are you doing!”
The three of us turned at the same time to see our mother in the doorway of the kitchen in her bathrobe, her face aghast. I looked at my father. His glasses hung from one temple, and he looked disoriented. I had opened the wound on Haoa’s forehead again and blood dripped down the side of his cheek. My own jaw ached and I felt like Haoa might have cracked one of my ribs.
“Go to your rooms,” my mother said to us. She hurried over and sat my father down on his stool “Go on. I’ll talk to you later.”
Sheepishly we walked up the stairs to our rooms, Haoa leading. I had the urge, which I repressed, to kick him in the ass. We were in enough trouble already.
I took a shower and got dressed. In the mirror I could see the beginning of a black eye. Great visual for the TV cameras, I thought grimly.
My father knocked on my bedroom door a little later. He’d repaired his glasses, and had a small red dot of mercurochrome on his right cheekbone, but he’d regained his composure. “I’m sorry, Dad,” I said, looking down at the floor. “I shouldn’t have gotten into it with Haoa.”
“I thought I could avoid the problems,” my father said. “I’d make breakfast for my boys, just like when you were little. And everything would be fine again.” He shook his head. “I forgot what it was like to have three boys in the house. You were always fighting with each other.”
“But we’re grown-ups now,” I said. “And I’m a cop. My job is to stop this kind of thing. You don’t know the number of houses I’ve come into where there’s been fighting, and somebody’s hurt, or worse, dead. I ought to know better.”
“These are difficult times, and we only have each other. I’d like you to apologize to your brother.”
“Me! He started it.”
He had only to look at me. “All right. If he’ll apologize too.” He looked at me again and I followed him downstairs.
I took a small amount of pleasure in seeing that Haoa looked worse than I did. Of course it was his second fight in twelve hours.
Our parents sat on the sofa and Haoa and I sat in big wing chairs across from each other. No one spoke. I looked at my parents. They had made the first move in coming to get me, to bring me home. I owed it to them to make the first move with my brother. “I’m sorry for what has happened,” I said to him. “I can’t change who I am, but if I could, I’d go back and change the way you all found out. You’re my brother, and no matter what you think of me, or what you do, I’ll always love you.”
Our mother smiled. We all looked to Haoa. Finally he said, “I have a bad temper. I know it’s my biggest failing-Tatiana tells me that all the time. I shouldn’t have fought with you, and I shouldn’t have gotten into the fight yesterday. I’m sorry.”
“Good,” my mother said. “Now we can go on. Kimo, you can call someone about this business yesterday? Maybe the charges against Haoa can be dropped.”
“What?”
“We’re family, Kimo. We have to look out for each other. You’ll do what you can?”
“I will not do anything. In the first place, I don’t exactly have a lot of friends on the police force right now, as you might imagine. And second, as a police officer I’m bound to uphold the law, not flout it. Haoa knows he was wrong. Let him admit it and take his punishment.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Haoa asked me. “This is all your fault. You made me do what I did.”
“Yeah, right, I stood there and forced you to hit Uncle Tico.”
“No arguing,” our mother said. “Kimo, will you do this for me?”
I shook my head. “You don’t understand. I can’t. If Haoa gets away with this, then next week someone else will stand outside that bar and wait for someone to come out. And one day it might be me coming out of there, and some other guy there waiting to hurt me, or kill me.”
“It’s always about you,” Haoa said.
“Yes it is.” I turned to him. “These are my troubles, and you only make them worse because you can’t control your stupid impulses. Tatiana was right to throw your ass in the street. I hope she never takes you back.”
“Kimo!” my mother said.
I stood up. “I’ve got to get out of here. I’m going to the hospital to see Tico. Maybe I can apologize to him for having an asshole brother. I’m not doing any good here.” I looked at my father. “Can I borrow your truck?”
“The keys are by the front door,” he said.
“Little faggot wants to run away,” Haoa said under his breath.