Diamond Head (9 page)

Frank insisted that we all speak English, even at home, with the exception of when Chinese was needed for business or market dealings. Hong and I complied; we complained but I think we enjoyed it. It was the first time we were both speaking a language not native to our tongues. It felt fair, leveling our abilities. In a new place, a foreign land, I supposed that I owed her at least that. But during that first year she surprised me. It was I who grumbled about the strangeness of islanders while Hong recited her English verbs, as she wove hala leaves into baskets for ripening her mangoes and lilikoi. Even Frank became Frank that year, shedding his Chinese name for something more American.

Bohai turned six in the spring and Frank and I bought him a bicycle. It was Frank’s idea, encouraged by Bohai’s progress in the water. We chose a red bike that we hoped would be lucky. We said it would stir fire within him. That day we took home the most expensive bicycle in the store, tied a gold bow on the handlebars, and left it in his room while he attended school. When Bohai returned home that afternoon, Frank was in his study. At first I thought to get him, wanting to present our gift together. But then I decided against it. I remembered that what I told my husband each day was a lie. Bohai was the same boy he’d always been, and I had a feeling I knew how my son would react to his birthday gift.

Indeed, Bohai walked into his room and stiffened. He moved
slowly to the bike and touched it with a single finger. Turning to face me, he said
thank you
and stepped carefully around his present to get to his desk. He appeared somehow frightened by it, somehow threatened by its presence. For three days, the bow stayed on the handlebars until I removed it myself.

It’s difficult to say if we made progress that year. I grew so tired of forcing my son to do things he did not enjoy, and then lying to his father, claiming that he had. It was an exhausting game, and at the end, Bohai remained unchanged. Settled in the house, I knew even Frank was wise to us. I feared the old silence creeping back up; I dreaded its arrival, could feel its threat to our new home.

But then a miracle happened.

One morning in the middle of November, I woke up with a terrible nausea. I walked slowly to the bathroom, to find the herbs Hong used to cure my headaches. As I walked down the corridor, I felt a familiar faintness in the side of my head, clutching it as I stumbled onto the cool tiled floor. Opening the cabinet and looking at the small medicine jars, I felt my stomach churn and rise. I doubled over and vomited in the basin below me, my hands gripping the sides, my open mouth trembling. I knew this feeling—I had been through this before, but I could not believe it was happening again. I shrieked into the basin, my heartbeat pounding in my eyes, and I knew it was a boy. I just
knew
. My nights with Frank, they’d been different in Hawaii, his appetite for me ravenous and new. He barely took the time to undress me now, unable to wait, capturing me as I stepped out of my morning shower, calling me into his study, shutting the door, taking great pleasure in enjoying me in his new home, whenever he could. In Guangdong, I used to worry about Frank and his desires. I feared a second concubine, another woman, but in Hawaii, those thoughts vanished. It was impossible; no man, even one as potent as my husband, could juggle such a full act. And the way he touched me, the way he left my body raw and electric, there was no doubt in my mind that it was a boy growing within me.

Kaipo was born the next summer, our second summer on the island. No one would say it at the time, no one dared speak the words for fear of upsetting Bohai, but it was undeniable to anyone who knew my family. Kaipo was the first legitimate Leong son, the only male to come from my womb, the child my husband feared might never arrive. I gave birth in a hospital for the first time, and when the doctor revealed it was a healthy baby boy, I wept and wept, overcome with delight that I was able to give Frank what he had wanted for almost two decades. That I could, in some way, begin to prove myself worthy of this man, of the life he had chosen to share with me.

From the age that he could walk, my husband took Kaipo everywhere he went. They drove to the harbor together almost every day, and then, when Kaipo began school, every afternoon and on the weekends.

It came as no surprise that my husband’s attention shifted from Bohai to Kaipo, but oddly enough, the arrival of Kaipo also brought balance. Kaipo’s presence seemed to ease Frank’s anxiety about Bohai. My husband had two sons now, and he seemed no longer troubled by Bohai’s strangeness. In truth, Bohai’s simple needs were a relief, as Kaipo grew spoiled and threw tantrums, demanding expensive toys, then motor scooters, then fast boats and ridiculous cars. On the rare occasion that he did speak, Bohai was always the voice of reason. By the time they were teenagers, I was certain that my husband felt blessed by his fortune. Kaipo was his heir and Bohai his steady hand. Kaipo was the face of the new generation and Bohai the insurance.

As the boys grew up, they developed a curious relationship, one that I could have never predicted. Bohai, nineteen and painfully shy, as tall as his father but thinner than a matchstick, would take the advice of his twelve-year-old brother. I once walked in on them in the bathroom, Kaipo running a comb under the faucet, preparing to give his brother
a haircut like Richard Dix.
I had to give them credit, Bohai’s hairline was always a decade older than his age, but at nineteen it was
very similar to the movie star’s, receding at the part, slightly wavy. I insisted that we go to a proper barber and the boys agreed. Kaipo presided over the haircut, instructing the barber to use more wax, to allow the hair to dip at the front, to comb the sides tighter to his brother’s head. The ladies, he told Bohai, were going to love it; he would have a girlfriend in no time.

But of course, Bohai did not attract a girlfriend with his new hair. The kids at school teased him, not to his face but to Kaipo’s. They called him Old Man Oil Slick, asking Kaipo if he was actually related to his brother. Kaipo punched a classmate that day; the principal at Punahou called the house to explain that while Kaipo had been provoked, it was policy that he be sent home. It was that afternoon, alone with a fuming Kaipo, that I learned how cruel the kids were to Bohai. How protective Kaipo felt of his brother. When Bohai returned from school, he wouldn’t talk about it, not to me or to Kaipo. He simply washed the wax from his hair and combed it back the way it had been. Kaipo actually apologized for embarrassing him, for leading him astray, but Bohai didn’t seem upset. It’s not your fault, he told his brother.

Still, Bohai kept his distance. Frank and Kaipo oversaw my husband’s shipments. They spent most of their time at the harbor, directing deliveries and inspecting the condition of the boats as they docked after a long journey. Occasionally, Frank would ask Bohai to join them, but he never would. He preferred to stay in the study, where Frank and Kaipo would hand him thick stacks of paperwork that he would read and organize and file. I think Bohai was happy with this arrangement; I really do. I think he felt relieved by Kaipo’s presence. He was no longer the single heir to my husband’s dynasty, the only one left to carry his name. Quietly, it seemed that Bohai had resigned from his position as first son. He continued to carry out the family duties; he did plenty for us, he worked all the time, but without any of the spotlight he deserved, any of the attention he hated so much.

In a way, it broke my heart, watching the two of them. Kaipo was exactly like Frank, a mirror image; they were effortlessly charming, liked by everyone. People talked about Bohai; in private, they asked each other what was wrong with him. There was a quiet strength in Bohai that was constantly overlooked, always eclipsed by his brother’s bravado. I never knew how to talk to Bohai about it, and when I finally made my attempt, it only seemed to bother me. I rambled for twenty minutes about how difficult it must be, how unfair, and when I asked for his thoughts, Bohai simply shrugged.

We’re different.
That was his answer; that was all he said.

When Bohai was twenty-four, it occurred to me that my son could be homosexual—that his strange affliction stemmed from an unnatural desire within. It came to me in a dream, a nightmare. Like in scenes from a movie, I saw Bohai living a double life, happy with a man like him, understood at last in a way we never could. I watched them read books and go on walks and every so often their hands would touch, their fingers would meet and intertwine. It wasn’t until I awoke that I realized what I had seen. I sat there wide-eyed and flustered, caught between recalling the images and denying them entirely. Immediately, I left the bedroom, afraid that Frank would hear my thoughts. I feared him waking to my face and sensing Bohai’s queerness beneath my discomfort. It felt so real; I needed to leave before I gave something away.

Was it possible? I had no idea. I didn’t know the first thing about men with such issues. I’d have to ask, but I was certain I never would. I wasn’t sure what outcome bothered me most. Either Bohai would confirm my suspicions, and I would be forced to carry the weight of his confession, or he would reject it, and I would be back to where I began, still searching for what plagued my adult son. The thought of either option only added to my anxiety, so I chose to do nothing. I confided nothing in Hong, who had a firm take on my son’s personality.
Let him be
, she’d said to me time and time again. From when Bohai was a little boy, Hong believed in the beauty of Bohai’s nature,
that a good man finds his way. She scolded Kaipo regularly, raising her voice, questioning his whereabouts well into his twenties—but with Bohai, Hong kept quiet, raising her voice only to defend him to me. Hong wanted something better for Bohai, which irritated me throughout the years, jabbed at something sensitive, because beneath her words I heard how happy his life might be without the chains of his family, without the burden of us.

Later that month, when I’d almost erased the images, when my memory of the dream had become hazy and distorted, Kaipo brought his new girlfriend home for dinner. Her name was Nanami and she was a Japanese girl, small and doll-like with narrow wrists and wide eyes; she gave a light, quiet laugh after Kaipo said practically anything. At great expense, we had sushi brought to the house that night. It was Kaipo’s idea. He wanted to show Nanami how easily he could eat with chopsticks, how he had learned the Japanese names for yellowtail and mackerel and sea urchin.

I felt the dinner was going especially well. Frank was enjoying the fish and the sake and Kaipo was putting on a lively show, acting like an announcer as he called playful attention to Nanami’s perfect technique.

“She studied at the royal academy of sushi,” he told us, as Nanami extended her black lacquered chopsticks to a piece of fleshy salmon. She lifted it from the center with the narrow tips of her instrument, dipped it gently into the soy, and placed it on her tongue. She smiled, close mouthed, and it appeared as if the sushi had vanished.

“It’s spectacular,” Kaipo whistled, putting down his own chopsticks. “I can’t eat any more. I feel unworthy. You deserve the rest.”

Nanami laughed and so did I. Bohai ate slowly, selecting one piece at a time, chewing each mouthful much longer than necessary. Then, from across the room, the phone rang and Bohai jumped. His saucer of soy sauce shook and spilled onto the tablecloth.

“It’s for me,” Bohai said abruptly. He pushed himself from his chair and walked swiftly from the dining room. As the table grew silent around me, I realized it was the first thing he had said all evening.

Bohai never received phone calls, and he especially never received phone calls on Friday nights. Something was wrong. I needed to know who was on the other end of that phone and I was certain, absolutely convinced that it was a man. At once his face returned to me, his hands, his fingers.

“Excuse me,” I apologized to Nanami, rising. “I just remembered. I need to give Bohai something for his phone call.” I could tell from Frank’s expression that he found my explanation odd, but he held his tongue.

“Oh, please, go ahead,” Nanami replied, and I left as quickly as Bohai had.

In the next room, I picked up the phone as softly as I could. I held it to my ear, air stale in my lungs, and heard a dial tone. It had only been a minute, maybe less since the phone had rung. How was he already finished? I put the phone down and, without any plan, I went searching for my son.

On the second floor, next to Bohai’s bedroom at the end of the hall, I saw that the bathroom light was on, the door slightly ajar. I walked on my toes, advancing toward the pillar of light, listening for sounds within. I heard water, running steadily, echoing inside the small room. I pressed my back against the hallway wall and peered through the opening. My son was slumped over the sink, splashing faucet water against his face, muttering to himself and spitting into the basin.

Get a hold of yourself
, he said softly, shaking his head into the sink. It was so quiet over the running faucet that I almost missed it.
What’s wrong with you?
he asked himself, collecting a handful of water and throwing it against his face. He kneaded his fingers deep into his skin. His mouth was open; liquid dripped down the sides. With his eyes closed he breathed deeply. He sucked in water and expelled it violently, shooting it through his lips like a whale’s spout.

His desperation startled me. He asked the question like there was something terribly perverse about what he was feeling. He spoke to himself without an ounce of hope, without a trace of understanding.
I couldn’t help myself. My legs started moving; I walked through the door.

“It’s okay,” I said, placing a hand on his back. Bohai jolted upward. Water spilled down his face, soaking the front of his shirt.

“What? What are you doing here?” he stammered.

“It’s okay,” I coaxed. “Whatever it is, just tell me. I want to know, whatever it is.”

“Nothing,” he said, stepping away from me. “What are you talking about?” He reached for a towel to dry his face.