Margot Early - Mr. Family

There was a silence, like a punctuation mark. Then, “Hello. This is Kal Johnson calling. Is Erika there?”

She sank down on the steps of the companionway. With a slight breeze from the open hatches blowing her oversize T-shirt against her back, she clutched the receiver. His voice was low and resonant. Masculine. Unique.

God help her.

Sexy.

“This is Erika.” She was in a vacuum and her insides were being sucked out of her. She heard the engine of a cabin cruiser crawling past in the harbor, and a slow wake rocked the junk at its berth.

“I’m not sure if you know who I am, but—”

“I know who you are. You’re Kalahiki.”

Across the Pacific, in the sun-dappled morning shadows inside the bungalow, Kal heard her say his name for the first time. At the same moment he saw Hiialo outside beating Pincushion against the porch. “Bad Pincushion! Bad! No talk stink!”

What had Pincushion said?

“I thought we should talk on the phone.” Brilliant, brilliant, keep it up, Kal.

Erika bit her lip. There was a bellows stuck in her throat, and it was opening and closing with each beat of her heart. Talk, she thought. Say something that will make him …

Oh, she wanted it. They could settle into permanencepermanent celibacy, permanent family—and her life would not change again. Safe.

“Your daughter’s beautiful.” The ensuing pause was so long that at last she asked, “Are you still there?”

“Yeah. I…Erika…”

Silence surrounded her name. Silence…and feeling. It was so dark in the galley she didn’t know why her eyes burned that way, why she felt so—

“I just wanted to tell you some things,” he said. “I’ve thought a lot since I got your letter. Are you serious about this?”

Erika swallowed. This. As though he couldn’t say it himself.

“Yes.”

“My house is small. It’s a bungalow. I could fix it so we’d have our own rooms, but it’s still cozy. It’s not right on the beach, either. Close, though.”

Erika tightened her fingers on the phone. Was he saying he wanted her to come?

“I don’t make a lot of money. I’m buying the house from my folks. They have a gallery, by the way. Actually they have three. I went into the one in Hanalei and looked for your prints. They have some.”

Parents. Did his parents live near him? The thought was reassuring. Mr. Family.

She asked, “What’s the name of their gallery?”

“The Okika. It means ‘orchid.’”

His voice was both warm and sandpaper rough. It made her want to hear him talk more.

But he was quiet.

Erika asked, “What does Hiialo do while you work?”

“Um…she goes to a day-care center.” Actually, she’d been to a few. One in a church basement with forty other kids. One with an elderly woman who had made the mistake of saying Hiialo needed a firm hand. The latest situation was a home with an unhappy dog tied up outside.

“My nephew used to be with me while I worked, when he was Hiialo’s age.” As soon as she’d said it, Erika wished she hadn’t. She sounded too eager. Desperate.

But an opportunity like this wouldn’t come again. Normal people wanted sex. Kal and his grief were her only hope.

“Hiialo is…” His voice startled her. “Well, she’s moody. In fact, she can be a bugger sometimes.”

“All kids can.” The dock made its endless aching cries.

“I’d like to…” On the lanai, Hiialo was making Pincushion and her stuffed lion, Purr, shake hands. Kal remembered proposing to Maka. At Waimea Beach. Kissing. I love you …“You could come over here,” he said. “I’ll buy your ticket. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll buy you a ticket home, too.”

“I’ll buy my own ticket.” Somehow. Her hand was deep in her hair, tearing at it. She felt like crying. What if he didn’t like her? What if he didn’t think she’d be a good stepmother for Hiialo? What if…“When do you want me to come?”

“Not right away. I have to figure out some things. About the house.” About how to tell his parents.

How to tell Hiialo.

“I’ll call you again, yeah?” he said. “And I’ll send pictures of the house. Maybe you could come in June?”

“That sounds great. I’m boat-sitting for my brother’s business partner. He’ll be back in June.” Oh, she sounded flaky. Practically homeless.

“Good,” said Kal.

Her worries evaporated. She was wanted—by a stranger. Why was he doing this?

He said, “Let’s get off the phone for now. I’ll call you again soon. Do you have any questions before we hang up?”

“Yes.” With a presence of mind that astonished her, she asked, “What’s your phone number?”

Moments later she set the receiver back in its cradle. Still sitting weakly on the steps, she leaned against the side of the counter and wept.

“DADDY, PINCUSHION’S stuffing is falling out.” As Kal hung up the phone, Hiialo appeared before him, bringing everything into immediate and demanding focus.

“You beat the stuffing out of him. That’s why it’s falling out.”

Hiialo started to look tearful, and Kal reached for Pincushion, who was made from a faded gray-blue sock and wore a turban. In addition to a split seam on the side, one of his felt eyes was coming off. Repair time.

“I’ll fix him.” Sewing up Pincushion would calm him.

A picture bride. Danny’s analogy was accurate, and since the night he’d said it, Kal had stumbled upon two accounts of Japanese picture brides from the turn of the century. One was in the newspaper, the other in a book sold in the office of Na Pali Sea Adventures. And he’d remembered that his parents’ next-door neighbor, June Akana, who had taught Japanese bon dances to him and his sister and brothers when they were kids, had been a picture bride, too. She and her husband were in their nineties, still going strong. Best friends. People could be happy.

But the picture brides of old hadn’t come to Hawaii for celibate marriage.

Oh, shit, what were his friends going to say? They all knew what he’d advertised for. He’d told them why, because of Hiialo, because he was never home and she needed someone who could be. He needed someone who would be. He killed a useless yearning. Not for love—for life. His own.

The Stratocaster in his hands. Playing…

But he was doing this for Hiialo.

“You’ll be all right, Pincushion,” said Hiialo, patting the toy in Kal’s hand. She trailed after him as he went to the kitchen drawer where he kept needles, thread, extra guitar picks, junk. The scissors were missing, as usual.

“Hiialo, I need your scissors. Could you please get them for me?”

“Yes, Daddy. Thank you for fixing Pincushion.” She went over to the couch and looked underneath it, then went to her room to find the scissors.

Sunshine. Hiialo was like sunshine now, but she was changeable as the north-shore weather. And sometimes as wild.

Would Erika Blade, a thirty-six-year-old childless woman, really be able to handle it?

Dear Erika,

I’m glad you’re coming to Hawaii. I’ll try to call you once a week. Here are the pictures I promised you of my house. You can see what Hiialo looks like now. She is holding Pincushion, who is her favorite toy…

I mentioned my family on the phone. My folks live in Haena, and my sister, Niau, lives in Poipu, on the south side of the island. My brother Leo…

MIDAFTERNOON sunlight shone through the open hatch and the windows of the Lien Hua. Lying in her berth, Erika read Kal’s second letter and studied the photographs he’d sent. At four, Hiialo was sturdy, with thick, wavy, medium brown hair cut in a pageboy. Even in the photograph, in which she was crouched on the lanai of the green bungalow with the thing called Pincushion, she seemed full of energy, ready to leap to her feet and race away. Not like Chris…