JoAnn Bassett - Islands of Aloha 07 - Moloka'i Lullaby Read online

  “Makes sense,” said Steve.

  “It makes no sense,” I moaned. “Who cares about stuff like that when it means we’d have to live in LA?”

  “Sweetie, think about who you’re talking to. If I hadn’t done my rainbow coalition flame-out on that bachelor reality show, I’d still be in LA. I loved living there.”

  “Well, I know I wouldn’t. When I had to go to the mainland for air marshal training I couldn’t wait to get back to Hawaii. I practically went blind studying so I could graduate at the top of the class. The top candidate got to pick their first assignment. If I’d been based in New York, or Chicago, or Miami, I’d have up and quit.”

  “Really?” He raised an eyebrow and shot me a sarcastic grin.

  “Keep your eyes on the road,” I said. “Okay, you’re right. I washed out after four months anyway.”

  “Precisely. If you think marriage is one big romp through fields of wildflowers, holding hands and warbling ‘The Hawaiian Wedding Song,’ then think again. It’s not; it’s hard work.”

  “When we get home I want to see your marriage counselor license,” I said. “I hardly think a social butterfly like you should be giving relationship advice.”

  “Look, Pali. We kid around a lot and we have fun. But now I’m being totally serious. I fought hard for gay marriage for different reasons than most of the other guys. For me, it wasn’t about equality as much as responsibility. I’d like to settle down and get married one day because I welcome the challenge. You gotta be willing to do the work.”

  “Are you saying I’m lazy?”

  “Not necessarily,” he said.

  “Immature?”

  “You own your own home and run a successful business. I’d call that pretty mature.”

  “Then what?”

  “Maybe you haven’t found a relationship you think is worth the work. Did you ever think of that?”

  ***

  Steve’s challenge rattled me. I did a couple of loads of laundry and paid some bills. After lunch, one of the neighbors came over to ask how Farrah was doing in Honolulu. I made us tea and we talked for a bit, but by three o’clock I was getting anxious to go down to Pa’ia and check out things at my shop.

  Because I’d be taking the next few months off, I didn’t have a lot going on at “Let’s Get Maui’d.” I had only two weddings scheduled for the next six months, so I’d need to think of ways to drum up new business once I got back from my honeymoon.

  My honeymoon. Obviously, if I was still thinking in terms of a honeymoon, then some part of my heart must also still be considering getting married.

  I drove down Baldwin Avenue at a leisurely pace. Usually I fly down the road; the passing landscape of trees, open spaces, and upcountry houses a mere flicker in my peripheral vision. But this trip I took my time and noticed everything with new eyes.

  When I got to Holy Rosary Catholic Church on the outskirts of town, I pulled into the parking lot. I hadn’t been raised Catholic, but I’d always loved that particular church, with its poignant statue of St. Damien, its tall steeple, and the jewel-like colors of the stained glass windows.

  To me, Holy Rosary looked like a church should look: solid and solemn. I didn’t go for modern mega-churches that looked like multiplex movie theaters, with electric guitars and surround-sound acoustics. I’d done some weddings in churches like that, and although they’re great for packing in hundreds of guests, I always felt that they while they had flawless secular complexions, they lacked spiritual muscle.

  I parked and walked over to the white stone statue of St. Damien. He was depicted lifting up a desperately sick man at his feet. When I was younger, I’d seen this statue and thought Father Damien must’ve been able to raise the dead; or at least he could fix what ailed you. I assumed he’d been sent to Moloka’i to make all the people there well again: his mere touch a cure. I’d imagined everyone had gone on to live happy, healthy lives.

  Now that I’d learned the real story, the statue took on new meaning. A nearby plumeria tree was in bloom and I scavenged a handful of blooms that had fallen on the ground and laid them at St. Damien’s feet.

  As I walked back to my car, a soft rain began to fall and I joined in. I wasn’t sure why I was crying. Was it for the cast-offs of Kalaupapa, who’d lived wretched lives and painful deaths? Or maybe I was crying for Richard, who’d tried to grab whatever joy and beauty he could while he was still able, only to be betrayed by the woman he loved. Perhaps I was thinking of Lono. While I understood his dread of going back to prison, I’d never understand his decision to hang himself rather than own up to his mistakes.

  I got in the car and felt an ache in my soul. I felt sad for all those people, no doubt. But my tears weren’t for them. They were, pathetically, for me.

  In the past five years, my job had allowed me to witness the kind of love everyone longs for. It was like working in a bakery, every day inhaling the tantalizing aroma of baking bread, but never being able to sneak a taste. More than anything I wanted to feel excited about getting married and starting a family. I was nearly thirty-six years old. Not only was my biological clock ticking; the alarm was darn close to going off. Why was I unwilling to meet Hatch halfway and move to the mainland for a few years? Was it really that big a deal? Maybe, as Steve had hinted, I was lazy—or self-centered. Or maybe, I was finally willing to own up to my own mistake.

  CHAPTER 27

  I parked in the alley behind my shop, happy to be back on familiar turf. I went in and looked around. Everything was as I’d left it, except for the pile of letters, flyers, and catalogs the mail carrier had pushed through the slot in the front door.

  I went next door to grab a sandwich for dinner from the Gadda da Vida since Steve had said he’d be going out that night. I had to brace myself to face the reality of Farrah’s absence. She’d been the one constant in my life since second grade. Not having her humming to herself back in the produce section, or staring at the tiny black and white TV under the front counter, seemed as disquieting as running my tongue along my gum line and finding I’d lost a tooth.

  Beatrice was minding the cash register. She was the ancient local woman who normally helped Farrah out at lunchtime or on the few occasions when Farrah was away. She was also “audibly-challenged,” which meant it was wise to keep conversation with her to the bare minimum.

  “Aloha, Bea,” I sang out as I came through the front door.

  “Aloha,” she trilled back. Greetings were never a problem, since we locals were taught since we were knee-high to never ask a question or begin a conversation without first saying “Aloha.”

  I went back to the refrigerated food case to rummage through the sandwiches and see if I could score a tuna on wheat. I found roast beef on rye, turkey on white, cheese on sourdough, but no tuna on anything.

  “Are all the tuna gone?” I said, before realizing I’d forgotten to bellow.

  “What’s that, ipo?” Bea said.

  “Do you have any tuna sandwiches in the back?” I said in my outdoor voice.

  “Mahalo, but I don’ need no help in back,” she said. “But I could use your help up front here for a few minutes. I gotta go to the kaikamahine room. Jus’ numba one, not the other.”

  Okay, that was way too much information, and I still didn’t know if I was going to get my tuna sandwich.

  We switched places at the front counter and Bea took the women’s restroom key from a hook on the wall. The key was securely fastened to a long bamboo back scratcher to avoid someone trying to slip it into pocket or purse.

  No one was in the store at the moment, so I used the opportunity to race walk through the plastic strips hanging in the doorway to the back storage room. The bones of the building were ancient, but much of the flooring and walls of the back room had been replaced after a fire had gutted my shop next door.

  The room smelled like overripe papayas and wet cardboard, with a slight top note of Pine-Sol. Farrah kept the cold items in a rumbling walk-in refrigerator tha
t seemed nearly as big as a ship’s cargo container. I opened the door and went in. Sure enough, there was a cardboard box labeled “Gadda 4/21” from the deli where Farrah gets her pre-made sandwiches. Inside the box were half a dozen sandwiches, including a wrapped triangle-shaped tuna on wheat. It was flagged with a yellow Post-it note that said, “PALI.”

  I don’t know why seeing that reserved sandwich affected me the way it did, but I started crying again. This was getting ridiculous. I’m not a crier; I’m a yeller, a kicker, a puncher. It just goes to show what happens when you slack off. It was high time I got myself back to the guan for a workout.

  ***

  I drove to the Palace of Pain, even though I could’ve walked the short distance in less than ten minutes. But it would be dark before I was finished, and more importantly, I didn’t want to risk running into anyone I knew and having them comment on my puffy face and red-rimmed eyes.

  When I went inside, Sifu Doug was conducting an evening beginner’s class for kids. The little white belts ranged in age from about five to twelve. All of them had that stunned look kids get when they’re used to being fussed over and coddled and they find themselves in a kung fu class led by Doug Kanekoa, former Army Ranger. With Sifu Doug, that first year is eighty-percent heavy discipline and twenty-percent skills instruction.

  A few weeks earlier, Doug had said to me, “What’s with keiki these days? No self-control, no discipline. It takes weeks just to teach them to shut up when I walk in the room.”

  He looked over at me and I gave him a short bow. Then I went to the changing room to put on my workout uniform. Through the thin walls I could hear the class answering his staccato commands with weary responses of “Yes, Sifu,” and “No sir, Sifu.” They sounded like fatigued boot-camp recruits after an all-night bivouac.

  “What’s that?” Sifu Doug boomed. “I can’t hear you.”

  “Yes, sir, Sifu,” yelled the kids.

  I remembered those days from my own early training. I’d hated it and loved it in equal measure. There was something appealing about learning an ancient Asian practice that was mysterious, even dangerous. The hope that one day a skinny light-skinned girl like me could kick butt on the much-bigger local boys was extremely motivating. In those days, I’d have walked over glowing coals to gain the strength and knowledge I craved, but I complained about demerits and what my sifu had called “justice laps” along with every other kid in the class.

  I waited in the changing room until I heard the kids shuffling out. I usually don’t mind finding an empty corner and practicing with my back to whatever class is going on, but after all the boo-hooing I’d done earlier, I wanted privacy.

  I came out and selected a long lance from the rack on the wall. Then I flicked off the overhead lights. Sifu Doug likes to conduct classes in a blazing glory of fluorescent lights; probably so he can pick out every eye roll or sideways smirk and deal with it accordingly. I like to practice in the gloom of just the light filtering in from the changing rooms or coming through the door of Doug’s office.

  “Hey,” said Doug. “Long time, no see. How was Moloka’i?”

  I blew out a breath. “It was awful.”

  “That bad, eh?”

  “The worst.”

  “You wanna cup of tea?” he said.

  What I wanted was to grip that lance with both hands, snap it in two, and hurl it across the room while I screamed until I was hoarse. But it was disrespectful to turn down an offer to spend time with my sifu, so instead, I smiled.

  “That would be great,” I said.

  We went into his cramped office and, as usual, I had to remove a bunch of stuff from the folding chair before I could sit down. He brewed the tea in silence with his back to me.

  When he turned around, he handed me a tiny handle-less Japanese teacup and said, “So, tell me everything.”

  It took me a moment to decide where to begin. I stalled by asking if he’d heard about Farrah going to Honolulu, and he nodded.

  “How’s she doing?” he said. “Last thing I heard, she and the keiki were doing okay. Ono was taking the boat over there so they could stay until the babies are out of the hospital.”

  “That’s pretty much it,” I said.

  We sipped our tea.

  “Oh, come on,” Sifu Doug said. “Don’t make me drag it out of you. I just got done doing mortal combat with a bunch of smart-mouth grade school kids.”

  “Sorry, Sifu,” I said. “It’s just that it’s been such a horrible week, it’s kinda hard to talk about.” I was embarrassed to feel tears welling up, and my throat constricting.

  “Take your time,” he said. “I didn’t mean to push.”

  That had to rank in the top three most un-Sifu Doug things he’d ever said to me.

  “It started with my bride sleeping with a guy who worked at the house where the wedding was supposed to take place. Then, the groom fell in the pool and had a heart attack and died. And then, the guy she’d slept with killed himself. I was the one who ID’d the body for his mother. She was a nice local lady who’d been helping me with the wedding. I feel responsible for all of it.”

  Doug shook his head. “How so?”

  “Because if I hadn’t asked the mother to help me with the wedding, none of this would have happened.”

  “How do you always manage to get messed up in stuff like this?”

  “Beats me,” I said.

  “So, that’s it? That’s what’s got you all down in the mouth?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And…?” he said.

  “And what?”

  “C’mon, girl, you know I’m not gonna let you hold out on me. And don’t try to go telling me it’s nuthin’ or I’ll make you run justice laps.”

  “I’m having second thoughts about getting married,” I said. My voice was barely audible, but in the stillness of the empty guan it seemed to ricochet off the walls like an echo.

  “Well, there it is,” he said. “You wanna talk about it?”

  I told him about Hatch wanting to move us to Los Angeles so he could further his career and he reacted in much the same way as Farrah and Steve.

  “So? You move over there for a while and then you move back,” he said. “Happens all the time. I had to go in the damn Army in order to get myself set up for life. It’s tough to make a go of it here in the islands if you don’t pay your dues somewhere else.”

  I nodded, but I was pretty sure my face betrayed my irritation.

  “Look, you think maybe you’re just using the LA thing as an excuse to bail out?” he said.

  “I don’t know. In my heart I feel it’s all about leaving Hawaii. I just don’t want to do it. But in my head I think maybe I’m just not cut out for marriage. Maybe I’m not willing to do the work.”

  “The work?” Doug said. “My marriage isn’t work; it’s joy. It’s a joy for me to take care of Lani and the kids. It’s a joy for me to see Lani’s face when I wake up every morning and know that whatever I’m facing that day, we’ll be facing it together. It’s even a joy for me to help do the dishes or help the kids with their homework. Sure, there’s times when I think about what it’d be like to hang out ‘til three, drinking with my bruddahs like in the old days, but I wouldn’t trade being single again for a million bucks.”

  He lifted his cup in a gesture asking if I’d like a refill.

  I handed my cup over, and he went on, “Look, this is how I see it: every day I gotta put up with stuff. When I’m driving to work, I gotta deal with the guy who gives me the finger as he passes me going ninety miles an hour. Then, at work, I gotta deal with dozens of spoiled, undisciplined keiki who come from families who’ve got more money than God’s got dirt. You hear what I’m saying?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, so then after work, Lani asks me to pick up something for her at the store, only they don’t got it, so I gotta drive all over hell trying to find it somewhere else. When I get home, I’m feeling kinda junked up, you know? It’s been a tough da
y. But here’s where it gets good. My wife meets me at the door, and kisses me, and she tells me how great I am and how much she appreciates me getting that thing for her. And you know what? It all melts away. All the worry, all the hassle; it just melts away.”

  I stared at him.

  “That’s what marriage is for me. For me, it’s not work. For me, my marriage is my refuge, my joy.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Doug’s words echoed as I drove back up Baldwin. It was almost eight o’clock, and Hatch would be at my house at nine. I’d wanted to stop by my shop and go through the mail before going back home, but that would have to wait until Sunday.

  Hatch was there when I arrived.

  “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Why don’t you come to LA with me next week? It’d be fun. We could even go to Disneyland if you want.”

  “Don’t you think we’re both a little old for Disneyland?”

  He let out a sigh.

  “Look,” he said. “There’s no use fighting over this. I might not even get the job. Let’s just not talk about it until after I get back.”

  We took our glasses of wine: mine white; his red, and went out to the front lanai. The wind rattled through the palm in the yard, and the moon was a bit bigger than the sliver it’d been on Moloka’i. I stared out at the warm velvet night and wondered how I’d ever be able to leave this place.

  Hatch stayed over on Saturday night, and I honored his wish to not discuss our situation until he returned the next weekend. Our stand-off over his wish to move to the mainland was the eight-hundred pound gorilla in the room, but I guess we’d both grown tired of feeding it.

  ***

  On Sunday morning, Hatch talked me into going to the beach instead of going to work. It wasn’t a tough sell. I wasn’t eager to slog through a week’s worth of mail, and since I had no clients to keep track of, or vendors to nag, I couldn’t come up with a good reason to spend a beautiful day indoors.

  We went to Ho’okipa Beach and he surfed while I read my book and chatted with friends who came by. That night, we went to a saimin place in Wailuku that we both like. Nothing like a little Hawaiian comfort food to round out a perfect day.