05-O'ahu Lonesome Tonight? Page 5

  “Yeah, punctuality counts,” I said.

  “This is Hawaii,” said Steve. “Island time. I don’t think anyone’s uttered the word ‘punctuality’ since the missionaries died off. Anyhow, I’m not sweating it.”

  “Being self-employed and working for someone else is different,” I said. “Even if your boss is lax about your working hours once you’ve got the job, you still have to be on-time for the interview.”

  Steve shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m not cut out to pick up a regular paycheck.”

  “But you’ll get photo credits in a mainstream magazine. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

  “True.”

  “And, anyway, this is just the interview. You said a lot of photogs are applying. Maybe you won’t even get it.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “No, I think you’re the best. What I mean is, if you get a job offer but you decide not to take it they’ll have a bunch of other people they could hire instead. You won’t have to feel guilty.” I mentally congratulated myself on my quick save.

  “You really think I have a chance?”

  Jeff put a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “It’s the other applicants who need to sweat this, not you. I don’t know jack about photography but when Pali posts your stuff on Facebook it always makes me homesick.”

  “That’s good, I guess,” said Steve.

  “It’s true. You’re the best.”

  The conversation was getting a little gushy for me so I leaned in and gave Steve a good night hug.

  “Uh, one more thing,” Steve said. “I’m getting kicked out of here in the morning. Can I stay with you guys tomorrow night? I’m gonna need a little time to either drown my sorrows or celebrate my victory before I head home.”

  I looked over at Jeff. “Your call.”

  “Fine by me,” he said. “Just one thing: we’re not nocturnal.”

  “Don’t worry. Either way it goes I’ll probably start drinking at noon. I’ll be passed out long before dark.”

  “And we’re talking sofa bed,” I said. “It’s just a two-bedroom place.”

  “No problem. I’ll even make you guys breakfast before I leave.”

  “It’s a date,” said Jeff. His eyes darted from Steve to me and back again. “I didn’t mean an actual ‘date’ or whatever. You know, what I meant was—”

  “Look. You’re good-looking enough. But I don’t go for geeks. Your homophobia is safe with me.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I just—”

  Steve started laughing and I flicked him on the back of his head, NCIS-style. “Knock it off.” I turned to Jeff. “Steve loves to play the downtrodden gay card. Don’t fall for it.”

  After hugs and parting wishes for good luck, Jeff and I headed back to the penthouse. My cell rang as I went through the lobby door. It was Farrah. “Hey, Pali. Guess what?”

  Here we go again. “You’ve decided to fly home after all.”

  “No way. Even if I was willing to try it—which I’m not—I’d still want to keep Ono company on the trip home. What I called to tell you is we’re staying another day. Ono says the weather report looks gnarly and he doesn’t want to take the chance. He says if it was just him, he’d probably go for it, but since I’m with him he wants to be extra careful. Isn’t that cool?”

  “Very cool. But you can’t keep your room at the Royal Hawaiian, can you?”

  “No, but we’re not staying there anyway.”

  Since this was old news, I let it slide.

  “We’re comfy cozy down here in the Ala Wai Harbor,” she said, answering the question I hadn’t asked.

  “Good. Well, let me know if you have time to see Jeff before he leaves. You said you wanted to see him and he wants to see you, too. But if you and Ono are too busy, I’m sure he’ll understand.” The guilt trip was the green monkey’s idea, not mine.

  “Oh, yeah. I so want to see him! Can we maybe have, like, lunch tomorrow?”

  “I’ve got to go to tea at two with my half-sibs, but maybe you could have lunch with Jeff without me.”

  I looked over at Jeff and he nodded.

  “Groovy. I’ll tell Ono. He knows all the good places. Tell Jeff we’ll call him by ten to set up a time and place.” I gave her Jeff’s cell number and we signed off.

  “I can’t believe those two,” I said.

  The elevator dinged and we got in. I punched the button for the penthouse and Jeff sniffed the air like a dog catching a whiff of kalua pig.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  “Thought I smelled monkey,” he said. “Pretty strong, too.”

  “Oh stop it. But I wish she’d just be straight with me about what’s going on. I mean, the old ‘can’t go home because of bad weather’ is completely lame. I checked before we left and the weather’s going to be perfect for the rest of the week.”

  “Yeah, well, one thing I’ve learned from being a scientist is things change. No matter how solid things seem or how many opinions say otherwise, it can all go south in a heartbeat.”

  CHAPTER 9

  As expected, Monday morning dawned bright and clear, without a cloud in sight. At about seven-thirty, Jeff and I drove up to Leonard’s Bakery on Kapalulu Avenue for fresh malasadas. Malasadas are described as Portuguese doughnuts but Leonard’s are about a million times better than any doughnut out there, and that even includes fresh Krispy Kremes. Leonard’s filled malasadas have a center of the creamiest custard and every two months they offer a different flavor. The September flavor was lilikoi, or passion fruit. My favorite. We got in line and Jeff ordered a half-dozen, some with filling and some without. We got a couple of coffees to go and went outside to sit on a bench out front. We averted our eyes from the people in line who stared longingly as we stuffed still-hot malasadas into our mouths and then licked our fingers clean.

  “These are even better than I remember,” Jeff said with his mouth full.

  “I know. We practically lived on these things when I was in college,” I said.

  After we’d each polished off a cream-filled malasada and had started on seconds, an unshaven, rather pungent man with a banged-up shopping cart brimming with personal belongings sidled up to us. “Aloha. You gonna finish that?” he said, pointing to Jeff.

  I looked down. Jeff had placed his half-eaten malasada on the lid of the bakery box while he took a sip of coffee.

  “Uh, I don’t know. Jeff?”

  Jeff picked up what was left of the malasada and looked at the guy. “You want this?”

  “Yeah. I haven’t had much to eat today.”

  “Well, it’s still early,” said Jeff. He shot me a grin but I was too uncomfortable with the situation to acknowledge it.

  “You know, we’re just about through here,” said Jeff. “Why don’t you take the rest of these?” He handed the guy the pink box.

  “Mahalo,” said the guy. “You got napkins in there? I don’t like to get no sticky stuff on my hands.”

  I ran into the store and grabbed a wad of napkins. The guy took the box and left.

  “He’s worried about sticky stuff on his hands?” Jeff said.

  We put our arms around each other’s waist and walked back to the car. “Fun times in the big city,” I said.

  We headed down Kapahulu to Kalakaua Avenue to connect with Diamond Head Road. We could’ve cut over at Monsarrat, but we agreed we’d rather take the scenic route, along the beachfront.

  “Sometimes I forget how beautiful the beach is,” Jeff said as we drove along Queen’s Surf Beach. “I like living on the mainland, but I gotta say, sometimes I miss this so much.”

  I looked over at him. Even with his sunglasses on, I could see the furrow between his eyebrows.

  “You can always come back, you know. There are tons of engineering firms over here.”

  “Not on Maui.”

  “No, not on Maui, but from O’ahu you can get to Maui in half an hour.”

  “I’
m afraid the kind of work I do is pretty specialized. Government stuff.”

  “Yeah, well look around. We’ve got government everything here. Army, Navy, Air Force, Interior, Homeland Security, DOD, NASA, USGS, and about a dozen other acronyms I don’t have the security clearance to even know exist.”

  “True. But what I’m working on is unique to Livermore.”

  “Oh, so it’s one of those jobs that if you told me about you’d have to kill me?”

  “Probably not kill you, but I’d be expected to mess you up pretty bad.”

  “Fat chance of that. You make good money?”

  “Ridiculously good.”

  “Then spend a little of it to come home more often.”

  We drove up Diamond Head Road and turned in at the marker for the park. There was a park in the crater, but you had to climb to the crater rim if you wanted to catch the view. Even though it was not yet eight-thirty on a Monday morning the parking lot was nearly full.

  “Seems we’re not the only nature lovers up this early,” I said. “You want to do the hike?” I said, pointing to the trailhead.

  Jeff shrugged. “It’s a nice view, but I’m kind of sluggish from all the sugar in that malasada. Why don’t we go as far as the tunnel and then come back?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  We got out and walked up the paved trail until we reached the two hundred foot long tunnel. “You sure you don’t want to go all the way up?” I said.

  “Nah. Been there, done that. I’d rather go to the beach.”

  As we started back down, the wind picked up. A thick bank of clouds was moving in from the south.

  “Looks like we might get a little rain after all,” Jeff said.

  By the time we reached the parking lot the rain was really coming down. A stiff wind blew the rain nearly sideways so by the time we got into the car and slammed the doors we were pretty well soaked.

  We sat panting from the final dash. “You know, I’ve always wondered,” I said. “Do you get wetter if you run in the rain since you’re quickly moving through all the falling raindrops, or wetter if you walk, since you’re out in it longer? It seems you get wetter if you run because you’re coming in contact with more of it.”

  Jeff looked at me. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. It’s an interesting physics question, don’t you think?”

  “The amount of rain that actually hits your body is directly proportional to the amount of time you spend in the rain,” he said. “It’s a question of time, not velocity.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Really?”

  “Who knows? But that’s the kind of BS we throw around the lab when we either don’t care about the answer or we’re too lazy to do the research.”

  “It’s really coming down,” I said. “Look at the windshield. It’s like we’re going through a car wash.”

  We slowly made our way back to the penthouse. Jeff called Farrah and they agreed to reschedule their lunch date when the weather cleared. We slouched around the apartment hoping the rain would let up in an hour or so but by two o’clock it was still coming down.

  I plopped down on the sofa and called Hatch. “So did you make it to Montana?”

  “Yep. I’ve already stowed my gear and met my bunkmates.”

  “Is that a cowboy twang I’m picking up?”

  “Yep. Gotta do what I can to fit in. They’re already calling me ‘McGarrett’ since I came in from Hawaii. God knows what name they’d give me if they knew I was born and raised in LA.”

  “Well, you stay safe. Just ‘cuz they’re calling you McGarrett it doesn’t mean you need to go all Hawaii Five-O out there.”

  “What’s that mean—‘going Hawaii Five-O’?”

  “You know, driving fast the wrong way down one-way streets. Rappelling off high rise buildings with knotted bed sheets. That kind of stuff.”

  “Sweetheart, there’s no such thing as a one-way street or a high rise building anywhere within a hundred miles of this place. It’s pretty much all mountains and trees with a river running through it.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “It is. You can’t believe how big everything is here. The sky, the mountains, the endless forest. Being out here feels like going from a one-room apartment to a mansion.”

  “Well, enjoy your mansion, but remember you’ve got someone waiting here at home in the apartment.”

  “Will do. I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  We hung up and I felt a pang. It’d been a long time since I’d been to the mainland. Island life was homey and safe, but I never forgot the expansive feeling I’d had when I’d gone to the mainland for Homeland Security training. To see another ocean and fly over towering snowy mountain ranges felt like going to another planet.

  By one-thirty, Jeff and I had grown tired of being cooped up together. We’d told and re-told all the good stories, and we’d asked and answered every question we had for each other.

  So even though I was wary about meeting my two half-brothers from my father’s side, I was eager to get out of the penthouse.

  I gathered up my purse and umbrella and paused at the door. “I thought we would’ve heard from Steve by now. I hope his interview went well.”

  “He probably wheedled his way into a late check-out,” said Jeff. “I expect him any time now.”

  “Would you do me a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Give me a call at three. Or better yet, come down there and get me. I think an hour of familial pretense is my limit.”

  “Got it. But I’ll call, if you don’t mind. The thought of breathing the same air as your father’s kids is more than I can stomach.”

  “It’s not their fault, you know.”

  “I know. But still. Anyway, I promise I’ll call at three.”

  ***

  I arrived at the Moana Surfrider Hotel in plenty of time for our two o’clock reservation. I was hungry after having only two malasadas for breakfast and then hiking partway up Diamond Head, and I was wet from the jaunt down Kalakaua from the penthouse. I would’ve taken the car, but in Waikiki parking is a much bigger headache than a few raindrops.

  The Moana is one of Waikiki’s old-school hotels. Built in 1901, it was a technological marvel of its day with telephones and private bathrooms in every room. It also had one of the first elevators on Hawaii. The style is ‘beaux-art,” with a massive pillared portico, brilliant white paint, and a wrap-around lanai out front. The lanai has a dozen or so hardback rocking chairs that allow the guests to ‘sit a spell’ while they rock and watch the traffic on Kalakaua Avenue stream by. Out back on the ocean side, the lanai (which the Moana staff refers to as a “veranda”) is where they serve formal tea every afternoon.

  I went into the lobby and marveled at the polished wood floors, blazing chandeliers and Corinthian columns. Where did the architects think they were—Savannah? But as odd as the place looks among the drab stucco and concrete hotels surrounding it, I had to admire its adherence to the centuries-old vision of its creator. The place was unique.

  I looked around. I’d seen Facebook photos of my half-siblings, but I wasn’t sure I’d recognize them in person. The oldest brother, Stuart, was five years younger than I, which made him around thirty. His brother Michael was a bit younger. Stuart had mentioned he’d be bringing his wife. I’d never seen a photo of her.

  We’d agreed to meet out back in the makai bar, the one next to beach, before going up to the veranda for tea. I went out back and saw a mid-twenties guy sitting far from the action. He was hunched under the umbrella at an empty table—no drink or even a napkin signaling he’d ordered a drink. He looked a lot like my father, or anyway what I’d seen of my father from photos and videos. Medium build, with light brown hair and sharp features. He was tanned and cleanly shaven. My father had looked pretty much like the Tommy Bahama ideal of a bon vivant haole dude living the tropical dream. And this guy looked like the younger version.

  “Excuse me,” I said.
I tapped him on the arm to break his absorbed stare at the shorts-clad bar maid with a bum you could pound taro on. “Are you, by any chance, Stuart or Michael?”

  “Huh? No. Sorry, I’m just waiting for my girlfriend.”

  I don’t know if he thought I was some high-class hooker with a strange pick-up line, but I felt compelled to explain.

  “Oh, pardon me for disturbing you. I’m meeting my brothers here.” Which, of course, didn’t explain anything because at that point he looked even more confused.

  “Uh, you kind of look like them,” I stammered. “I haven’t seen either of them for a long time.” Like never, I thought, but he didn’t need to hear that sad story.

  “Oh.” He shifted in his chair as if to signal that our conversation was pau, or over.

  “Again, sorry,” I said backing away.

  I looked around, hoping to find another likely candidate, but there were none in sight. Had my brothers changed their minds? Maybe the rain had chased them away. It wasn’t the best day to be sitting out on an open veranda. Every now and a gust of wind blew a wave of wet onto the starched white tablecloths and three-tiered towers of scones and finger sandwiches.

  The irony of being stood up by the offspring of the man who’d stood me up my whole life wasn’t lost on me.

  CHAPTER 10

  The guy who showed up at the Moana veranda at a quarter past two wore a neatly-pressed aloha short and white slacks. He was the spitting image of a man I’d only seen on a video after he died—my father.

  “Sorry we couldn’t get here any sooner,” he said. “The rain’s making everybody pupule. We nearly got clobbered by a fool in a Mustang convertible going the wrong way through the park.” He grinned and stuck out a hand. “Stu Wilkerson here. And you must be Pali.”

  I shook his hand. Stuart had the look and demeanor of a successful real estate broker but I’d learned on Facebook that he worked at a boat yard that refurbished yachts.

  “And this fine gentleman is my brother, Michael,” said Stuart. “Or should I say, our brother Michael.” He gestured toward a guy standing three feet behind him. Michael gave me a shy wave. He wore a faded HiLife tee-shirt, rumpled gray cargo shorts, and rubba slippas. He had at least forty pounds on Stuart and he had longer hair and a dark tan, but his face still bore a striking resemblance to our father.