“Move, move, move,” said Polunu, the youngest and roundest of the boys, as he shoved his way to the sink. He stood on tiptoe and pumped water into the sink basin.
Makaha climbed on the edge of the claw-footed porcelain tub and balanced with his arms raised high. “I am Kāne! Bow to me!”
“Nonsense,” Maria scolded. Her tone left no doubt that Makaha was a boy, not a Hawaiian god. Tall enough to look over the boys’ heads, she combed her hair and ignored them.
Makaha brushed his teeth and spat over the top of Kaipo’s arms into the sink.
Dolores longed for the peace and quiet of home with her father and brother. She didn’t even have time to wash her face before Maria pulled her along to the kitchen.
Slatted walls in the kitchen allowed a breeze to stir the air and let out some of the heat from the black iron stove where Noelani was frying thick slices of Portuguese sausage. “You sit,” she commanded, waving at the girls with her tongs.
Maria pointed to a straight-backed cane chair at the massive koa wood table in the center of the room. Dolores sat. Kanoa nodded at her over the top of the Honolulu Bulletin and sipped a cup of Kona coffee. Scars and fresh red scratches from sharp cane leaves covered the weathered brown skin of his arms.
Maria reached inside a screened wooden pie safe to fetch a bowl of fruit—bananas and mangoes and papaya—and set it on the table. Two older teenage boys tossed pieces of silverware on the table and brought pitchers of guava juice and papaya juice from the ice box.
“You no spill dat!” Noelani warned with another wave of the tongs. Polunu and Makaha burst in like a gust of wind and bumped into Noelani. Her thick strong arms separated the boys. “You wanna eat, you act betta’.” Clattering plates and pots, she produced a mountain of coconut pancakes, rice, Portuguese sausage, and poi.
The older boys took their seats at the table and scooped rice and sausage and poi onto their plates with the pancakes. Dolores had seen them last night when they’d returned home with Kanoa, all of them covered with sweat and dirt, smelling of burnt cane. The boys had rubbed their sore backs and nodded to her before they cleaned up and dropped into bed. One was Koa and one was Nui, but Dolores wasn’t sure which was which.
The five younger children clambered onto chairs and began to eat. Dolores peered closer at the girls. Kali was the youngest and smallest, maybe two. She guessed the other two to be about four. “What are your names?” she asked.
“Leia,” Polunu said. He pointed. “And that’s Meli. Say hello, babies.”
The girls wrinkled their noses at him but smiled at Dolores.
Polunu and Makaha were closest to her own age, maybe seven or eight. “Stop smacking your food,” Kanoa told them. He didn’t look up from his newspaper.
Leia rolled her eyes at Meli and Kali who giggled at her joke.
“Guava or papaya?” Maria asked the girls. They squealed and giggled. Maria poured them pink guava juice and turned to the boys. “Boys? Guava juice?” They ignored her, and she handed the pitcher to Dolores. Dolores poured herself some guava juice and tried to remember everyone’s name at the table.
This morning Koa and Nui looked more like young Hawaiian gods than overworked sugarcane laborers. The one Dolores thought was Nui had a smile that flashed against his brown face like a stripe of white waterfall against the darker pali. Even in the few hours she’d known him, it was clear he loved poking fun at life. Maria sliced a mango and offered it to Koa. Nui laughed and made a dramatic sweep of his arm to snatch the fruit for himself. Everyone ignored him.
Noelani didn’t eat with them. After she bustled from stove to table, she sat at a small Singer sewing machine in the corner of the kitchen. It whirred away as if possessed and spit out lengths of perfectly hemmed Chinese silk. “Eat up, Dolores,” she said. “Laundry when the family fed, ya?”
Dolores wondered why only Noelani spoke pidgin. Everyone in the islands had a few words of Portuguese, Spanish, Hawaiian, and Japanese, but almost everyone knew English. Maybe Dolores could ask Maria later.
Nui speared a pancake. He dumped it on Dolores’s plate with a spoonful of rice. “Must eat to keep up your energy.”
Dolores smiled and clasped her hands in her lap. Head down, she said grace to herself. “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.” Leia rolled her eyes. Dolores ignored her and put a bite of heaven in her mouth, savoring the coconut pancake and sweet liliko‘i syrup. Breakfasts with Papa and Paul had been much quieter. The food was better here, and more plentiful. Dolores wondered if this was a happy family—mother, father, lots of kids, lots of noise, lots of food. It felt strange.
Leia crawled into her father’s lap and picked up a piece of papaya off his plate. Kanoa put down the paper and kissed the top of her head. He winked at Dolores and smiled. Kali and Meli could barely see over the table. Maria helped them get some pancakes and fruit and then ignored them. Polunu was almost hidden behind his heaping plate, and Makaha’s eyes gleamed with mischief. The boys ate with their fingers and kicked each other under the table.
“What are you doing today, Kaipo?” his father asked.
“Surfing lessons to the malihini on Waikiki,” he answered, his mouth full of rice. He turned to Maria. “The Maui is due in port soon. Some of the Hawaiian lei ladies at the Moana Hotel are looking for help.”
Maria glanced at Noelani and then back to Kaipo. “Tell them I’ll come down tomorrow.”
The sugar mill whistle blew, calling the workers to the fields. Kanoa, Nui, and Koa left through the kitchen door, crossed the lana‘i, and set off through the taro fields to the waiting cane.
As soon as the men left, Noelani looked up from her sewing machine. “Awake and fed, time fo’ work. You go already,” she said, and waved them all toward the back door. “Makaha! No leave the chopsticks like that! You no want the bad luck!”
Makaha hurried to his bowl of rice where he had left the chopsticks sticking straight up. He moved the chopsticks to the table, scattering sticky rice as he did so. Then he ran to shove Polunu as they thundered into the boys’ room. The little girls scampered to play in the yard. Dolores followed Maria out the same door Kanoa had taken. As they passed the door to the boys’ room, Dolores could see sheets flapping like sails and hear thumping as the boys threw things around. She looked at Maria, puzzled.
“They’re cleaning.”
Cleaning? It looked more like playing to Dolores.
Four overflowing baskets of laundry waited for the girls. Two big metal tubs and a modern washing machine filled one end of the lana‘i. A battered wicker chair sat in the corner. A few steps across the tiny yard, a glass-paneled door led to what must be Kanoa and Noelani’s bedroom. It shared a wall with the other bedrooms but had no door to the inside of the house. She learned later that Kanoa had built it when his wife added more and more hānai children to their family.
Maria arranged herself on the chair in imitation of Noelani.
“Get started, Dolores,” she said with a wave of her hand to shoo the younger girl into action.
Dolores stared at her and then peered at the laundry. It was a big household, but the baskets held more laundry than even what Noelani, Kanoa, and ten children could generate.
“Well?” Maria’s tone grew impatient.
“I’ve never done laundry by myself,” she admitted. “I can learn.”
“What chores have you done?”
“Making my bed and putting the clean dishes in the cupboard. I never broke a single one.” Dolores stood straighter. Maybe she wasn’t perfect, but she had something to be proud of. “And I finished my first year of school.”
“What a spoiled haole!” she sneered. “Makaha helps with the dishes, and Polunu sweeps the house and lana‘i. Everyone has a task. Pay attention and I’ll turn you into a proper kanaka!”
Dolores doubted learning to do laundry would make her a proper Hawaiian, but this would be her chore, so she paid attention as
Maria called out instructions like a queen from her throne.
“Take the white clothes out of that soak tub, wring them out, and put them in the machine.” Maria pulled out a folded magazine. When she opened it, Dolores saw it was the Paradise of the Pacific Maria had been reading the day before.
“Why are you reading that tourist thing?”
“I make money selling leis to the malihini,” Maria answered. “I have to know how the islands are being advertised to tourists. If they expect demure native girls, I can do that. If they expect a friendly aloha, I can do that, too. Give them what they expect, and the tip is bigger.” She settled back to read.
No tourist had ever visited the plantation camps where Dolores had lived. More things she didn’t know. She turned back to the laundry.
Clouds of white fabric floated in the lukewarm soak water. She picked up one corner, surprised by its weight. She recognized a bedsheet and squeezed. By the time she had worked her way to the other end of the sheet, sweat slicked her forehead. She wrestled the sheet into the machine and didn’t let it drag on the floor. Proud of her accomplishment, Dolores turned to Maria for further instructions.
Noelani burst through the door. “Wot? First load no pau? You girls talk story?”
Maria jumped off the chair, tucked her Paradise of the Pacific under the cushion, and hurried to turn the fill valve on the washer. “Dolores started with the sheet. It took lots of wringing.” She motioned to the box of Borax, and Dolores handed it to her.
Once the circular bin of the washing machine filled with water, it began to rotate. Maria poured in the soap, focused on the task and not Noelani. Suds foamed up.
Maria slammed the lid shut. “The lid keeps in the heat, so the clothes wash better.”
Noelani’s eyes narrowed. “Dolores no do laundry?”
“She’s not familiar with this kind of machine, that’s all,” Maria said.
Surprised at her defense, Dolores said nothing. Noelani glared at each of them in turn then went back into the house. The door crashed shut behind her.
“Thank you,” Dolores told Maria.
“You never want to seem lazy to Noelani. Never,” Maria warned.
“What happens?” Dolores asked. She thought of her father, who already had no use for her and had given her away.
“Noelani works constantly. She sews dresses for the girls in Iwilei, does ironing and laundry for the army, and even sells some cooking to the camp stores. She has no time for lazy children.”
Dolores shook her head, taking it all in. However hard she drove them, it seemed Noelani drove herself harder. Papa worked hard, too. No family had room for a useless child. She blinked her eyes to keep the welling tears inside. “I’m not lazy. And I’m not useless,” she said, clamping her lips together. “She can’t give me away.”
Maria gave her an odd look, started to say something, stopped, then began again. “You can love someone and not love what they do.”
Dolores thought of her father, very much loved, and his leaving. She blinked hard as tears threatened.
“Come on,” Maria said, “let’s put the boys’ shorts in to soak and wring out the next load.”
Working together, they had two more sheets ready to go into the washer when the first was done. They pulled it out into a basket, and the others went in. Maria showed her how to rinse the sheet in a tub of clean water. Dolores’s hands reddened from the soap and puffed from the water. Her arms ached up to her ears, but she refused to give up.
Once rinsed, the dripping sheet needed to be wrung out again. Maria demonstrated how to use the wringer, and Dolores flushed with embarrassment that she’d tried to do it by hand the first time. The crank and rollers were certainly more efficient, but her shoulders ached.
“How many loads must we do?” Dolores asked. She eyed the stack of laundry.
“Two more loads of sheets, two of dresser scarves, pillowcases, towels—that sort of thing, and three of colored dresses and shirts.”
Dolores groaned and Maria laughed. They laughed as they washed and wrung out laundry, rinsed and wrung again. Finally, they hung everything on a line in the yard to dry. At the end of the day, Dolores felt as if she could flap in the breeze like the laundry. But she and Maria had smiled and laughed. That took the sting out of her aches.
It wouldn’t last, of course.
At dinner, Noelani frowned at them. “You wahine pretty slow wit the laundry today, ya? Dolores never make beds in the wahine room.”
“I’m sorry, Noelani,” Dolores said. “We’ll be faster next week.” Maria had never told her she needed to do the beds. Besides, laundry had been well underway by the time Kali and Meli rolled out of bed.
“Next week?” Noelani turned to Maria.
Maria’s smile dimmed. “Noelani’s taken on some new laundry customers. You’ll be in charge of laundry every day in addition to making both beds in our room.”
“Every day?” All the warmth that remained from the afternoon’s laughter slowly drained from her.
“And I won’t be here to help.” Maria’s eyes fastened on her plate of kālua pork. “Quite a few passenger ships are due over the next few days, and I can make good money putting leis together at the hotel.”
A stone settled in Dolores’s heart. Tomorrow she would do it all over again. Alone. “Every day.”
“So you work faster, ya?” Noelani told her. “On Sunday you go church.”
“May I be excused?”
Noelani nodded at her.
Dolores fled before her tears fell. She would not let them see her cry. Locking herself in the bathroom, she sobbed in self-pity, in frustration, and in anger.
FROM the back lana‘i Dolores couldn’t see the stranger who came to Noelani’s door on Saturday, but his booming voice carried clearly.
“You’re doing me a great favor, Noelani,” he said.
Dolores listened hard for Noelani’s response while she forced her arms to shove dirty laundry into the machine.
“Bachelor no do laundry, ya? Hawaiian girls best fo’ laundry, ya?”
“You got that right!” He laughed like a tourist trying to impress a native with how friendly he was.
Dolores shook her head as she ran another shirt through the wringer. Hawaiian girls? Would this man pay if he knew a young Spanish girl was doing his laundry? After she hung the clean shirt, the last of load number two, she returned to the basket and picked up the next dirty garment—one of the boys’ underwear. She spotted a thick brown smear and almost dropped it. Retching in disgust, Dolores carried it with thumb and forefinger to the soaking tub. Chunks of brown fell out, but she didn’t smell what she expected to. Upon closer inspection, the smear was mud. Disgust turned to anger. What had she done to the younger boys to merit a prank like this? The mud required more effort to clean. Dolores scrubbed the stain with enough ferocity to wipe noses off faces.
Just as the brown streak disappeared, Noelani appeared. Dolores saw nothing but the hem of her mu‘umu‘u under a huge stack of clothes. “New customer,” she said. The pile of clothes muffled her voice. “Good fabrics, ya? Mālama pono—Be careful!”
Dolores glared as she took the clothes. She knew Noelani couldn’t see her. But the sixth sense of the Hawaiian woman’s ancestors kicked in.
“Is pilikia, Dolores? You have problem? You wanna live like ali’i? Ha! You not royalty. I need honest day’s hana from you. No faddah spoil you now.”
Dolores didn’t respond, but then Noelani didn’t wait around for her words either. Honest day’s work. No problem. Her whole life was warm water—soak water, wash water, rinse water—and her hands already looked like puffy pink sausages. Where was Papa at this moment? And Paul? Had they found jobs yet? Please, Lord, give me the strength to do this. Dolores gritted her teeth, pushed away pitiful thoughts, and wrung the next towel with feverish intensity. When she learned to do laundry well, she would be useful to Papa. And he’d come back for her.
THREE
Our Lady of Pea
ce
On Sunday morning, Dolores struggled into her dress. She winced as she stretched her aching arms to tie the sash at her back. Maria’s polka-dotted blue dress hung loosely on her body. The dropped waist gave way to a pleated skirt that swirled when she turned. It had been a fine dress once, but it drooped from over-washing. Still, it was nicer than Dolores’s once-white dress. Noelani, pleased with the extra lei money from the past week, had given Maria a few extra coins of her own; this pleased Maria, who hummed as she brushed her hair. Dolores fingered her own coins, hidden deep in her pocket. Noelani had inspected Dolores’s work and grudgingly approved. It was more like an allowance than a salary, but it was the first money she’d earned herself. If Papa couldn’t come to her, Dolores would save enough to go to him. No matter how long it took. Imagine Papa’s pride when she paid her own passage and arrived with useful skills!
Maria placed a felt hat, trimmed in yellow ribbon, on her head. She checked the mirror and tilted the brim on one side as if she were on her way to see a boyfriend. Dolores dropped her eyes to the floor, uncomfortable, having never seen such behavior while getting ready for church.
Maria turned toward her and frowned. “Don’t you have a hat?”
Papa had sold Dolores’ hat, and most of her meager wardrobe, for his passage to the mainland. Papa hadn’t remembered she’d need a hat for church. “No,” she admitted. It might take her weeks to save for a hat, and years to save ship’s fare.
Maria went to the closet and returned with an old straw hat, its pink ribbon streamers faded by time and sun. She clapped it on the younger girl’s head, and Dolores whispered her gratitude. “Let’s go,” Maria said. “We don’t want to be late.”
They left Noelani’s house and walked down the dirt road. Dolores pretended she was escaping. She would become the famous Spanish laundress of Honolulu, with her own business. It would be easy to save for passage to California. Imagine Papa and Paul’s surprise! Even in her imagination, though, the picture faded of a happy family embracing her at the end of the journey. It seemed impossible.
The Aloha Spirit Page 2