The Aloha Spirit

by Linda Ulleseit

  The next morning, in the truck on the way to school, Peter broached the subject. “You’re awfully quiet. Thinking about California?”

  “About family.”

  “I’m a father now, and I can tell you a father wants his children nearby. Circumstances made that impossible for your father, but now he wants to make it right. I can respect that.”

  Dolores heard between his words. Your father can support you better than I can. Why couldn’t they come out and say so? Were they deciding she wasn’t part of their family after all?

  In math class, the letter to her father fell out of her math book. She picked it up, remembering the confident words within. She tucked it back in the book.

  After school, she was quiet in the truck.

  “Dolores? Did something happen at school? Or are you still thinking about your father?” Peter asked. Dolores didn’t respond.

  At home, Peter told her he would be in the barn. She nodded and went into the house.

  Maria yelled from the bedroom, “Welcome home! Did you have a nice day?” Again, Dolores didn’t respond. She set her books on the kitchen table. Before she could decide what to do or say, a knock sounded on the front door. Dolores answered it.

  Papa stood there.

  He wasn’t as tall as Dolores remembered, but maybe she had grown. Papa wore better clothes than he ever could have afforded in Hawai‘i, and a crisp new fedora sat on his head. He looked nervous. She stared, frozen in place, for a long minute. Then she smiled as the social graces Maria had taught her kicked in. “Papa! What a nice surprise! Come in, please.” Dolores stepped back and motioned him in. “Maria, look who’s here!”

  Maria came out of the bedroom with Alfred on one hip, Henry clinging to her other hand. She looked quizzically at Dolores.

  “Maria, this is my father, Paul James.” Dolores remembered when he was Pablo Jaime, one of many dairymen in Kaua‘i. Now he looked successful.

  “Oh, such a pleasure to meet you!” She released Henry’s hand to reach out to Dolores’s father, who took it. “E komo mai, Mr. James, welcome to our home.”

  Henry scrambled for Dolores and buried his face in her skirt. “This is Henry, Papa. Maria is holding Alfred.”

  “Beautiful boys,” Papa said.

  Maria smiled.

  “Come sit, Papa. The voyage was surely a long one. Would you like something to drink? Tea? Guava or pineapple juice?”

  “You’ve grown up so much, my little Dolores. It’s good to see you again.” His eyes raked her head to toe. He took off his hat and held it in both hands.

  Uncomfortable, Dolores led him inside and invited him to sit on the couch. He sat on the edge, as he had the day he’d left her at Noelani’s.

  “Tea?” she asked again.

  “Pineapple juice,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Dolores scurried to the kitchen to pour the drink, hearing Maria ask Papa about his voyage to the islands. Dolores got glasses out of the cupboard and clutched one for a moment. Papa was here. After four years, Papa was here. Had he come to take her away? She would have raced out the door with him only two years earlier at Noelani’s. Now she had a family. Now she didn’t want to go. Her selfishness brought a tear to her eye. Maybe it was better for Peter and Maria if she went with Papa.

  Dolores opened the fridge and retrieved the pitcher of pineapple juice. Henry had helped her make it fresh just yesterday. He’d gotten more on himself than in the container. She smiled at the memory of the little boy’s joy as she filled three glasses, and half a one for Henry, and returned to the front room.

  Papa still sat on the edge of the couch, holding his fedora in both hands. Maria sat in her usual chair, a pleasant expression on her face. Dolores handed the drink to her father, and he lifted a hand from his hat to take it. “Mahalo,” he said with a tight smile. “That’s right, isn’t it? It’s been awhile.”

  “That’s right, Papa.” Dolores thought she recognized the sparkle in his eye. His brown hair held flashes of auburn that echoed her own curls. She tucked one behind her ear. She handed a drink to Maria and set Henry’s on the low table in front of the couch. He sat on the floor to drink it, staring at the stranger.

  Dolores sat in a chair opposite her father. The ceiling fan hummed as it stirred the air. “Is it this hot in California?” she asked, trying to make conversation with this stranger.

  “It can be, but it’s not as humid.” He sipped his juice.

  The air thickened around her and threatened to cut off her air. This small talk was beastly. Dolores just wanted to scream at him, demand to talk about his reason for coming.

  “So I didn’t wait for your letter before I sailed,” he began, as if reading her mind. “You did get mine?”

  She nodded.

  “Dolores is a great help to us,” Maria said. “She’s a member of our family. You know what, though? Let me take the boys and let you two talk.” Without looking at Dolores, Maria scooped up Alfred and shooed Henry along in front of her, leaving his juice on the table.

  “Mahalo, Maria,” he said. Dolores thought he was forcing the Hawaiian. It wasn’t his culture anymore. “You look good, Dolores, so grown up. Paul and I will have to fight off the boys.”

  Dolores frowned. “Are you moving back to Honolulu?” At least he could ask if she wanted to come. She deserved that.

  “I’m sorry. I suppose I jumped the gun. Would you consider coming back with me to California?”

  And there it was. The summons she had burned for, prayed for. She remembered the dairy on Kaua‘i and how happy they’d been, the warm smell of the cows, their soft lowing. Wait. Was that Papa’s dairy or Peter’s? Suddenly, she was unsure of how happy they’d been on Kaua‘i. Papa had grown older, as had Paul. As had she. It would never be like it had been. “Papa, I like it here. Maria needs me, and they treat me well. We are such close friends; I’d hate to lose her. Wait until you meet Peter. You’ll see how nice they are and how much they love me.” It all came out in a rush. The only thing left inside her was tears, but Dolores choked those back.

  He sat and contemplated his pineapple juice before looking up at her. “So no? Just for now, or forever?”

  Dolores’s heart twisted at the sadness on his face. When Mama was alive, he was always smiling. Those days were gone, but she was tempted to go with him and try to capture that carefree spirit. She was eleven years old and thinking of the good old days of her childhood. That’s what living with Noelani had done to her. And this man had left her there. Happy memories faded as images of laundry piles surfaced. Going with him to California could not have been worse than the hard work and lack of appreciation at Noelani’s.

  Then she remembered the lei money that Maria so desperately needed. Maria may need help around the house, but she needed money to feed and clothe her sons, too. It would be worse when the new baby came in January. “Papa, I’m not sure. I want to stay, but it may not be all right with Peter. How’s Paul?” she asked, desperate to talk about something else.

  “Your brother’s a hard worker. He’s doing just fine.” Papa turned toward the door. “Thank you for seeing me, Dolores, and thanks for the juice.”

  “What?” Shocked, Dolores took the glass and stared. “You’re leaving already? Surely you can stay for dinner and meet Peter.”

  “Regretfully not. I have a room at the Moana. The Maui sails in the morning for the mainland. If you want to come home with me, come to the hotel in the morning.”

  He put his hat on and tipped it toward her in a gentlemanly gesture. Then he was out the door and down the walk in long strides. Dolores stared after him. He hadn’t even kissed her good-bye. She shut the door and leaned against it, weak.

  Maria came out. She’d heard the door, no doubt. “Is he staying for dinner?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “He asked me to go with him, like right this minute.”

  “You said no?”

  “He sails in the morning. He has a ticket for me.�
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  “You said yes?”

  Dolores hesitated. “I didn’t say anything.”

  Maria’s eyes welled up, and she folded Dolores in her arms. “I love you so much, sister mine. I will let you go, but I want you to stay.”

  IN the early morning, before the sun peeked over Diamond Head, Dolores was up and dressed. She paced the kitchen, picking up her books determined to go to school, then putting them down and picking up the suitcase she’d packed last night. She heard Peter get up and slip out the front door to his early morning chores. He never used the front door. He intended to avoid her.

  Leaving without saying good-bye to her friends was cowardly. She must be strong and go so they could succeed. If she lingered to say good-bye, she wouldn’t leave. She picked up her suitcase and left the house before she could debate herself any further.

  She caught an early streetcar to Waikiki. The dark of night lessened. By the time she stood outside the Moana, the morning sun had fired the scattered clouds with orange. A group of silhouetted boys stood in the sand next to their surfboards. Curious, Dolores set her suitcase down and walked onto the sand. The boys already headed toward the water. One noticed her and waved. It was the boy with glasses she’d seen before—Manolo Medeiros.

  “Aloha!” he called.

  She walked over to him. “Aloha! Out early, aren’t you?”

  “Nope. By the time you finish breakfast this beach is crawling with tourists. Locals surf at dawn. What’s your name? You know mine.”

  “Dolores.” She smiled and turned her attention to the glory of the sunrise. Nothing was more magnificent than Diamond Head silhouetted against brilliant orange. “Have you ever wondered why the word aloha is for coming and going both?”

  “Not at all. Aloha begins with love.” He tapped his bare chest. “Love yourself first.” He waved his arm across his chest, indicating the sand, ocean, sky, and mountain. “Love the land.” He turned to grin at her. “Love the people.”

  She could see spots of dried salt spray on his glasses as the orange sky faded to blue. “So aloha is love.”

  “Aloha is the joyous sharing of life’s energy.” He gave her one more big smile and then rushed to join his friends among the waves.

  The joyous sharing of life’s energy. Her most joyous moments all included Peter and Maria and the boys. She wasn’t sure she could be joyous in California with strangers who called her family. She would work hard to make Peter and Maria’s lives easier. Decision made, she whispered, “Safe voyage, Papa,” and turned away from the Moana to catch a streetcar home.

  WHEN January of 1927 arrived, Dolores’s twelfth birthday went unnoticed in the flurry of activity that heralded the arrival of Maria and Peter’s third son. They named him John and cooed over his dimples.

  “Another boy?” Dolores teased.

  “Why do I need a daughter?” she asked with a genuine smile. “I have you, Dolores. I can’t believe you almost left us because you thought the money mattered.”

  Dolores laughed and hugged her tight. “I’m twelve now, and I know better.”

  She knew better about families, too. They were a happy, loving family, the three adults and three children, but Maria still made leis behind Peter’s back. Dolores thought he must know, but he said nothing. His misplaced need to provide the only income forced Maria to lie to him. While not ideal, the situation had become normal enough that Dolores no longer worried about revealing Maria’s secret.

  When the new baby arrived home, it became Dolores’s job to chase Henry, the best job she’d ever had.

  When June arrived, Dolores planned to be obstinate. “Maria needs me,” she told Peter. “A sixth-grade education is enough for a future farmer’s wife. I’m not going back to school in the fall. After all, I don’t plan to be a secretary at one of those fancy downtown offices. I’m happy on the farm.”

  “And we’re happy to have you,” Peter said.

  “It will be nice to have you around during the day,” Maria said.

  It surprised Dolores how easy the decision had been for them. Her future, whatever it held, was now her own. No teacher would control her days. Free to dream, she imagined working in her own kitchen, waiting for her own husband to come in after a hard day in the fields. Happy children surrounded her in these visions. It wasn’t until much later that she realized they weren’t her own dreams. She had just inserted herself into Maria’s family.

  In June, a week after Dolores’s last school year ever let out, a letter arrived for her from California. What could Papa want now?

  But the letter was from Paul.

  Dear Dolores,

  Or should I say sister? I’m sure you are quite grown up, but I only remember the seven-year-old brat we left at Noelani’s.

  Dolores bristled, but read on.

  I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant to write. It’s just that this is so difficult. You see, Papa passed away last week.

  The room spun and Dolores sank into a chair. Papa passed away? It had been six months since she’d seen him. Six months and no letters. Her heart wrenched, and she forced her eyes back to Paul’s letter.

  He’d been fine, I thought, but I found him one morning when I was about to leave for work, and I hadn’t heard him up and about yet. He wasn’t sick, Dolores. The landlady thinks he took his own life. I can’t think that. I had to give the landlady notice. I’ll be out at the end of the month. I’ll be a ward of the state since I have no appreciable income. They’ve found a family in Fremont I can live with until I turn eighteen. I suppose I can handle anything for four years.

  The letter stopped; then it continued in a deeper color ink, like it had been written at a different time.

  I know Papa loved you, Dolores, and I love you, too. I look forward to the day we can be reunited, but unfortunately it is not going to be soon. I would love to have your support here with me, but I’m also glad you didn’t come with Papa. You would also be a ward of the state then, and we would probably be separated anyway. Stay in Hawai‘i, little sister, and be happy. I will write.

  Love,

  Paul

  Scenarios raced through Dolores’s head of jumping on a ship and racing to her brother’s aid. She’d bring him back to Honolulu where he could help Peter with the cows. Or they could find their own tiny place in California and she’d take in laundry to make ends meet. But all her dreams fled. There was no money for passage, hers or Paul’s. For now, they must remain separated by the Pacific Ocean.

  Maria came to see why she was so quiet. “Dolores? Are you all right?”

  Dolores handed her the letter as her eyes filled. She started to cry before Maria finished reading.

  “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” Maria hugged her as Dolores cried into her shoulder.

  Maria probably believed them to be tears of grief. Dolores knew they were tears of guilt, and maybe fear. Going to live with her father had been her life’s goal. Even when she chose Maria, the California option had always been there. Dolores felt like life had ripped her security blanket away. Shocked that she felt that way, she gasped and dried her tears. She was happy with Maria and Peter. She didn’t need a backup plan.

  TEN

  Family Days 1930

  When Dolores turned fifteen, she marveled at the number. Most days she felt much older. Maria acted younger than her twenty-six years, so they were the best of friends. With three active boys under six, their days were never quiet. The best part of Dolores’s day was when she took Henry to school. Peter bought a used car and taught her to drive his truck. She jolted along the road to Waikiki Elementary, which was actually the closest public school. The next closest was Waimanalo on the other side of the Ko’olau Range. She’d rather skirt Diamond Head toward Waikiki than go around Koko Head, the headland for the Ko’olau. Besides, the twenty minutes she spent on the road led to wonderful conversations with the little boy.

  “Did you know that where we live was a favorite of Pele?” he asked one day after Dolores picked him up. />
  “Are you learning the mo‘olelo?” she said, focusing on the road.

  He nodded. “Yes, the Hawaiian stories. Pele visited Maunalua. It was a good fishing area because so many water spirits lived nearby.”

  Dolores took her eyes off the road long enough to admire the thin blond hair that fell across his face. He looked like Peter in miniature, whereas Alfred and John both had brown hair and dark eyes like Maria. “You study hard in school. I know your mother wants you to be an important man with an office someday.”

  Henry scowled. “What would I do in an office?”

  “Darned if I know,” Dolores told him with a laugh. “But you’ll make good money at it and be able to support a big family.”

  “Yuk.”

  She knew he was thinking of girls and hid her smile. She felt so old at fifteen and wondered how long Henry would remain innocent. Dolores vowed to make it as long as possible.

  It had only been three years since she left school, but it hadn’t been long enough for her to miss her classes. She kept a smile for Henry, but inside was glad every day to drive away from the school.

  At home, Kimo’s truck was in front of the house. Dolores waved to him as he came out of the house with empty arms. “Aloha, Kimo! How’s your grandmother?” Maria’s old leimaking friend had been feeling ill, and arthritis hampered her ability to use her hands.

  “Aloha, Dolores! Tutu is all right. She’s angry because we’ve been trying to convince her to quit at the hotel.”

  Dolores nodded. “She has her own flower stand now, though, a place out of the sun where she can sit comfortably.”

  “Comfort is relative. She’s getting too old for this. I told Maria I’m going to slow Tutu down, bring fewer flowers. That will mean fewer leis, a faster sellout. Tutu can get home sooner.”