The Aloha Spirit

by Linda Ulleseit

“Maybe yo’ heritage make it easier ta learn,” Alberto said.

  Hiro laughed. “Can I leave my bike with you, Alberto?”

  “‘Ae, of course. Park it in back. Mālama pono, Hiro. Be safe.”

  “Mahalo, friend.” Hiro waved and was gone, one more Honolulu boy lured to war.

  “It’s coming, isn’t it?” Dolores asked.

  “Nah, not ta paradise,” Alberto assured her with a cocky smile.

  Grandma Jessie came in from the garden, and Alberto slipped out the door. She washed and peeled carrots, talking to Dolores as she did so. “You spending a lot of time with my grandson, Dolores. He’s a nice boy, but don’t let him turn your head.”

  Dolores stirred the pot silently, wondering how much to say.

  “I know your marriage isn’t perfect. Not many are.” She looked up and pointed the peeler at Dolores. “You take control. Make the best of what God has dealt you. Never put a rotten potato in the pot.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” It was the automatic response, but there was nothing more to say. Grandma Jessie sided with the church. Manolo it was, for rich or poor, good times and bad times, ’til death did them part. Dolores allowed herself a sigh.

  Later that night, just at dusk, Alberto and Dolores walked around the block. It was more balmy than humid, the air scented with Grandma Jessie’s gardenias, but at least she was getting used to the lack of light from windows covered with blackout curtains. Despite Alberto’s offhand reassurances, Dolores felt uneasy about the future.

  He took her hand as they walked, and pleasant warmth suffused her. “Dolores, what yo’ gonna do about Manolo?”

  “Do?” she asked.

  “He not good ta you, and he ignores the girls. He never will leave you….” His voice trailed off. “Make your canoe go back, ya? No keep heading into the storm.”

  “So I should leave him? Are you joking? How can I leave my husband yet continue to live in the bosom of his family? Your grandmother is quite clear on the matter. My place is with my husband. I won’t deprive my girls of this family because my husband is a jerk.”

  “I marry you if you be divorced.”

  “Marry me?” Dolores’s head spun. “The Catholic Church won’t allow a divorced woman to marry in the church. I can’t divorce him. I can’t marry you. It’s more than that, though. I chose him to be the father of my children, the head of my family. Making that choice work is up to me.”

  “No matter. I here.” Alberto squeezed her hand. “Keep yo’ chin up, especially when yo’ drowning, ya?”

  Dolores was glad for his presence, for his support, but she worried that she was being selfish. She couldn’t keep Alberto near her when some woman out there could make him a fine wife, give him sons and daughters with those devilish eyes and rakish grin. She turned to face him. “Alberto….”

  He misread her and pulled her into a kiss more passionate than the last. Every nerve ending in her body sang. She couldn’t push him away. She would be selfish in this one thing.

  He kissed her once more, on the tip of her nose, and waited for her to go inside. Dolores closed the door behind her and leaned against it, listening to him walk away. The girls cuddled on the couch listening to the radio.

  “Mama, is it bedtime?” Betty rubbed her eyes.

  “Yes, darling, time for bed.” Dolores tucked Alberto’s kisses away into a secret part of her brain. She took Betty’s hand and led her to the bedroom. Both of her daughters, in their pretty pink nightgowns, were angels. They knelt beside their beds and said the Lord’s Prayer together. Carmen added, “And bless my mama, papa, and sister.”

  As she did every night, Dolores added a silent prayer of her own. Watch over my littlest angel, Lord, that you have taken into your kingdom.

  Dolores tucked Carmen and Betty into bed, kissed them goodnight, and headed for her own bed. With the government-sanctioned blackout, she had no light to read or sew. Early bedtime had become the norm. She slipped between cool sheets, and they felt good on sun-warmed skin. Now that she was alone, her traitorous thoughts focused on Alberto. She saw the devil in him, and the angel, and loved them both.

  Dolores heard the front door open, then close sharply. Her heart quickened in fear as she turned on her side to face the wall. Manolo stumbled into the bedroom and tossed his hat onto the dresser before falling on top of the covers. He smelled of cheap beer. Dolores kept her eyes closed and focused on even breaths. Her hands clutched the pillow. When he began to snore, she relaxed, but Alberto’s kisses were gone.

  Grandma Jessie’s pack of wild boys, sons and grandsons, had a lot of spirit and raised some hell, but they were family men. This sprawling Portuguese ‘ohana belonged to Dolores now, and to her girls. Most of them would understand if she took up with Alberto—she knew for sure Ruth would—but others expected her to support Manolo as they did. If she divorced Manolo, she divorced his family. She couldn’t do that to her girls. It was their family, too. Dolores didn’t know how to live without this family’s support anymore. Manolo was a man engulfed by his demons. She didn’t know how to help him, but a divorce would finish them both.

  TWENTY

  Pearl Harbor 1941

  Early on Sunday, December 7, 1941, Dolores was struggling to get the girls dressed for church. Mass was at eight thirty, and their feet were still bare, their hair uncombed. Manolo slumped on the couch. From the dark circles under his reddened eyes, Dolores assumed he was nursing a hangover. She encouraged the girls to join her in loud singing of Christmas carols, hiding a perverse smile as he winced. Then he sat up like a dog who’d perked its ears at an intruder and ran to the window.

  Dolores heard the planes a second later. Through the window, she and Manolo watched as they came in low over Punch Bowl like a flock of dark birds, and the circular red sun painted on the wings chilled her blood.

  Thunderous explosions assaulted their ears and shook the house. Betty began to cry. Manolo rushed out the front door. Dolores was close behind but shouted at the girls to stay inside. From their lana‘i, they looked over a scene of horror. Devastating fireballs shot up hundreds of feet in the air. Dark billows of smoke boiled from a handful of places across Honolulu. The ocean was burning. Dolores’s stomach roiled like the smoke that devoured Pearl Harbor.

  “Manolo, Alberto is working this morning! He’s down there!”

  More planes flew over, and Manolo pushed her inside. “Get the girls!”

  Dolores grabbed Carmen’s hand and Carmen took Betty’s. They rushed down the steps from the lana‘i. Carmen turned her face to the sky, then the sea. Even with her poor sight, she could see the fires of hell that dotted the heart of Honolulu on the hillside below them. The vegetable garden sat serene and undisturbed. Dolores saw Antonio lead his motherin-law out of the house. “Is Vovô coming?” she called.

  “Helen has him,” Antonio said. “Come on, Grandma Jessie. You can get down these steps. We’ll be safe in the shelter.” He kept up a string of comforting words until he had settled both of the elder family members on a hard bench. Grandma Jessie moved closer to her father for support.

  “What’s that now?” Vovô said, dazed and querulous. “Too many people and not enough room.” He wriggled his shoulders until Grandma Jessie gave him a little more space.

  Dolores had never seen Grandma Jessie so out of her element. She was still wearing her apron and had her silver spoon in hand, but down here there was no stew to stir. She sat with her eyes down, shoulders hunched. Manolo sat beside her and brought his clasped hands to his head. Dolores wondered if that helped the splitting headache of his hangover. It was too bad they didn’t have a raucous alarm to set off.

  Behind them, a wall of shelves held staples like cereal, sugar, and coffee. The highest shelves held light cotton blankets. Another bench faced the first, set against floor-toceiling shelves of canned food. Dolores remembered filling those shelves with Ruth, joking about making sure they had a can opener. Now Ruth huddled on the bench, trying to enfold all her children in her arms. Winona
and William usually resisted such demonstrations of motherly affection, but the attack had scared them. Dolores sat next to Ruth, keeping her daughters close.

  Helen clutched the radio as if it were a lifeline. Antonio held her tightly. The KGMB radio announcer said, “This is no maneuver. Japanese forces are attacking the island. This is the real McCoy!” Explosions and sirens assaulted them from the radio and from above. The ground around them rumbled, but the shelter stayed safe.

  “Look, girls,” Dolores said. “We’re having an adventure.” She had to stay calm even though inside she was terrified for them all, and for Alberto down in the middle of everything. She tried to picture the chaos at Pearl Harbor, the smoke and fire and confusion. It was beyond imagination. Silently she said a prayer for Alberto’s safety.

  “An adventure instead of church?” Carmen asked.

  “Shall we have some cereal?” Ruth said. Dolores recognized her own calm mother voice, the one that hid the panic within. Ruth went to the table at the back of the shelter where two kerosene lamps were burning. She filled old white porcelain enamel bowls with Wheaties and put a spoon in each bowl. In another bowl she mixed powdered milk with water from a jug.

  Antonio took his bowl and forced a smile. “Yumm. Very ‘ono,” he said.

  The children ranged in age from Betty at five to Winona at thirteen. They sat on the floor and used their bench as a table. Dolores took her bowl but couldn’t eat. She noticed Helen and Ruth didn’t even take cereal. At least she and Ruth had their children here. “I’m sure Alberto will be fine,” she told Helen. Helen’s tight smile said she appreciated the sentiment, but no one knew who would survive.

  The radio called all navy and civilian workers to Pearl Harbor and reported the roadway clogged with cars. A bomb had fallen on King and McCully, setting fire to a grocery store. Another fell near Washington Place, the governor’s residence.

  “Please, God, let Alberto be all right,” Dolores chanted over and over. She didn’t care who heard. “Please, God, spare my daughters.”

  “Em nome do Pai e do Filho e do Espírito Santo. Amen.” Grandma Jessie prayed in Portuguese.

  Dolores gathered the cereal bowls, with various amounts of leftovers, and put them on the table. She sat down again, and Betty climbed into her lap. Manolo leaned against the closed shelter door.

  About ten o’clock, Governor Poindexter came on the radio and declared a state of emergency. He asked Honolulu residents to stay indoors and remain calm.

  When the attack was over, though, the family tentatively left the shelter, reborn into hell as they came above ground. Grandma Jessie clutched Antonio’s arm. She cried and crossed herself. For once the stalwart matriarch was not in control. Relief washed over Dolores when she saw all four houses standing undamaged. “Look, it’s all right,” Dolores murmured. She patted Grandma Jessie’s arm, “it’s all right.”

  But all reassurances faded as they looked out over their city. Dolores still couldn’t see Pearl Harbor for the smoke. Maria and Peter were down there, too, in their tiny base house near Fort Kamehameha. Dolores tried to imagine Peter manning the anti-aircraft guns at the fort, but she could only see him with his saxophone, or laughing in his yard with his boys.

  All seven adults and five children gathered in Grandma Jessie’s kitchen. Grandma Jessie turned on the stove and stirred the stew pot with a shaking hand. Winona and William took the younger children into the front room. Dolores could hear them telling stories of Pele and her anger as they tried to reassure themselves as well as the younger ones.

  That afternoon, President Roosevelt declared martial law on US soil for the first time since the Civil War. Still in shock, Ruth, Helen, and Dolores sat at the kitchen table and stared at the radio. Manolo comforted his mother, and Antonio took Vovô to his favorite recliner before returning to the kitchen.

  They listened for every scrap of news on the radio. Wounded residents found their way to Queen Emma Hospital. One Japanese plane had been shot down at Fort Kamehameha, and Dolores silently cheered for Peter. Someone found a large bomb fragment on Queen Street and took it to city hall. Frantic residents deluged telephone lines. Radio announcers asked them not to use the phone if they could help it. The military governor called the Territorial Guard to action, which was ironic since they were mostly Japanese-American.

  “But what about civilians at Pearl Harbor?” Dolores said.

  “People are dying all over the city, Dolores.” Manolo’s tone sharpened. “Alberto will get word to us.”

  The day passed slowly. Time dragged with deep worry and debilitating fear. With every announcement, Dolores imagined Alberto and Peter in the rubble, injured or dead. Around dinner time, called that even though no one felt like eating, a boy ran up to the house. Dust coated his clothes and face.

  “Mrs. Rodrigues!” he called.

  Helen stepped forward and said, “Yes?”

  He handed her a dirty scrap of paper and ran off down the hill. The family crowded around her. “It’s a note from Alberto,” she told them and read it aloud.

  Mama—

  I am in the fires of Hell, but not hurt. Tell you all about it when I can get away—so many to save—don’t worry.

  All my love,

  Alberto

  Cheers broke out among the men. They slapped each other on the back, congratulations spilling forth as though someone had become a father. Dolores sank into a chair, weak with relief. Manolo looked at her curiously, but she didn’t care. Alberto was safe. She could handle anything now.

  Dolores couldn’t understand how the hours continued to pass. In times of crisis, families bonded together. Manolo’s brother João arrived with his wife and two children. Frank, the oldest brother, brought his wife, too. Ruth urged Grandma Jessie to prepare food, to keep her busy and pretend life was normal. When it was ready, no one could eat. Dolores helped her mother-in-law in the kitchen because it was better than pacing and waiting. The sun set, but the sky remained vivid and orange as the oil on the sea burned. Manolo and his brothers drank beer out in the carport.

  The next day they hovered around the radio as President Roosevelt spoke. “Yesterday, December seventh, 1941—a date that will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.”

  To hear it spoken so plainly chilled Dolores inside. Finally, the president said, “I ask Congress to declare that since the dastardly and unprovoked attack by Japan on Sunday, December seventh, 1941, a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese Empire.”

  Her ears roared with the white noise of shock. She had known it was coming, had to come, must come, but it was done. America was at war.

  Dolores ventured outside. The neighbors did the same. They paused in the street, afraid to congregate in the open but longing for human interaction. They shared stories that began with, “Did you hear…?” In this way they heard about planes that knocked each other out of the sky, battleships sunk in the harbor, steamship offices bombarded by people who begged to get off the island. Dark smoke hung in the air, stark against the blue Hawaiian sky. For the first time in Dolores’s life, the air didn’t smell of flowers.

  Yoshiko’s oldest son came over to share a copy of Hawai‘i Hochi, the Japanese newspaper. “It urges loyalty to the United States,” he told them.

  Carmen asked, “Why wouldn’t they be loyal to the United States?”

  “Of course, they will, sweetheart,” Dolores assured her. “It’s just that this attack will make people suspicious of all Japanese.”

  Carmen shook her head. “That’s crazy.”

  The adults settled back in front of the radio. They didn’t want to hear more horror, but they could not turn away. They learned that Queen’s Hospital had run out of anesthesia, treating burns. Hospital gowns had been torn up for bandages. Over one thousand civilians gave blood—people from all walks of life, all ethnicities. Honolulu checked its blackout curtains, painted car headlight
s black, grieved its losses, and hunkered down to protect its island.

  After dark that day, Alberto returned home, his feet leaden with exhaustion, his face haunted. Dolores wanted to hold him and never let him leave her sight, but she left that action to his mother and grandmother. Grandma Jessie insisted he wash up and eat before he talked story. They waited, nervous to hear what he had to say. Helen put a bowl of stew in front of her son, and they all settled around, to hear him and support him.

  “I be changin’ clothes when the bombing began,” Alberto said. “Strafing bullets come right through the roof, corrugated, ya?”

  Alberto’s speech always had even more pidgin when he was nervous or upset. Dolores began to reach for his hand, then pulled back.

  “I mo’ scared,” he continued. His uncles nodded, making affirming noises. “I want hide, but Julio DeCastro, ya? The caulker?” His uncles nodded again. “He round us up an’ send us out der. I tear scaffolding off ships and tro it in the water, and dodge strafing bullets by duckin’ ’round turrets on the ships, ya?” He paused, and the family relived his horror in silence. “They try get the ships underway, but….” his voice trailed off. He took a breath. “Afterward a weird silence hang in the air, no planes an’ no explosions, ya? The wounded they start crying, and the tap tap tapping of sailors trapped in capsized ships. I help on Oklahoma all day today wit’ a blowtorch, ya? We got the first group, six men, I t’ink, out ’bout eight o’clock. Every coupla hours, few more men. Dis afternoon they let most of us go.” His eyes looked out toward the harbor. “Some wait still, see if mo’ survivors found. I had ta come home, ya?” He put his head in his hands.

  The family showered him with gratitude and encouragement, and then left him to rest. The benefit of Alberto’s level of exhaustion was that he could sleep, something the rest of them could not.

  But humans are resilient. The city resounded with shock and grief, but it went on. The Red Cross held classes on surgical dressing. Gas rationing, ten gallons a month, went into effect. Christmas lights were torn down or left off throughout the city. Residents might be resilient, but they were afraid.