The Aloha Spirit

by Linda Ulleseit

  After the movie, Paul drove home past orchards and empty farms. “Where are the people?” Dolores asked.

  “These were Japanese-American farms. The government took all the Japanese a few months ago, relocated them to Tule Lake.”

  “Relocated?” Dolores thought of Honolulu’s Japanese-Americans sent to Sand Island. “Did they object?”

  “Most went willingly, but they lost everything.”

  They rode in silence while Dolores remembered Yoshiko and her sons in Hawai‘i.

  “This area is beginning to have more than canneries,” Paul told her. “A couple of high-technology companies have opened. Hewlett-Packard makes the oscillators that Disney used in the movie Fantasia.”

  “I love Fantasia!” Carmen said. “It has great music!”

  “Too bad you can’t see the pictures,” Paul said. “We also have Varian Brothers. They make radar. The factories and canneries have drawn a large number of African-Americans from the South, and lots of women who work in the shipyards.”

  “Women in the workforce support their men at war,” Dolores mused.

  “Yes, and Del Monte is one plant that needs women now.”

  DEL Monte did indeed need women. The pickle plant was a world Dolores didn’t know. The scent of vinegar and garlic permeated everything. She could feel it infusing her clothing. Dolores had never worked outside her home before, but the war made it common for women to do so. The packaging line in the pickle factory was all women. With their gloves, hairnets, and blue coats, they looked alike. Dolores stood out because she was unsure what to do.

  “Over here.” One woman motioned to her. “I’m Lucia. We stuff the cucumbers in the jars, si?”

  “Si, Lucia, gracias. I’m Dolores.”

  “Hello, Dolores.” She grinned. “You speak English?”

  She spoke with a heavy accent—she said hallo and Eeenglish. But Honolulu was full of accents, so Dolores felt at home. “Yes, I speak English.”

  Dolores stepped up to the conveyor belt where endless rows of cucumbers marched their way. Before long, she fell into the rhythm although she was not as fast as Lucia. Yet.

  “Your husband in the war?” Lucia asked.

  “No, he stayed behind in Honolulu to sell our things. He will join us when he can.”

  “Us?”

  “I have two daughters, ages ten and six.”

  “Two daughters! Que fortunado! I have only one son.”

  The woman on the other side of her spoke up. “Seven for me! And a worthless husband who sit at home and drink beer.” She almost sounded proud. “Paloma.”

  “Hi, Paloma, I’m Dolores.”

  “Yes, Dolores from Honolulu with two girls.” Her hands never missed a cucumber or a jar as the conveyor belt continued past them. “What you know about pickles?”

  Dolores said, “They’re crunchy?”

  “Cleopatra ate pickle. She believed they made her beautiful and healthy.”

  “Don’t encourage her,” Lucia whispered. “She’ll go on all day.”

  Dolores nodded and let Paloma’s words fade to background noise as she concentrated on doing her job. After a couple of hours, a loud bell rang.

  “Break time,” Lucia announced, pulling Dolores away from Paloma. They walked down the line of women who stretched aching backs and feet. “Thought you might like to see where the jars go.”

  They watched an opaque green waterfall of pungent spicy vinegar fill the jars. Lucia waved on down the line. “The machine heats them so they have a longer shelf life. Then they’re capped, sealed, labeled, boxed, and sent out to the world.”

  She led Dolores back to their spot on the line where other packers stood talking to each other. Breaks were too short to go anywhere and sit down. Dolores rubbed her own stiff back. Then the bell rang again, and the women stepped up to the conveyor belt. In a few seconds, the belt lurched forward with a grinding noise, and they resumed stuffing cucumbers into jars.

  At lunch time they sat in the cafeteria. Dolores was amazed how soft her body had grown after just two weeks of shipboard living and doing nothing at Paul’s house. It felt good to be working.

  “So Honolulu?” Lucia began as they sat at a cafeteria table. “You were there for Pearl Harbor?”

  Dolores nodded. Her brain flashed images of planes and fires and smoke covering the harbor. She could talk all day and never be able to convey the deep fear of that day. She hesitated.

  Lucia patted her hand. “I understand. You don’t want to talk about it.”

  Relieved, Dolores smiled and took a bite of the ham sandwich she’d brought to work.

  “Family in Honolulu?”

  This was easier. “Lots. More in-laws than coconut palms on Waikiki. My sister-in-law and her three kids lived with us. It was crazy, but I miss them.”

  Lucia nodded. “That’s a full house. Mi mama lives with us in an apartment. She watches my son during the day.”

  “Apartment?” Dolores realized Lucia must be able to afford the apartment on her salary. She’d said nothing about a husband. “Any vacancy?”

  Lucia smiled. “I think the unit upstairs is available. Mama would love to have little girls around!” She picked up her things and stood. “Back to work.”

  One shift lasted twelve hours. Dolores was exhausted but happy when Paul picked her up.

  “How’s my pickle packer?” he teased.

  She regaled him with one of Paloma’s stories. “Did you know Julius Caesar thought pickles made his army strong?”

  He laughed. “No, but I know this area is the largest packing center in the world for canned and dried fruit.”

  “My story is more interesting.”

  They laughed until they reached his house. Paul opened the front door, but no one greeted them. Dolores was used to entering through a crowded, food-scented kitchen. Paul’s house appeared abandoned. “No one home?”

  Paul looked quizzical. “Of course, she’s home. Sofia never goes anywhere.”

  If Sofia was home, then so were her girls. Why didn’t they greet her at the door?

  Sofia came out of the kitchen. Her apron showed evidence of meal preparation. Little Dolores, of course, was close behind her.

  “Dolores, sweetheart, where are your cousins?” She hoped that addressing the child would annoy Sofia. It worked.

  “I sent your band of ruffians to their room.”

  “What did they do?” Sofia had probably overreacted to an infringement her babies knew nothing about.

  “They went outside to play in the yard.”

  “Oh, the horrors.” Dolores’s sarcasm was not lost on Paul.

  “Sofia, did they ask first?”

  She turned her attention to him as if Dolores weren’t standing right there. “They never ask. They run and shout like hussies. All day they want to eat! Then they open the door and just go outside.” Her frustration showed in her tone.

  “They played outside all the time in Hawai‘i,” Dolores said.

  “Not here. Not in my home. They need to learn to act like Americans.”

  “They are Americans,” Dolores said.

  “Hawai‘i is not a state,” Sofia said. “It is not America.”

  “It’s an American territory,” Dolores said.

  “Paul, please.” Sofia sank into a chair with her hand on her forehead and her daughter at her side. Paul scurried to get a rag with cool water. “I can’t take any more of this,” Sofia muttered as he wiped her face.

  Dolores clamped her lips tight together to avoid saying anything she’d regret. In the bedroom, her daughters sat on the bed. Betty held The Little Engine That Could on her lap. She turned a page, described a picture, and Carmen told the story. Carmen’s short hair was parted on the side, caught back on the other side with a hair clip. Betty’s parted in the middle and curled under her chin. They both wore clean play dresses. Dolores’s heart burst with love.

  “Mama!” Betty was first off the bed and into her mother’s arms.

  “Au
ntie Sofia won’t let us out,” Carmen said.

  “Mama, is it evil to play outside in California? Auntie Sofia said so.” Betty’s forehead wrinkled in confusion.

  “There, there, darlings,” Dolores crooned. “Mama’s home now. We won’t be staying here for long. Remember, Papa is coming soon. Maybe we can find a nice place to fix up to welcome him, all right?”

  Paul came down the hall and stood in the doorway. “Any word from Manolo?” he asked.

  Dolores shook her head as she came to the door. “You girls keep reading your book. Uncle Paul and I have to talk.” She stepped into the hallway. “There’s a small apartment near the cannery.” She told him what Lucia had said.

  He gave her a wan smile. “You can afford it if you’re frugal. I’ll help you stock the larder, and if you need anything before Manolo arrives, you come to me.”

  Dolores understood. He wanted to be her brother, but he wanted to stay married. Sometimes family was best if it wasn’t all crammed together into a too-small space. That reminded her of Grandma Jessie, and family that sought each other out every day to have lunch, family that loved each other even when it was hard. She gave her brother a thin smile and went back to her daughters and their story.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Apartment 1942

  The furnished apartment was not only small, it was dingy. Dirty yellow curtains sagged from a rod over the windows in the living room. Tucked in a corner of the hallway, a clunky black telephone sat on a small dusty table that held a phone book on a small shelf. The living room boasted both a tiny television and a radio, but the carpet puffed clouds of dirt when the girls ran across it.

  “Girls, why don’t you keep your shoes on until we’ve given this place a good cleaning?” she said.

  “Of course, Mama!” Carmen and Betty returned to her and slipped their shoes back on.

  “I brought you something,” Paul said. He held out a jade plant. “You said it was good luck, right?”

  Dolores felt tears welling. He’d remembered despite Sofia’s obvious lack of care for the plant Dolores had given her. “Thank you, Paul.”

  “I also brought this. Want me to hang it for you?” He handed Dolores a simple crucifix.

  “Oh, thank you! Now Hawai‘i and Jesus will protect me.”

  Paul smiled. He hammered a nail above the door and hung the crucifix.

  In Honolulu, Dolores would have sent the girls off with Ruth and buckled down with a bucket of suds to clean the place. Here no one but her watched the children. But that had been her choice, to leave the family and find a safe future for her girls. Even in her own mind, she’d never put into words whether she was fleeing the terror of Pearl Harbor or of her husband. Maria had told Dolores to keep aloha in her heart. Over the years, she’d learned that meant giving kindness and appreciation to everyone, even family members who were hard to love. She remembered an exuberant young Manolo who told her, “Aloha is the joyous sharing of life’s energy.” But to have aloha, you had to love yourself first. Both Maria and Manolo had told her that. Dolores hoped this time alone with her girls would allow her to learn how to do that.

  The kitchen was a one-person affair, with no room for anyone to stand and talk, much less help with a meal. A Frigidaire refrigerator dominated one wall where it rumbled and groaned like an old grandmother. It worked, though, and Paul made good on his word, filling the refrigerator and pantry before he left. Her brother had bought a six pack of beer, telling her she could drink it if Manolo didn’t arrive soon. Her face blanched, and she poured all six down the drain as soon as he left. She would never keep beer in her fridge just to have it. She certainly would never drink it. Nothing good came of drinking alone.

  Paul also made sure she had her ration book ready to restock as needed. She would have to plan her use of sugar, coffee, meat, and cheese. Most strange was not having a garden. In Honolulu, fruit grew everywhere, and they planted vegetables. At least here Dolores could get fresh vegetables from the market. With none of her familiar brands and items in the house, though, she felt like she was cooking in someone else’s kitchen.

  Two bedrooms flanked one small bathroom. The girls would share one room. Dolores would have the other and share with Manolo when he arrived. She sent the girls to their bedroom to unpack their few possessions, took down all the curtains, and bundled them together. The apartment was brighter with the windows uncovered, but the view of railroad tracks and the run-down buildings that flanked them depressed her.

  “Carmen!” she called.

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “I’m going down to the laundry room. I’ll be right back. Stay with your sister.”

  “Yes, Mama!”

  Dolores left the apartment and ran down the wooden steps that hugged the building’s exterior wall. Necessity forced her to leave them alone, but she was reluctant to do so too long. The washer and dryer sat at the back of the empty garage. She put in the soap and a coin, started the machine, and ran back upstairs. After checking in with the girls, who were working on a Johnny Jeep coloring book Paul had bought for them, Dolores focused on her dirty apartment. Starting with the linoleum on the kitchen floor, she scrubbed until her shoulders ached and the floor gleamed. She eased her back by working on the counters next, wiping old grease from the Formica. The cabinets were solid wood, but the walls had tacky fake wood paneling. She’d have to clean them tomorrow.

  “I’m going downstairs, Carmen!” Dolores called. She ran down to the laundry room. Her load wasn’t quite done.

  A small woman with a huge basket of laundry came into the garage. “Hello? Would you like help?” Dolores called and rushed to take the basket without waiting for an invitation. She set it on the top of the washing machine and turned.

  The Hispanic woman before her was older than Dolores but not as old as Manolo’s sister Helen. Her hair was graying, cut short, and she wore a dark old-fashioned dress. She was short and thick all over: legs, arms, belly, and neck. She smiled at Dolores. “Gracias, mija. This basket gets heavier every day. I seen you going by. You live in these apartments?”

  “Upstairs,” she said, pointing through the roof. “I’m Dolores.”

  “Ah, Dolores. I Consuela. Lucia my daughter. I live next door.” She waved, indicating the door next to the stairway to the upstairs apartment.

  “So nice to meet you, Consuela! Oh, I hope I don’t bother you going up and down so fast,” Dolores said.

  “Sometimes nice to be hard of hearing.” She grinned.

  The washer finished, and Dolores hurried to remove her clothing and put it in the dryer. “This is so much easier than when I was a girl,” she said with a smile.

  “Oh, hush, mija, you barely more than a girl now.”

  “Let me tell you, Consuela. I’ve been doing laundry over twenty years.”

  “Easier now maybe, but still no fun.” Consuela’s face lit up as she laughed.

  “No, you’re right,” Dolores said. “I need to get back upstairs. My girls are alone.”

  “Go, go!” She pushed Dolores out and started her own load.

  Dolores hurried back upstairs. The girls didn’t even look up.

  “Use this blue one, Carmen,” Betty told her sister. She held the book, gave her sister the crayon, and put Carmen’s hand on the page to color the sky.

  Dolores went into the kitchen. As she thought about what to cook for dinner, the windows started to rattle. She thought it was an earthquake and ran to protect her girls. “Stand in the doorway, Carmen!” She grabbed Betty by one arm. Crayons rolled across the floor and Betty started to cry. Breathless, Dolores clutched her girls as the floor and walls rumbled. Outside she heard a great roaring. Then a mournful steam whistle screamed. She laughed and ran to the window.

  “A train, look!” she said. Sure enough, a train rumbled by on the tracks across the street. Smoke and steam belched from it and seeped through the loose window frame. Now she understood why the curtains got so dirty.

  That night, Dolores brushed Carmen
’s hair with a hundred long strokes as she did every day. Betty played with her dolls in the kitchen. Carmen began asking questions around stroke twenty-five.

  “Mama, is Papa ever going to come live with us again?”

  Sometimes her topics took Dolores by surprise, but she never let on. “Of course. He’s still in Honolulu tying up loose ends.”

  “Tying up loose ends?”

  “It means making an end to our life there, selling the house and car.” And all the other things her hasty retreat had left behind. Dolores was sure Manolo would bring none of the girls’ toys or her kitchen gadgets with him.

  “Why is it taking him so long?”

  “I don’t know, sweetheart.”

  She thought for a moment. “He hasn’t sent a letter, has he?”

  “Ships between San Francisco and Honolulu are busy with war supplies. I’m sure he’ll get here as soon as he can.”

  Carmen turned her head as if listening to the radio. Dolores could almost hear her ten-year-old brain at work. “I don’t think you believe that at all,” she said.

  Dolores stifled a gasp. “What do you mean?”

  “You told Uncle Paul you wanted a place for you to live with your girls. Then we got this apartment. There’s no place here for Papa.”

  “He’ll share a room with me, of course.”

  “When we lived in Honolulu, it was like Papa visited us. We saw Cousin Alberto and Grandma Jessie more than our own father.”

  Her tone was matter-of-fact. Dolores continued in the same vein. “Some days that was true.”

  “Here we don’t have Cousin Alberto or Grandma Jessie.”

  Dolores longed for Alberto, too. She forced a smile to her face. “We have Uncle Paul.”

  “He takes us to the movies. But Auntie Sofia doesn’t like me. Will Papa take me to the movies when he comes?”

  “He’ll take us all to the movies, sweetheart, and we’ll buy a nice house where we can all live together.”

  “Will he be here before Christmas?”

  “It’s still summer. I’m sure he’ll be here for Christmas. He’ll probably be here for your first day of school in September.”