She joined them in the room as Manolo turned back to Alberto and asked, “How long before you finish?”
Alberto didn’t respond, and Dolores looked at him with raised eyebrows. “I got a job, ya?” Alberto said. “I’ll come by on the weekend.” His voice was distant and professional.
“It’s coming along nicely,” Manolo said. He looked from Dolores to Alberto and back and frowned. The three of them fidgeted in uncomfortable silence for a long moment. “I guess I’d better be going,” Manolo said.
“Will you see Helen while she’s here?” Dolores asked.
“Alberto gave me their address. I’ll stop by tomorrow. Do you have any beer, Dolores?”
She hadn’t expected anything else. Manolo followed her in the kitchen door and helped himself to a six pack of Alberto’s Pabst Blue Ribbon. “Nice to see you, Dolores.”
“Don’t you want to see the girls?”
“Not now. I have to get to work.”
“Where are you working?”
He waved a hand in the air. “Oh, here and there.” He stepped forward as if to kiss her good-bye, but she pretended not to see him and turned to the sink to wash her hands. When she turned back, he was gone.
One day Dolores came home from the restaurant to silence. The day before, Alberto’s father had passed away. Antonio’s sudden heart attack took everyone by surprise. Helen was distraught. It was Alberto’s duty to stay with his mother. Dolores took a tuna noodle casserole she’d made the night before out of the refrigerator and called to the girls, “Carmen! Betty! I’m home! Let’s go to Auntie Helen’s, shall we?”
“Will she be crying, Mama?” Betty wanted to know. At eleven, her entire world was sunny. She hated tears.
“I’m sure she will be. She’s very sad. It’s our job to make her feel better, all right?”
“Not by telling jokes, either,” fifteen-year-old Carmen warned.
“You’re right, Carmen,” Dolores said, “jokes are not appropriate. Just be sweet and sit with her.” She bustled the girls out the door and into the car. She gave the casserole to Carmen to hold.
Just as she pulled out of the driveway, a battered pre-war Chevrolet clattered to a stop in front of the house. Manolo stepped out of the passenger seat.
“Thanks, Jack,” he said as he waved to the driver.
Manolo saw Dolores in the car and headed that way as Jack left. Dolores watched for staggering steps and didn’t see any. She slid over to the passenger seat and let Manolo into the car.
“Were you going to leave without me?” Manolo asked.
Dolores looked at him. His voice seemed mild enough. “I wasn’t sure you were joining us,” she said.
“Daddy, did you know Uncle Antonio passed away?” Betty said in her most adult voice.
“Yes, sweetheart, but thank you for telling me.”
“We’re bringing dinner, so she doesn’t have to cook,” Carmen said.
“I’m sure she’ll be happy to see all of us,” Manolo said.
For the rest of the drive, Carmen and Betty regaled their father with tales about school and their friends.
“Carmen has a boyfriend!” Betty declared. She subsided into giggles.
“Oh, she does?” Dolores asked. She grinned at Carmen’s scarlet face.
Delighted to be the source of gossip, Betty said, “He’s the older brother of one of my friends. He dropped off Sara the other day and stayed to flirt with Carmen.”
Manolo frowned. “They were home alone?”
“I have to work, Manolo,” Dolores reminded him. “Carmen is responsible. I’m sure this boy didn’t even come into the house, right, Carmen?” Dolores said a silent prayer.
“No, Mama, of course not. We talked a few minutes on the porch, that’s all,” Carmen said.
Dolores smiled with relief and pride.
When they arrived at the house in Mountain View, Alberto let them in. The customary twinkle was absent from his eyes. Dolores took his hands in hers. “How’s Helen holding up?”
“She’s….” He shrugged.
Dolores nodded. “I know.” She took the casserole from Carmen and went to the kitchen. She didn’t want to think about the way her heart raced when she touched him.
Alberto and Manolo took the girls in to see Helen. Dolores could hear her sister-in-law’s ragged voice thanking them for coming. In Honolulu, there would have been three or four times as many family and friends. Dolores was glad Manolo had come for his sister.
After dinner, Dolores put the radio on. She didn’t want to have to talk to Helen, which was difficult in the best of times. The girls sat on the floor near their aunt and listened to the radio. Dolores washed the dinner dishes and wiped them dry. Through the open kitchen window, she could hear Alberto and Manolo in conversation on the porch.
“She’s my wife, you know,” Manolo said.
“Just helpin’ out family.”
Dolores felt a stab of disappointment, but then chastised herself. Did she expect Alberto to declare his undying love to her husband?
“You should lose the pidgin now that you’re in California. It makes you sound ignorant.” When Alberto didn’t react, Manolo said, “Nice apartment you’re building for her.”
“She need the extra space, ya?” Both men’s tones were carefully even.
“Maybe I’ll move into that apartment,” Manolo said.
“You her husband. You should be in her bed or nowhere,” Alberto said, and his clipped words betrayed his rising anger.
Dolores grabbed two beers from the fridge and sailed out to the porch with a smile on her face. “Here you two are. I came to see if you needed another drink.”
Manolo gave her a smile of possession. Dolores realized the show was for Alberto, not her. “Thank you, darling.”
He’d never called her darling before. She handed him a beer and gave the other one to Alberto. She couldn’t look at Alberto. It was too dangerous.
Alberto talked about Honolulu and the construction going on since the war. Dolores escaped back into the kitchen. She waited long enough for Manolo to finish the one beer and then rounded up the girls. They took their leave from Alberto and Helen. The drive home was quiet.
Dolores took the girls inside when they arrived home, but Manolo didn’t come in.
“Manolo, I need the car for work. Can’t Jack come and get you?”
“Do you think I live with Jack?”
“I have no idea where you live, but you can’t take my car.” She took the keys out of his hand. “I’ll call you a cab.” She let herself in and shut the door firmly.
Manolo waited on the porch for the cab.
PROGRESS on Dolores’s apartment slowed. After they laid Antonio to rest, she busied herself with the restaurant and the girls and told herself she didn’t notice when Alberto didn’t come by. He was working long hours at Vanderson, and she missed him.
When he finished the apartment, Alberto came to Ross’s Steakhouse to see Dolores. He sat in a booth and ate a big bowl of her beans. When she had a break, she joined him.
“I came to talk to you about my mother,” he said.
The time working in San Jose had smoothed Alberto’s speech. She missed his pidgin. “Is she all right?” Dolores frowned.
“She’s fine. It’s not that. She misses Papa, of course. She wants to go back to Honolulu.”
Dolores held her breath. “And you?”
“Dolores, how often does Manolo come around?”
Irritated at the change of topic, Dolores snapped, “You know how much I see him.”
Alberto nodded. “About once a week. He’s not much help.”
“You went with him a couple of times.”
“I did. I met some of his friends and I know where they hang out in the city. If you need him, I can find him.”
Dolores’s irritation dissolved. “But you’re leaving.”
“No, I said my mother is leaving. I’m selling the house in Mountain View. Any idea where I might live?” His wo
rds were serious, but his eyes teased her.
“Oh, Alberto, are you planning to live in the apartment you’re building?”
“If you’ll have me.”
Joy filled her. “Of course.”
“It’s settled then. I’ll move my things in this weekend.”
Her break over, Dolores went back to the kitchen with a wide smile on her face.
That weekend Alberto moved in. From the kitchen, Dolores could hear him moving around his room, and she smiled. He spent a lot of time in her kitchen and reserved a spot in her fridge for a six pack of Pabst. She was so happy to have him nearby that she overlooked the beer. It wasn’t like he had to replace it every day. He ate meals with Dolores and the girls and watched TV with them each night. She let herself believe he was the missing piece to her family.
TWENTY-NINE
Alberto 1950
“Happy New Year!” Alberto said as he clinked his bottle of beer against Dolores’s glass of sparkling cider.
She looked at him with shining eyes. “Can you believe the forties are over? That the girls are both in high school?”
“Amazing that old folks like us can even stay up ’til midnight,” Alberto teased. He tipped his beer up and drained the bottle. The TV rang with “Auld Lang Syne” and showed crowds of people in Times Square as they cheered the ball drop. Alberto got up from the couch, tossed the empty bottle in the trash, and got a fresh beer from the fridge. He returned and waved his bottle as if to brush away her words of the future. “It seems like yesterday when I first saw you on the beach at Hanauma Bay. You were the most beautiful girl there.”
“I was fifteen!” Dolores protested. “You were only eleven. Just a kid.” Her eyes twinkled as she teased him. He’d made her smile for almost half her life.
“Twenty years. I been waiting to make an honest woman outta you for twenty years.”
And there it was: the sticking point in their relationship, the one subject they could not resolve. “Alberto—” she began.
“I know. You’re married. You’re Catholic.”
He sounded resigned but determined. She knew how stubborn he was, like a shark chasing an awa fish. But she was stubborn, too, had learned it from him. “So are you. Catholics don’t divorce, and Catholics can’t marry divorced women.”
“You are more important than my faith,” he told her. His tone and eyes were serious, and that always made her uncomfortable.
“Who knows what 1950 will bring?” she said brightly.
His eyes narrowed as he finished his second beer. “Happy New Year.” Alberto went into the kitchen and put another empty bottle on the counter. He helped himself to a third beer, and without saying any more, he disappeared through the connecting door to his apartment.
Dolores wiped counters that were already clean. They’d avoided a major confrontation over the future of their relationship for twenty years.
And where was Manolo this New Year’s Eve? Her guilt didn’t allow her to think of his life on the streets. Manolo spent his time in San Francisco, she knew that. He refused help and refused to come visit her now that the girls were nearly grown. Alberto brought him food and money, she knew that, too. Manolo was Alberto’s uncle, after all. Helping his uncle had nothing to do with Dolores. She winced as that thought crossed her mind. Of course, it had everything to do with her.
Falling in love with Alberto hadn’t been dramatic. It had been more like discovering a part of herself. And wasn’t that aloha? Learning to love and respect all parts of yourself? At sixteen she hadn’t known to listen to her heart. She’d married the older man, the smart one who could give her a family of her own. She hadn’t ever seen a relationship like the one she and Manolo had, so how could she have known to be wary?
Noelani and Kanoa had worked together as if they were one person. Together, they supported their family with food and shelter. They had never been affectionate. She hadn’t realized it, but they loved their large family. Noelani and Kanoa showed love by working hard and teaching their children to do the same. Because of Noelani, Dolores had taught her girls to cook and clean, and she’d never allowed Carmen to use her blindness as an excuse.
Maria and Peter were giddy lovers. Sometimes Dolores had felt like an interloper, but Maria and Peter taught her about showing affection to family. Because of Maria, Dolores had lavished her daughters with love, praise, and encouragement.
Grandma Jessie had been there to show Dolores that sometimes love was difficult. The entire Medeiros family had supported her in the early years of her marriage. Family stuck together. Family helped each other, no matter what. Because of Grandma Jessie, Dolores’s support of Manolo didn’t die when her love for him did. Because of Grandma Jessie, Alberto could live in Dolores’s apartment addition here in San Jose and help her raise her children.
It was ironic that Manolo was the one who’d always said aloha was the joyous sharing of life’s energy. He never seemed joyous anymore.
As a small child, she remembered going to Mass on Kaua‘i with Papa and Paul. Like many natives, Noelani and Kanoa followed the old Hawaiian gods as well as the Christian one. Dolores learned to respect superstition as well as the Christian God. Her Catholic faith had only deepened since. She’d prayed for a husband and family. She’d prayed for Manolo’s health, for Carmen to live, for the strength to carry on. God gave her strength to get through difficult days even now. Aloha encouraged you to follow your heart, but Catholicism forbade that heart to change its mind and grow. No divorce.
Dolores sighed, folded the dish towel, and hung it over the refrigerator handle. The new year would bring love and heartache. It always did. She turned off the lights in the kitchen, shut off the TV in the living room, and went to bed.
ON January 15, Dolores turned thirty-five years old. After a late Mass, Carmen and Betty made lunch for their mother. Alberto supervised and made sure Dolores didn’t lift a finger. After a leisurely meal, the girls went into the kitchen to clean up, and then they were off to their friends’ houses for the afternoon. Silence descended over the house like a shroud.
Dolores picked up her juice glass. In the kitchen, she rinsed it in the sink. And noticed a row of empty beer bottles on the drainboard. She and the girls had sipped guava juice—not as good as in the islands but refreshing. She counted the bottles. No normal person would consume six beers in an afternoon. Alberto knew how she hated his drinking, yet he displayed the empties like trophies, taunting her. Dolores opened the refrigerator and found eight more bottles. She opened each one, poured it down the sink, and added the empties to the row already lined up on the dashboard. With each bottle, her fury mounted.
Alberto knew how helpless she felt, shackled to Manolo. Did he think she would take care of him when he was too drunk to know what was best? He knew how much she hated the years when the drink conquered her husband. She had quaked in terror and waited for the violence. Alberto knew, and he drank anyway. She’d known men who could drink reasonable amounts. Kanoa drank on Sundays at the family lū‘au, but working the cane fields exhausted him too much to drink during the week. Dolores wrinkled her brow, trying to remember if she’d ever seen Peter take a drink, even one. He hadn’t been against drinking, but she’d never seen him drunk. Then Manolo and the wild Medeiros boys had come along. So fun, so carefree. Always drinking. Why had Manolo been the only one who couldn’t control it? Why were his demons so much worse than his brothers’?
Alberto came into the kitchen. “Whatchu doing?”
She set the last empty bottle at the end of the row with a solid thump. “There will be no more drinking in my house.”
“Aw, Dolores, it’s jus’ beer. Beer is the Medeiros boys’ family drink.” He laughed.
Dolores peered at him. He wasn’t a violent drunk like Manolo. He was lucid. His cheeks were rosy, and he leaned as he stood, but his pidgin was back. “You’re drunk.” She infused as much scorn as she could into those words.
“Drunk in my own home. A nightmare, ya?” He waved hi
s hand around in a circle to indicate she was crazy.
Dolores held it together until he rolled his eyes. “I won’t tolerate a drunk living in my house. I tried that. Didn’t work. You need to stop.” Her tone rose with each word until it was out of her control.
“Your house? Stop?” his voice went low and cold. “I build most of dis house, an’ I put blood, sweat, and moolah into it fo’ years. I be entitled to a beer now and den.”
“Entitled? Maybe that’s the problem. You’re too entitled. Too comfortable. Let me remind you we are not married. This is not your house. My house, my rules.”
“Like I be one of yo’ daughters, ya?” Alberto sneered.
For too many years she’d cowered under Manolo’s wrath. Since then, her own wrath had come into its own. “You’re their cousin!” she shouted at him, trying to put enough weight into the volume to hurt him. “You’ve played the role of stepfather their entire lives, but that was my choice, not yours!”
“Your choice? I coulda left any time I wanted! Then where you be?”
“Right here in my house with my girls and no beer in my fridge!” Her anger was too great for words. She picked up the nearest empty bottle and hurled it at his head. Alberto ducked, and the bottle crashed against the door frame. “Get out!” She threw another bottle. Crash.
“Hot Spanish blood!”
Crash.
“Woman, you pupule!”
Crash.
“Kanapapiki! Son of a bitch!”
Crash.
“I goin,’ woman.”
He slammed the kitchen door so hard that another bottle fell off the counter and broke. She heard his truck start. He gunned the engine and roared down the street.
Her anger drained and left her muscles shaky as if she hadn’t eaten for days. Dolores dropped the bottle she was holding. Shards of brown glass littered the kitchen, crunching under her feet as she went to the closet for the broom. What had she done?
The tinkle of the broken glass was the only sound as she swept the floor. The rest of the house was silent. She loved that man. More than she’d ever loved Manolo. Why did he feel it was necessary to drink? Couldn’t he respect her enough to stop? By the time she’d swept up every bit of glass, tears were running down her cheeks. Dolores took the bag of broken glass out to the trash can, took a deep breath, and wiped her face. She could rely on herself. She’d done so before. Life had just been more fun with Alberto.
The Aloha Spirit Page 28