Hawaii

by James Michener

  Mercifully, the phone rang before he could digest the full ridiculousness of his situation. It was the headmaster at Punahou: "I suppose you've seen it, Hoxworth."

  "How could such a thing have happened, Larry?" Hale groaned.

  "We can never probe the minds of adolescents," the headmaster confessed.

  "Does it seem as bad to you as it does to me?" Hoxworth asked.

  "I haven't the time to judge degrees, Hoxworth. You realize, I'm sure, that this means . . ."

  "He's got to go, Larry. I realize that."

  "Thank you, Hoxworth. The important thing is, he's got to get into Yale. I've taken the liberty of dispatching a cable to my old friend Callinson at The Hill. There's a chance they'll take him. "I've helped Callinson in the past."

  "You think he can still make Yale?"

  "We won't condemn the boy in our report, Hoxworth. Of that you can be sure."

  "I appreciate this, Larry. But tell me, does this essay indicate a diseased mind?"

  There was a pause, and the headmaster said reflectively, "I think we'd better leave it the way I said first. About adolescents, we can never know."

  "Do you know where Bromley is?"

  "No, Hoxworth, I don't."

  The call ended and Hale sat in the lowering darkness. The phone immediately resumed jangling but Hoxworth let it ring. It would be some parent raising hell about what Bromley had said regarding their ancestors. "Damn them all!” Hoxworth cried in real confusion as he watched the lights of Honolulu come on, that nightly miracle that pleased him so much. His family had brought electricity to the city, just as they had brought so much more, but now that a Hale was in trouble, the vultures would want to rip him apart. Therefore, when the front doorbell rang insistently, Hoxworth was inclined to let it ring; he would not parade his hurt to the vultures. Let them pick the bones to their own ghoulish cackling.

  The door opened and a cheery male voice cried, "Hey! Anybody in?" Hoxworth could hear footsteps crossing the first big room and he had a panicky thought: "It's some cheeky reporter!" And he started to run for it, when the voice called, "Hey, Mr. Hale. You're the one . . ."

  "Who are you?" Hoxworth asked stiffly, turning unwillingly to see a brash-looking young man in flannel trousers and white linen coat. He carried three books under his arm, and looked disarmingly at ease.

  "I'm Red Kenderdine. Brom's English teacher." He looked at a chair, and when Hale failed to respond, asked, "Mind if I sit down?"

  "I don't want to talk about this thing, Mr. Kenderdine."

  "Have you seen Brom yet?"

  "No!" Hale snapped. "Where is he?"

  "Good. I wanted very much to be the first to talk with you, Mr. Hale."

  "Why?"

  "I don't want you to make a serious mistake, Mr. Hale."

  "What do you mean?"

  "First, will you agree to honor what I'm about to say as coming from a personal friend . . . and not from a Punahou master?"

  "I don't even know you," Hale replied stuffily. He had never liked educators. To him they were a mealy lot.

  "But Bromley does."

  Hale looked at the young man suspiciously. "Are you in any way involved . . ."

  "Mr. Hale, I come here as a friend, not as a conspirator."

  "Excuse me, Kenderdine. Bromley has spoken well of you."

  "I'm glad," the young instructor said coldly. "I'm here to speak well of him."

  "You're about the only one in Honolulu . . ."

  "Exactly. Mr. Hale, have you read Brom's essay?"

  "All I could stomach."

  "Apart from the photograph of you, which is unforgivable, did you recognize your son's essay as a marvelous piece of irony?"

  "Irony! It was plain unadulterated filth. Sewer stuff."

  "No, Mr. Hale, it was first-rate compassionate irony. I wish I had the talent your son has."

  "You wish . . ." Hoxworth sputtered and stared incredulously at his visitor. "You sound like one of the elements we're trying to control in this community."

  Kenderdine blew air from his lower lip into his nose and took a patient respite before daring to answer. Then he handed Mr. Hale three books. "These are for you, sir."

  "What do I want with them?" Hoxworth growled.

  "They will help you understand the extraordinarily gifted young man, who happens to be your son," Kenderdine explained.

  "Never heard of them," Hale snorted, at which the young master lost his temper slightly and said something he immediately wished he could recall.

  "I suppose you haven't, sir. They happen to be three of the greatest novels of our time."

  "Oh," Hale grunted, missing the sarcasm. "Well, I still never heard of them. What're they about?"

  "Family histories, Mr. Hale. A Lost Lady is a great masterpiece. I wish everyone in Hawaii could read The Grandmothers by Glenway Wescott. It would explain so much about Honolulu and Punahou. And this last one should be read by everyone who comes from a large family with many mixed-up ramifications. Kate O'Brien's Without My Cloak. It's laid in Ireland, but it's about you and Bromley, Mr. Hale."

  "You know, Kenderdine, I don't like you. I don't like your manner, and I think if the truth were known, Bromley probably got off on the wrong foot largely because of your bad influence. I don't know what Punahou's . . ."

  "Mr. Hale, I don't like you either," the young instructor said evenly. "I don't like a man who can read one of the wittiest, most promising bits of writing I've ever known a schoolboy to write and not even recognize what his son has accomplished. Mr. Hale, do you know why Hawaii is so dreadfully dull, why it's such a wasteland of the human intellect? Because nobody speculates about these islands. Nobody ever writes about them. Aren't you ever perplexed over the fact Nebraskans write fine novels about Nebraska, and people in Mississippi write wonderful things about Mississippi? Why doesn't anybody ever write about Hawaii?"

  "There was Stevenson," Hale protested, adding brightly, "and Jack London!"

  "Complete junk," Kenderdine snapped disdainfully.

  "Do you mean to sit there and tell me that you teach our children that Jack London..."

  "What he wrote about Hawaii? Complete junk. What anybody else has written about Hawaii? Complete junk, Mr. Hale."

  "Who are you to judge your betters?"

  "I'm stating facts. And the biggest fact is that nobody writes about Hawaii because the great families, like yours, don't encourage their sons and daughters to think...to feel...and certainly not to report. You've got a good thing here, and you don't want any questions asked."

  "Young man, I've heard enough from you," Hoxworth said stiffly. "I recognize you as a type too dangerous to work with young people. So, as a member of the board at Punahou . . ."

  "You're going to fire me?"

  "I would be derelict to my duty if I did otherwise, Mr. Kenderdine."

  The young man relaxed insolently in the chair and stared at the lights of Pearl Harbor. "And I would be derelict to my duty as a human being who loves these islands, Mr. Hale, if I failed to tell you that I for one don't give a good goddamn what you do or when you do it. I've watched you try to hold education back. I've watched you try to hold labor back. I've watched you try to hold the legislature back. There was nothing I could do about those crimes against the larger community. But when you try to hold back a proven talent, your own son, who if he were encouraged could write the book that would illuminate these islands, then I object. I didn't know anything about your son's rare and wonderful essay until I saw it. I got my copy late, but I will always treasure it. When he becomes a great man, I'll treasure it doubly. I detect in it certain of my phrases, and I'm glad he learned at least something from me."

  "You're through, Kenderdine! You're out!” Hale paced back and forth before the big windows, waiting for the insolent young man to leave, but the English teacher lit a cigarette, puffed twice, and slowly rose.

  "I am through, Mr. Hale. But not because of your action. I was through when I came here. Because I won't tolera
te your kind of crap a day longer. I've joined the navy."

  "God help America if the navy takes men like you," Hale snorted.

  "And when this war comes to Hawaii, Mr. Hale, as it inevitably must, not only will I be gone, but you will be, too. Everything you stand for. The labor you hate is going to organize. The Japanese you despise will begin to vote. And who knows, perhaps even your cozy little deal with the military, whereby you and they run the islands, will be blasted. I'm through for the time being, Mr. Hale. You're through forever."

  He bowed gravely, jabbed his forefinger three times at the books and winked. But as he left the room he said gently, "I've allowed you to fire me, Mr. Hale. Now you do one thing for me. Read the essay again and discover the love your son holds for the missionaries. Only a mind steeped in true love can write irony. The others write satire." And he was gone.

  Alone, Hoxworth decided to call the police to find where his son was, but he reconsidered. Then Hewlett Janders stormed over, big, robust, full of action and profanity. Hoxworth found the interview rather confusing because Hewlett on reconsideration didn't want to horsewhip Bromley at all. He thought the essay a damned good bit of skylarking and said it would probably do the mission families as much good as anything that had happened in years.

  "Whole town's laughing their belly off," he roared. "I thought that picture of you in the bunk was downright killing, Hoxworth. And what about that paragraph where he sums up: 'So by projection we can assume . . .' Where's your copy, Hoxworth?" He glimpsed the mimeographed publication under a davenport pillow, picked it up and thumbed through it. "By God, Hoxworth, that picture of you in the bunk is about ten thousand votes if you ever decide to run for office. Only thing you've ever done proves you're human. Here's the part I wanted. 'So by projection we can estimate that within an area less than six feet by five, during a voyage of 207 days, no less than 197 separate acts of sexual intercourse must have taken place under conditions which prevented any of the female participants from taking off their long flannel underwear or any of the men from stretching out full length in the bunks.' Now here's the part I like," Janders laughed robustly. " 'Against its will the mind is driven to haunting suspicions: What actually went on. in those crowded staterooms? What orgies must have transpired? Out of delicate regard for the proprieties I shall not pursue the probabilities, for they are too harrowing to discuss in public, but I recommend that each reader develop this matter logically to its inevitable conclusions: What did go on?'" Big Hewlett Janders slammed the essay against his leg and shouted, "Y'know, Hoxworth, I often used to ask myself that very question. How the hell do you think the old folks did it?"

  "How should I know?" Hoxworth pleaded.

  "Damn it all, man, it was you they photographed hunched up in one of the bunks!" Janders roared.

  "Does anyone know where Bromley is?" Hale asked stiffly.

  "Sure," Janders laughed. "But don't change the subject. Don't you agree that the bit I just read is hilarious? By God, I can see prim Lucinda Whipple turning cartwheels when she reads that. One fellow at the club said your boy Brom must be a genius."

  "Where is he?" Hale insisted.

  "Whole gang of them are having chop suey at Asia Kee's. Every fifteen minutes somebody yells, 'Author! Author!' and Brom takes a bow. Then they all sing a dirge somebody made up, 'Farewell, Punahou!' I suppose you heard that my boy Whip also got expelled. For taking the pictures. Damned glad Mandy didn't too. Posing like that with your boy." But his raucous laughter proved that he wasn't too concerned.

  "Did you see them ... at the chop suey place?" Hoxworth asked.

  "Yeah, I stopped by ... Well, hell, I figured, it's their big night, so I dropped off a couple bottles of Scotch."

  "You gave these outrageous children . . ."

  "What I stopped by to see you about, Hoxworth, is that I just called that tutoring school near Lawrenceville, and they've agreed to take Whip and Brom ... if you want to send them . . . and guarantee to get them into Yale. That's the only problem, really, Hoxworth. Get the boys into Yale."

  "What school are you talking about?"

  "What's the name? It's right near Lawrenceville. Mark Hewlett sent his boy there when he got busted out of Punahou. They got him into Yale." Seeing the three novels on the low table, Janders picked one up in the way men do who never read books, and asked, "You drowning your sorrows in a good book?"

  "Do you know an English master at Punahou named Kenderdine?"

  "Yes. Crew-cut job."

  "I had a fearful scene with him. He's at the root of this business, I'm convinced."

  "He's a troublemaker. Some jerkwater college like Wisconsin or Wesleyan. I keep telling Larry, 'Get Yale men. They may not be so smart but in the long run they give you less trouble.' But Larry always drags in some genius . . . Yes, Kenderdine's Wisconsin."

  "He's no longer Punahou."

  "You fire him?"

  "I certainly did. But you know, Hewlett, he said about the same thing you did. Said Bromley's essay would do us all a lot of good. Get people laughing. He said it was crystal-clear that Brom wrote the essay with love and affection . . . that he wasn't lampooning the missionaries."

  "That's what one of the judges at the club thought," Janders recalled. "But I'll tell you what, Hoxworth. Seems it was my son who took the photo of you in the bunk, proving that sex was impossible. Well, if you can handle him, you're welcome to thrash hell out of him. I won't try because he can lick me."

  The door banged and Hoxworth Hale was left alone in the big room overlooking Honolulu. For a while he studied the never tedious pattern of lights, as they came and went along the foreshores of the bay, and the bustling activity at Pearl Harbor, and the starry sky to the south: his city, the city of his people, the fruit of his family's energy. He leafed his son's startling essay and saw again the provocative last sentence: "We can therefore conclude, I think, that whereas our fathers often paced the deck of the Thetis, wrestling with their consciences, they usually wound up by hustling below to the cramped bunks, where they wrestled with their wives."

  Idly he picked up the three books Kenderdine had left. Hefting the Irish novel, he found it too heavy and put it aside. He looked at Willa Cather's slim book, A Lost Lady, but its title seemed much too close to his own case, and he did not want to read about lovely ladies who become lost, for it seemed to be happening throughout his group. That left The Grandmothers, which was neither too heavy in bulk nor too close to home, although had he known when he started reading, it was really the most dangerous of the three, for it was a barbed shaft directed right at the heart of Honolulu and its wonderful matriarchies.

  To his surprise, he was still reading the story of Wisconsin's rare old women, when the lights of Honolulu sadly surrendered their battle against the rising dawn. The door creaked open gingerly, and Bromley Whipple Hale, flushed with pride of authorship and Uncle Hewlett's good whiskey, stumbled into the room.

  "Hi, Dad."

  "Hello, Bromley."

  The handsome young fellow, with indelible Whipple charm stamped on his bright features, slumped into a chair and groaned. "It's been quite a day, Dad."

  Grudgingly, Hoxworth observed: "You seem to have cut quite a niche for yourself in the local mausoleum."

  "Dad, I got thrown out of school."

  "I know. Uncle Hewlett's already made plans for you and Whipple to get into one of the good cram schools. The one thing you have to safeguard is your Yale entrance."

  "Dad, I was going to speak about this later, but I guess now’s ... I don't believe I want to go to Yale. Now wait a minute! I'd like to try either Alabama or Cornell."

  "Alabama! Cornell!" Hoxworth exploded. "Those jerkwater . . . Good heavens, you might just as well go to the University of Hawaii."

  "That's what I wanted to do ... seeing as how I want to write about Hawaii. But Mr. Kenderdine says that Alabama and Cornell have fine classes in creative writing."

  "Bromley, where did you ever get the idea that you want to be a writer
? This isn't a job for a man. I've been relying on you to . . ."

  "You'll have to rely upon somebody else, Dad. There's lots of good bright young men from Harvard and Penn business schools who'd be glad . . ."

  "What do you know about Harvard and Penn?"

  "Mr. Kenderdine told us they were the best in the country . .. in business."

  Hoxworth stiffened and growled, "I suppose your Mr. Kenderdine said that anyone who bothered to go into business . . ."

  "Oh, no! He thinks business is the modern ocean for contemporary Francis Drakes and Jean Lafittes."

  "Weren't they pirates?" Hoxworth asked suspiciously.

  "They were adventurers. Mr. Kenderdine told Whip Janders he ought to try like the devil to get into Harvard Business School."

  "But he didn't tell you that, did he?"

  "No, Dad. He thinks I can write." There was a long pause in the big room as the pastel lights of morning spread across the city below, and one of those rare moments developed in which a son can talk to his father, and if Hoxworth Hale had growled in his customary manner, the moment would have passed, like the ghost of Pele ignoring one whom she considered not worth a warning, but Hoxworth's personal god sat heavily on his shoulder, and he said nothing, so that his son continued: "You and your father and all your generations used to sit up here, Dad, and look down at Honolulu and dream of controlling it. Every streetcar that ran, every boat that came to port did so at your command. I appreciate that. It's a noble drive, a civilizing one. Sometimes I've caught a glimpse of such a life for myself. But it's always passed, Dad. I just don't have that vision, and you've got to find someone who has, or you and I will both go broke."

  "Don't you have any vision at all?" Hoxworth asked quietly, back in the shadows.

  "Oh, yes!" The handsome young fellow pointed to Honolulu, lying tribute beneath them, and confided for the first time to anyone: "I want to control this city too, Dad. But I want to bore into its heart to see what makes it run. Why the Chinese buy land and the Japanese don't. Why the old families like ours intermarry and intermarry until damned near half of them have somebody locked away in upstairs rooms. I want to know who really owns the waterfront, and what indignities a man must suffer before he can become an admiral at Pearl Harbor. And when I know all these things, I'm going to write a book . . . maybe lots of them . . . and they won't be books like the ones you read. They'll be like The Grandmothers and Without My Cloak, books you never heard of. And when I know, and when I have written what I know, then I'll control Honolulu in a manner you never dreamed of. Because I'll control its imagination."