JoAnn Bassett - Islands of Aloha 07 - Moloka'i Lullaby

by JoAnn Bassett

  “So, how about you and I make a deal? If I can get Hatch to eat the ratatouille—”

  Steve interrupted. “Not just eat it, rave about it.”

  “Okay, rave about it,” I said. “If I do that, would you be willing to try your hand at working with tofu?”

  “I shudder at the thought, but yes. For our dear procreatingly-challenged friend I would walk over hot coals.”

  “And maybe grill some tofu on them while you’re at it?”

  “Ha, ha. Don’t push it, sweetie.”

  Hatch knocked twice on the front door; then walked in. We were in that twilight period of our engagement where we still felt the need to acknowledge each other’s space, but we’d moved from waiting for each other to answer the door to just announcing our arrival.

  “We’re trying something new tonight,” I said, after giving Hatch an especially lingering kiss. “It’s called ‘ratatouille.’”

  “Wasn’t that a cartoon movie?” he said. “About a French rat?”

  “Yeah, but it was just a play on words. Ratatouille is actually a very yummy casserole.”

  “With noodles?”

  “No noodles.”

  “How about meat? Does it have meatballs or sausage or something?”

  “No.”

  He twisted his mouth from side to side. “There’s something in play here, isn’t there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it a bet? Are you betting Steve I won’t eat it, or is he betting you?”

  “No bet. It’s bigger than that. I need you to put on your everyday hero face and eat Steve’s casserole. It’s for Farrah. She’s coming to live here and Steve won’t cook tofu for her unless I can get you to ooh and awe over his vegetable casserole.”

  “You two are nuts, you know,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “But you also know I’d do anything for Farrah.”

  “I was banking on that,” I said.

  “Okay, then,” he said. “Bring on the French rat.”

  CHAPTER 3

  On Wednesday, Amanda arrived right on time for her ten o’clock appointment. I glanced up from my desk and noticed that, once again, she’d come alone. I must’ve looked irritated, because she launched into an explanation before even saying, “Hello.”

  “Okay, I can see this town is pretty old and rundown,” she said. “But haven’t you ever heard of the ADA law?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Americans with Disabilities Act?” she said in a bored holier-than-thou voice, as if she’d just trumped the other two contestants on Final Jeopardy!

  “Do you have a disability?” I said. I looked her up and down, and she appeared healthy as a horse to me. An especially high maintenance, overly-indulged derby winner, I might add.

  “Not for me, silly,” she said. She gestured toward the open door, and I got up and looked out. A somewhat frail-looking older man was slumped in an electric wheelchair outside on Baldwin Avenue. Blocking his forward motion was the raised wooden sidewalk, and beyond that, the six-inch step up to the doorway of my shop.

  “Do you have a ramp around back?” she said.

  “No, sorry. I can help lift the chair, though,” I said. “I’m pretty strong.”

  I flexed my bicep as if proving the point, then felt pretty silly for doing it.

  “Go ahead, knock yourself out,” she said. “But don’t expect me to chip my polish over it. You’re the one breaking the law.”

  She inspected her perfect manicure while I hustled outside.

  Why would a bride bring her father—no, he looked more like her grandfather—to her wedding planning appointment? Maybe he suffered from dementia and she couldn’t leave him alone by himself.

  I turned the heavy chair around and heaved it, backside first, up onto the wooden walkway. Then, I did it again to hoist it up into the shop. As I blew out a breath from the exertion, Amanda made the introductions.

  “Pali, this is my fiancé, and the love of my life, Richard Atkinson.”

  I had to forcibly keep my eyes from bulging in astonishment.

  “And, Richard, this is Pali Moon, our wedding planner. She’s promised to make our fairy tale Moloka’i wedding everything we’ve dreamed of.”

  I wanted to point out I hadn’t promised anything the least bit fairy tale, but then I stopped myself. Wasn’t there a fairy tale that reminded me of this very situation? Oh yeah, “Beauty and the Beast.”

  ***

  Richard turned out to be much more robust in personality than he was in physique. The guy was charming, funny, and had a sharp wit. It didn’t appear as if he was unable to walk as much as he was simply old and frail and he liked the notion of having someone fussing around him, doing his bidding. Especially if that someone was young and pretty and a tad bit ditzy.

  “So, why Moloka’i?” I asked after I’d provided each of them with a glass of fizzy water and a place to sit. Of course, Richard had brought his own seat, so it was just a matter of moving a guest chair out of the way.

  “I’m a very private man,” said Richard. “I don’t like crowds. To be honest, I don’t generally like people much at all.”

  He glanced over at Amanda and she took one of his gnarled hands in hers. “But I sure do love this little gal. You know, I’ve been alone most of my life. I’ve made a lot of money doing a career I love, and I just couldn’t believe my good fortune when Amanda came into my life.”

  “How did you two meet?” I’d been dying to ask that since I’d hefted his chair into the shop. I shot him a big smile to thank him for setting up the opportunity.

  “Oh, you know, like folks do nowadays,” he said. “We met online.”

  I couldn’t help but wonder if his profile picture looked a lot more like George Clooney than Kirk Douglas, but then figured maybe instead of a selfie he’d just used a photo of a big ol’ pile of cash.

  “Yeah,” Amanda chimed in. “Richard’s Match dot com story was so funny and sweet. Just like him.”

  “So, do you have a venue in mind for Moloka’i?” I said. “Or would you like me to locate one for you?”

  “We’ll be getting married at a friend of mine’s place,” Richard said. “It’s on the west side of the island, on Papohaku Beach. Are you familiar with the area?”

  “To be truthful, I’m not much of an expert on Moloka’i,” I said. Yeah, I thought. Like, I’ve been there exactly once in my entire life. “But, as you may know, it’s part of Maui County. I’m sure I’ll be able to line up everything we need to make your wedding a perfect day.”

  “Like a fairy tale,” said Amanda.

  “Yeah, like that,” I said.

  We went through my floral books and the couple selected flower colors and arrangements. Then we moved on to the cake books. An hour later, we were discussing wedding dinner arrangements and the bar set-up. They told me they were thinking of inviting about fifteen guests, but the number could go as high as twenty.

  The entire time they were fussing over details, I was praying I’d be able to find what they wanted on Moloka’i. Or, at least I’d be able to get what they wanted shipped over there. The apparent need for a reconnaissance mission was becoming more and more evident. I had no idea what I’d encounter on Moloka’i. No idea at all.

  ***

  Farrah and Ono moved in to my house that night. I’d already hauled my clothes, bathroom necessities, and favorite pillow upstairs to the guest room. I’d be sleeping on the sofa bed until the babies were born, or until Hatch and I got married—whichever came first. I prayed it would be the babies, since Hatch and I still hadn’t hashed out our living arrangements. We both had good arguments for advocating our current residences. Maybe it would come down to a coin toss.

  “It’s totally bitchin’ not to have to battle those stairs anymore,” Farrah said. “But it sucks to banish you from your own crib. We’re sort of bummed you got deported upstairs, ya know? And that sofa bed. We’ve been on that, remember? It’s no Posturepedic, that’s for sure
. It’s more like the solitary cell at Halawa Prison.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m going to enjoy being upstairs. A nice change of perspective.”

  “Yeah,” Ono said. “If you’re idea of a nice change is putting the toilet seat down every time you need the john. I don’t feel as bad kicking you out of your room as I do making you share a bathroom with a guy.”

  “I heard that,” Steve yelled from the kitchen. He came through the swinging door into the living room where we’d all gathered. “And I’ll have you know I always, but always, return both toilet seat and the hygienic lid to their properly stowed position. My toilette isn’t some latrine in a grubby Cub Scout camp or, worse yet, a nasty ‘head’ on a for-hire sailboat.”

  The last part was a dig at Ono’s living conditions. The guys in Ono’s world fell into two groups: rough harbor rats looking for a quick day job so they can replenish their stash of pakalolo, or well-heeled mainlanders who leave the boat a mess and expect Ono and the crew to clean up after them.

  “Point taken,” Ono said. “I just want to make sure you treat your landlady with respect.”

  “Oh, I treat her with respect, all right,” Steve said. “It starts with a little ritual I perform at the beginning of every month called paying rent.”

  Ono turned to me, and I was pretty sure he was about to offer some sort of compensation for staying at the house. It was out of the question. With two babies coming, there’d be barely enough cash for the four of them to live on as it was. Farrah’s store was more a public service than a profit center, and Ono’s salary and tips from running the catamaran business brought in just enough to keep him off food stamps. No way I’d play Snidely Whiplash, twirling the ends of a skinny black mustache and demanding rent money.

  But I also knew Ono was a proud guy. And Steve had thrown down a glove. I racked my brain to come up with something that would clang the bell and send them back to their respective corners of the ring: no harm, no foul.

  Hatch’s low rumbling voice broke the silence.

  “I’m not much of a car guy,” he said. “And there’s no Mini dealer here on Maui. Ono, I was wondering if it would be asking too much to have you change the oil in Pali’s car and make sure it’s running right? It’s way over the recommended mileage. I already bought the fancy filter, but I’ll be damned if I can figure out that engine. At work, no guy would be caught dead driving a foreign car like that. Isn’t it British or something?”

  “The Mini body was made in England, but engine in Pali’s car was made by Peugeot-Citroen,” Ono said. “I had a Beemer when I lived in Seattle—loved that car—and I did all my own work on it. I’d be happy to change the oil and make sure everything’s shipshape.”

  “Mahalo,” I said. “I’d appreciate it, Ono. Having my car taken care of is one less thing for me to worry about. I’m sure glad you guys are staying here.”

  I looked over at Hatch and mahalo’d him, too, with a wink for stepping in and defusing the situation. The wink held an unspoken promise of more mahalo later that night. That is, if the sofa bed could handle it.

  CHAPTER 4

  I woke up before dawn Thursday morning. I hadn’t slept well. And it wasn’t because I’d been up late making good on the mahalo time I’d promised Hatch. In fact, he’d taken one look at the fold-out sofa bed and vanished like a rainbow when the sun ducks behind a cloud.

  “No way,” he said. “My feet would hang over the end of that thing. From now on, any premarital high-jinks will be down at my place. Agreed?”

  I couldn’t argue with that. Not only was the sofa bed undersized, it had a weird horizontal bar about halfway down that dug into my back at about the eighth vertebra. No doubt the thing had been designed by a furniture engineer with a hovering mother-in-law he’d ingeniously managed to insure wouldn’t overstay her welcome.

  I got up and trudged into the spotless bathroom. Truth was: Steve kept his rooms hospital-clean, while my personal areas of the house were more like movie theater-clean. When I scowled in the mirror above the bathroom sink, I couldn’t miss the bruised-colored smudges below each eye.

  I performed what my auntie Mana called a “spit shower” at the sink; then went back to my room and got dressed. As I made my way downstairs, I prayed Steve was already up and he’d made a pot of coffee.

  He was, and he had.

  “You look positively awful,” he said.

  “And aloha to you, too,” I said.

  He grabbed a small red duffel and headed for the back door.

  “Great surf this morning at Ho’okipa,” he said. “Then, this afternoon I’m shooting a family in Wailuku.”

  No matter how many times I’ve heard it, I still wince when Steve refers to “shooting” people.

  “I should be back by five,” he went on. “Any ideas for dinner?”

  “Since there are so many of us, why don’t you let me pick up some take-out in town? How about pizza? I’ll get a big one with just veggies, and then a meaty one for Hatch and Ono. If Farrah won’t eat the pizza, we can always throw a salad together for her.”

  “So, answer me this,” he said. “Why is it that at six in the morning we’re already worrying about what to make for dinner, and we’re the only ones who aren’t picky eaters?”

  “Good point. Since we’re running a refugee camp here, we should probably make the exiles pitch in.”

  “Do you mean have them cook?” he said. His face had the horrified look of a mother who looks down and sees her precious toddler gnawing on a cigarette butt he’s picked up off the beach.

  “Yeah, cook. Or, at least do what I do and get some take-out,” I said.

  “I don’t know, Pali. Are you willing to eat what they come up with? I mean, we all know what Farrah will foist on us: tofu soup, fake tofu meat, tofu salad—”

  “I get the picture,” I said.

  “—and, no doubt, some kind of tofu ice cream.”

  “You’re right. We’ve got six more weeks ‘til her due date, which could mean eating a heckuva lot of tofu.”

  “I gotta get going,” Steve said. “But let’s think this over and talk later.”

  He went out the back, carefully pulling the door closed to avoid waking the rest of the house. I followed him out five minutes later, travel coffee mug in hand. The sun was just peeking over the horizon as I barreled down Baldwin Avenue, ready to kick and scream my way back to a sense of control and equilibrium.

  I pulled into the alley behind the Palace of Pain, the place where I work out most mornings. The name is a bit misleading. I’m not into medieval self-flogging rituals, or anything remotely S and M. In fact, even hardcore mani-pedis, with all that cuticle clipping and callous scraping, give me the willies.

  PoP is a martial arts training facility, called a guan in kung fu terminology. I’ve been training there since I came back to Maui after graduating from the University of Hawaii, and the head instructor, or sifu, is a good friend of mine.

  The building was locked up, but I let myself in using the key I’d been given when I’d achieved black belt status. Early morning is my favorite time. The shadowy training room is deathly quiet; the mats cool underneath my bare feet. A trace scent of bleach hung in the air from my instructor’s attempt to sanitize the place enough to rid it of a lingering odor of grimy feet and dried sweat.

  I went into the back and changed into my black cotton work-out uniform. The pants legs were frayed at the bottom. One of the frog loops on the jacket had broken so I’d resorted to using a safety pin. The whole outfit had been washed so many times it was more gray than black. My sifu, Doug, had tsk, tsk’d me more than a few times about how I should put forth a more professional appearance, but I didn’t care. That uniform had taken me from orange belt to black, so I felt a certain loyalty. I wasn’t willing to toss it on a fire until it leapt there on its own.

  I’d worked out for nearly an hour before Sifu Doug showed up. He came through the door and immediately snapped on the overhead fluorescent lights. />
  “Hey, Pali,” he said. “I paid the light bill this month. No need to stumble around in the dark.”

  I laughed. We’d had this discussion at least a dozen times before.

  “Good morning, Sifu,” I said, bowing.

  He returned the bow. “You on your way out?”

  “Yep,” I said. “I’ve got clients coming in at nine.”

  “It’s not yet seven-thirty,” he said. “Join me for a cup of tea?”

  It was an honor to be asked to spend time with Sifu Doug. Anyway, it was for me. I suppose for naughty kids who were summoned to his office for messing around in class, it was anything but an honor, but as far as I was concerned, time with Doug was always well-spent.

  “What’s happening at your shop?” he said.

  He had an electric hot pot that could boil water in less than a minute, and he busied himself pulling out mugs and tea paraphernalia from his desk drawer. I was a bit skeptical about the cleanliness of the mugs and spoons, but there was no way I’d insult my sifu by getting up and rinsing them off. Instead, when his back was turned, I quickly wiped the rims of the mugs with the shirt-tail of my uniform.

  “I saw that,” he said, turning back around.

  “What?”

  “You wiped my perfectly clean mugs with your grungy uniform.”

  “How’d you see that? Your back was turned.”

  He nodded toward a shelf behind his desk. A tiny round mirror was wedged between a book about famous martial arts fighters and one of Doug’s many tournament trophies.

  “I like the kids to think I got eyes in the back of my head,” he said. “Keeps ‘em guessing.”

  I apologized to Doug for the dis, and then told him I’d signed up my last client before my three months off.

  “You must be getting excited about your wedding,” he said. “Lani’s got the kids folding cranes for you.”

  It’s an old Japanese custom for the bride-to-be to fold one-thousand origami paper cranes to present to the groom’s family on their wedding day. The custom migrated from Japan to Hawaii, and now many Hawaiian brides also opt for a “one-thousand crane picture” made using the tiny cranes to form the design.