by Ann Ripley
“Hey!” cried John in mock protest.
“But all kidding aside, John, what you’re saying makes sense. I’ll help you in any way I can.”
Her cohost looked surprised, but instantly covered up this emotion with his broad, perfect smile. Reaching over a hand and squeezing hers, he said, “You’re a honey, Louise.”
Unfortunately, their compatibility lasted only about ten minutes. As she drove them to the National Tropical Botanical Garden, John let her know how he intended to run the Schoonover interview. Her heart sank, for she knew the producer had everything to do with the success of such a solo interview.
“The idea,” said John, “is to keep it simple. We don’t want to bore our viewers with too much science.”
The oversimplified statement made her pull in a sharp breath. “John, this man is the world’s expert on the geographic distribution of plants. They call it biogeography.”
“No way, Louise,” said her cohost, waving both hands for emphasis. “You’re on the wrong track. I know what the writers say about you when you offer your two cents on a script. They say you get way too technical.” He smiled dismissively. “You realize that even though we have an intelligent viewership, half our viewers don’t even understand the concept of evolution? Think of the trouble they’d have with biogeography.”
Oh my God, she thought to herself, how can I ever get along with this superficial human being? All she knew was that the fight had gone out of her. The weather was too fine, the breeze too balmy. She was too laid-back and in tune with Hawaii to gripe at her colleague.
“Whatever you say, John,” she said.
Once at the garden gate, they drove in a back entrance for employees that anywhere else would be considered a grand entrance: gigantic banana and taro trees, beds filled with orchids, bromeliads, and ti shrubs. They arrived at a series of low-slung buildings and parked. An old jalopy had preceded them into the parking lot. Out of it jumped a tall, long-faced young man wearing a Chicago Bulls cap, threadbare jeans, and a short-sleeved white T-shirt advertising “Franz Ferdinand.” Sprinting up to them on coltlike legs, he whipped off his cap, revealing a head full of dark curls. He introduced himself as Joel Greene. Here was their associate producer. A cameraman and a sound guy also would be provided from the same PBS station, which used film students from the University of Hawaii to fill many jobs.
Louise and John exchanged a quick glance. Joel looked no more than eighteen. The young man’s equinelike face broke into a captivating grin. “I bet ya think I’m too young. But believe me, folks, I’ve been around these islands for years producing films—I won’t let ya down.”
She was immediately reassured, possibly by that grin, possibly by the Midwest accent. She said, “We know you won’t.”
As they spoke, a tall man in tan shorts, gray-checked shirt, and heavy boots emerged from a nearby doorway and strolled toward them. His face was lined and browned from the sun; his hazel eyes twinkled below his high, wrinkle-filled forehead and curly graying hair in need of a haircut. He extended a hand and said, “Aloha, Louise. Aloha, John. I’m Tom Schoonover. You folks are right on time.”
Turning to the young man he said, “And good to see you again, Joel.” To Louise and John he said, “Joel’s filmed the gardens before for KHET-TV. He knows us plant explorers; all we need is a hand lens, garden clippers, vascu-lum for carrying the specimens, a pair of tabis, some rope, and a harness and we’re all set. We’ll tour the place as if through the eyes of a plant explorer, then come back here and visit the herbarium.”
He intoned “herbarium,” the storing place for dried plant specimens, as if talking about a holy place. For this man, probably fifty-five, who’d devoted much of his life to identifying plants for the good of science, it probably was.
Another man trailed out of the building. He was swarthy-skinned, of medium height and stocky, part native Hawaiian, Louise was sure. Tom Schoonover introduced him. “And this is Henry Hilaeo, who works here at the Gardens as a botanist.” He laughed. “Henry’ll do some climbing while we watch.” Henry was equipped, just as Schoonover had described, with a heavy web belt to which were attached several tools, including clippers and a khaki-colored carrying case.
Henry Hilaeo gave Louise and John a direct look and a hearty handshake. His broad, browned face seemed carved in stone, his brown eyes expressionless.
His stony expression surprised Louise, but she realized it shouldn’t. Since she’d arrived in Kauai, she’d bought the glib line that this island was a paradise—but a paradise for whom, tourists and landowners? Was it paradise enough for a man with Hawaiian roots like Henry Hilaeo? Natives made up only 10 percent of Kauai’s population and had been dealt out of a good share of their land over the past couple hundred years. No wonder there was resentment toward white persons, or haole, and efforts to gain rights similar to American Indians and native Alaskans through the Native Hawaiian Government Reorganization Act. As her gaze took in the idyllic surroundings, Louise realized Hilaeo was in a particularly ironic position: He worked for an Anglo scientist in a Garden of Eden that was the vacation home of Kauai’s beloved Queen Emma until bought by Anglos in the 1880s.
Schoonover clamped an arm over Hilaeo’s shoulders. “Henry and I just came from a trip to the Marquesas. We’ve been hunting plants in some of the roughest mountains you’ll ever see. The rains drove us home a little earlier than we planned.” To Louise’s relief, Henry’s face broke into a semblance of a smile.
Hilaeo had ropes and climbing equipment clutched in one hand and was wearing strange shoes. They were blue canvas with red trim, the big toe separated from the other four, with bottoms made out of rough nubs of rubber. Apparently noticing her quizzical look, Hilaeo explained. “These fellas, they’re called tabis, or surf waders. They’re Japanese-made and sometimes the only thing keeping us from landing on our butts.”
They all laughed. Schoonover said, “Plant explorers face very primitive conditions, that’s for sure.”
“Not the least of which is scraping gecko poop off your bed before you go to sleep at night,” added Hilaeo. “But we came up with a bonanza of new plant species.” His eyes shone with excitement.
“Yeah,” said Schoonover, “and one’s going to be named after you, Henry. You well deserve it.” He turned to Louise and John. “Henry can climb places that a mountain goat couldn’t reach. Well, enough of that. Off we go.” He struck off at a fast pace to the end of the parking lot where a large, dented gray vehicle sat. “We’re driving around in a staff car—it’s four-wheel drive. It’ll take us everywhere.”
Climbing up into the front passenger seat, Louise read a warning sign in big letters on the dashboard:
“Please be aware the engine cooling system is not functioning properly.”
“Oh boy,” she muttered to herself.
While Henry Hilaeo and Joel Greene got in the backseat, Schoonover slipped behind the wheel. He looked over at Louise, who was staring at the warning sign. He said, “Don’t worry about that. The mechanic’s trying to cover his, um, options. It’s most likely been fixed.” He grinned. “At least I know he fixed the brakes and that’s the real important thing. We have lots of cliffs and rough roads in the gardens.”
John, who’d been delayed, was the last to climb into the van. Once he’d slammed the door shut, Schoonover ground the starter engine a few times without success, then said to Louise, “The starter engine’s another issue, y’know. Maybe that sign should read, ‘Cooling system SNAFU, starter engine questionable.’” He grinned at her; she could imagine what perilous fun it would be climbing mountains with him in some rough spot like the Marquess Islands. Then he ground the ignition again until it finally caught and they roared off.
“Look at this, Dr. Schoonover,” shouted John from the backseat, shoving a small, leafy branch at him. “I picked it off that great bush back there.”
Schoonover took the sprig John had handed him. Attached to it was a pale lavender flower. The scientist carefully h
anded it over to Louise, then violently turned the wheel to master a tight curve, and scooted up a steep hill. Louise grabbed for the overhead handhold for support.
Only when they’d reached the flattened-out area on top did the botanist speak, his voice devoid of the warmth he’d been exuding until this moment. “You shouldn’t do that, John. Think how the visitors would denude this place if everyone picked a sprig of some plant, half of which”—he nodded to the specimen now residing in Louise’s lap—“are on the National Endangered Plant list. Picking plant specimens in the gardens is not allowed and could even be dangerous.” Darting a glance at John over his shoulder, he said, “Or perhaps you’ve studied about poisonous plants? Kauai’s native plants are not poisonous, but some of the imports to the gardens are—the mere touch of a few of ’em and you’re, you know, phttt!”
“God, I’m sorry,” moaned John. “Was that one, uh, poisonous?”
Henry Hilaeo, sitting next to him, smiled and said, “I don’t think so.”
John’s penitential statement was unfinished. “I should have known better, Dr. Schoonover, I really should have.”
Schoonover said, “Needless to say, I don’t think you’ll do it again.” Louise thought he sounded like a priest absolving someone’s sins: Go now and sin no more.
But her cohost’s remorse was short-lived. She realized John was preoccupied with the responsibility of setting up the TV interview. “I hope this doesn’t interfere with my main objective of planning the shoot for tomorrow.”
“Talk to Joel back there,” said the scientist. “He knows what we ought to do, because we’ve done it before.”
He turned to Louise. “It’s a piece of cake—your colleague needn’t worry. Joel’s very talented. I’m sure he’ll set John’s mind at rest.” Louise glanced back and sure enough, Joel and John had their heads together and John was even taking notes. Henry Hilaeo ignored the two and turned his brown face toward the window, seemingly content to let the gentle breezes waft in and soothe his private reverie.
Schoonover drove them down a hill and into the area where visitors were shown a special garden full of endemic Hawaiian plants, that is, the ones that were there when people sailed in and began inhabiting the Hawaiian islands. They drove past several garden “rooms” developed by the Chicago millionaire and patron of the arts, Robert Allerton, and his adopted architect son, John, after Robert bought the property in 1937. Each featured a fountain and statuary, or a gazebo, pool, or waterfall. They passed lush trees, many supporting orchids or philodendrons in the small crevasses where branches divided, palms of many varieties, handsome blooming pandanus, mango, banyans, monkeypods, and a vast grove of Golden Jade bamboo. They fell silent as they came upon a magnificent Morton Bay fig, its gray roots as tall as a man. The roots reminded Louise of the buttresses on the Washington Cathedral.
Schoonover said, “Now we’ll get off the beaten path. I want to show you some sights that aren’t on the public tour.” He scooted the car up a steep hill past a secluded waterfall, near which stood another huge Morton Bay fig. They descended into the Lawai Kai valley, from which they could see the ocean. The scientist stopped the Jeep. Getting out and walking around a lava cliff and over a footbridge, they reached the sprawling white frame Allerton house. Next to it stood the simple cottage of Queen Emma, wife of King Kamehameha IV. The front yard spanning these two buildings was dotted with tall, waving date palms planted in a checkerboard pattern.
Louise looked at Queen Emma’s charming little white abode and felt a wave of sadness overcome her. “She was forced to leave here, wasn’t she? How heartbreaking.”
Tom Schoonover said, “She was obliged to leave. Noblesse oblige, don’t they call it? After some idyllic stays here, the Hawaiian king, her brother, an autocratic sort of a fellow, summoned her to Honolulu to get back to her royal work.”
“It must have been like leaving paradise,” she murmured to herself.
Schoonover smiled. “Robert Allerton never left at all, in a manner of speaking.” He pointed out to sea. “When he died forty years ago, his ashes were scattered on the outgoing tide of that bay.”
While Schoonover and Louise were pondering history, John apparently was thinking logistics. “Let’s be sure to include this as part of the shoot, Dr. Schoonover.”
“Indeed we will,” said Schoonover, giving Joel Greene a big wink. “Joel usually does something dramatic with those fig roots—we’ll let Louise pose for us amidst them—and then wind up with a flourish here in the valley overlooking the sea.” He turned to Louise. “But it’s the cliff you must see next. Tomorrow, you can film Henry suspended off ropes from the top, checking the cliff wall for anything new that may be growing there. It’s a wonderful spot. More endemic species are concentrated on that cliff than anywhere else on this entire island.”
When Schoonover said this, he displayed a zeal that Louise seldom if ever saw in a person. This scientist positively loved plant specimens. She wondered if he had a wife or family, or if botany was his whole life. Here was a man, she was certain, who would do anything for the sake of his beloved Hawaiian species.
5
Thursday afternoon
Louise picked up a smooth, round bowl made of a coconut shell and examined the price. “Huh, six dollars. A bargain. It would be nice for nuts.”
“I love these sarongs,” said Steffi Corbin, who was as tall as Louise, five foot ten inches, but sixty pounds heavier. In fact, the two of them took up most of the space at the front of the little shop in old Koloa.
When they’d driven the few miles from their hotel to this historic sugarcane town, Steffi could hardly drag Louise away from filming the town’s signature monkeypod tree. Its sprawling branches spanned the roadway and reached a block in each direction and because of that she’d found it hard to photograph. Now they’d discovered a store that even Louise liked. It was old and funky, like an antique out of the nineteenth century, but it contained a wild array of trendy clothing, pricey jewelry and junk jewelry, wood sculptures, glitzy mirrors, and small chandeliers. Even the name, Jungle Girl, was perfect, thought Louise.
Steffi riffled through the pile of folded cloths until she came upon a bright blue one that she held up to her majestic bosom. “What do you think? Dare I wear this to the beach?”
“Definitely,” said Louise. “I checked out the beach crowd yesterday when I went swimming. They wear anything and everything. You’ll look quite in the Hawaiian tradition.” But her thoughts were not on shopping but rather on the Tropical Botanical Garden, which had captivated her.
She leaned against the jewelry counter and remarked, “Y’know, that garden was out of this world, Steffi. You should have come with us this morning. You have to come tomorrow when the whole crew goes. The scientists were great. Even the herbarium was fascinating.”
“Herbarium?” said Steffi, suspicion in her eyes as she stared in a mirror and held the blue cloth up to her.
“Yes. Plural, herbaria. Lots of universities and botanical gardens have herbaria. They’re like international lending libraries, constantly loaning or borrowing plant specimens for scientific use. Right now, this herbarium’s not that user-friendly, just a big room with black metal cases holding lots of sheets of paper with plants glued to them.”
Even as she spoke, she could see Steffi Corbin’s eyes glaze over.
Searching for something to enliven her description, she said, “You should have seen the darling orchids preserved in bottles in formaldehyde!”
“What color?” asked Steffi, guardedly.
“Actually, they’ve lost their color—they’re kind of gray. Tim Raddant—he runs the place—has preserved them three-dimensionally so scientists can look at their form. They want to build a new herbarium. They just need to get the funds together. It will be interesting for kids as well as adults. In the meantime, Tim treats those plant specimens as if they were his babies.”
Steffi said mockingly, “Well, bless Tim’s little heart. Look, I may go with you
on Friday, Louise. But don’t try to interest me in a herbarium. I just went through a lower GI exam. It reminds me too much of that, even though I did dodge the bullet.”
Louise was confused. Herbarium? Enema? And then she got it and laughed. Barium enema. “I should have known I couldn’t interest you. It isn’t the first time I’ve grown excited about something horticultural and found it impossible to share my enthusiasm with you lay people.”
“You ‘lay people’?” Coyly, Steffi asked, “Why do I sense I’m being insulted? What in the heck are ‘lay people’? We Catholics think that means everyone except priests.”
“Oh, I think of them as folks who don’t know or care anything about gardening, who don’t know a delphinium from a daffodil.”
Steffi laughed. “Or a hellebore from the Hellespont?”
Louise grinned. “Or an aquilegia from an aqueduct.”
Her companion turned a sly glance her way. “Actually, Louise, I know more than you think. I even know some of the Latin names, as I have demonstrated. I know about hellebore, for instance. I happen to have hellebore in my shade garden.” She batted her big brown eyes humorously at Louise. “But my interest does not extend quite as far as herbaria.”
“Okay, Steffi. I underestimated you and I’m sorry. And now I’ll concentrate on shopping. Hand me that red piece, will you? I wouldn’t mind making the beach scene in a sarong myself.”
Once she’d decided on the red cloth, her eye went quickly around the store as she looked for gifts to take home. She quickly selected four chunky necklaces from a jewelry case, two for her daughters, Martha and Janie, and the other two for her and Bill’s mothers. Flashy key chains were the perfect gifts for her and Bill’s fathers and Martha’s husband, Jim Daley.
A turquoise cap for Bill, the red sarong for her, and the perfunctory shopping was done in record time. Whether she found anything else to buy didn’t matter one way or the other.