Over the Rainbow - Book One - 'The Gathering Place'

by Robert Vaughan

  Alani laughed abruptly, an ironic sound that she stifled with a sputter and then elbowed Chris playfully in the ribs as she cajoled, “Geez! Do you wreck everything you touch?”

  Chris gently swatted her arm in retaliation and declared, “Unh-uh! No way! That one's yours!” Chris turned abruptly on his heel, and whistled to a passing cab, “Yo! Taxi!” The cab squealed to a stop, and Chris crossed to it and gallantly opened the door for Alani. As she stepped into the open door, she turned and asked, “Uh- Don't you have to do something about that?”

  Chris glanced back at the ruined car sitting forlornly on the truck-bed, at the police milling about around it and then shook his head softly with a wry grin tilted on his face. “Do you really want to get involved with that? Tonight?” Chris smiled with chagrin, “It's a rental- they'll bill me.” He raised his eyes skyward and muttered, “Thank God I bought the full insurance.”

  The taxi driver in the idling cab was immense, his massive form filling the entire front seat of the tiny vehicle. A worn Detroit Lions cap was placed backward on his head, and an incongruous pair of dark glasses covered his eyes. His gaze fixed on the carnage at the disco, he asked with a knowing smirk, “Where to?”

  Alani leaned over the seat. “Head toward Waimea, I'll show you from there...”

  The taxi driver stiffened and said, “Waimea? No way Sistah, dat's all the way over on the other side of the island-!”

  Alani replied with barely restrained sarcasm, “Gee, you figured dat out all by yo’self? Without GPS?”

  The taxi driver continued, adamant, “I ain't goin' all de way over dere this time o' night, you get yo'self another cab...”

  Chris pulled out his wallet and extracted a bill, engaging the reluctant driver as he fiddled with the paper in his hands. “Hey, man, listen... It's late- how about if I make it worth your while...? Run the meter until we get there, double it to make up for the return, and add twenty for the inconvenience, what do you say?”

  The driver looked at his watch. “Fifty.”

  Chris sighed in exaggeration, still fussing with the money, “Done.”

  “Give me the fifty- now.”

  “Patience- patience my friend…”

  “Take it or leave it, bro, I don’t need yo money.”

  Chris leaned over the seat, magically flourishing the bill in his hand- the bill which was now transformed into a tiny origami crane. And it was no longer a fifty- it was a hundred, the numbers clearly visible on one wing.

  The taxi drivers eyebrows shot above the rims of his glasses as he exclaimed, “Hey, cool!!! Thanks, bro!” slapping the flag enthusiastically and starting the meter. He placed the crane delicately on the dash and stroked it affectionately with a thick finger and said gustily with a tiny hint of resignation, “Okay, okay, let's go…” As the cab pulled away from the curb, the now-compliant driver turned and asked, “Hey, it's a long drive out there man, you mind if I listen to some tunes?”

  Chris replied with a crooked smile, “Sure. You got anything by IZ?”

  The taxi driver looked into the rear-view mirror, smiling mystically from behind his sunglasses, a slight frown of amusement twisting his mouth. “I got all of 'em...” Sliding a CD into a slot in the dash, he plucked a cell phone from the glove compartment, hit a button on the screen, tucked the phone beneath a roll of his massive chin and said, “Hey, Marlene? I gonna be a little late...”

  The taxi moved off into the night, a thin blue haze of smoke leaking from the tailpipes as the soft lullaby of Hawaii- ‘Kaleohano’, drifted from the car, the dulcet tones of IZ dissolving into the warm night air.

  The tires of the taxi crunched noisily on the gravel of the drive, the brakes squeaking quietly as the car ground slowly to a halt. Chris emerged first, rounding the car and opening the door for Alani, who moved to him in a soft embrace and kissed him gently, lingeringly, and then finally broke away, almost reluctantly, her head resting lightly on his chest. As they slowly parted, hands held at waist-height, unwilling to let go, Chris inquired, “Hey, can I see you tomorrow?”

  Alani faked looking at her wrist, an invisible time-piece telling her what she already knew, “You mean tomorrow-tomorrow? Or just later today?”

  “It’s not tomorrow until I go to bed. Yes, later- today.”

  “Well, maybe- after church.”

  “Church? Oh. Right, it’s Sunday- okay. Anyway- what time are you done?” A gentle stirring of island breeze rippled his hair and the singular sound of a crystalline chime drifted by as it passed. Chris suddenly brightened and said, “Hey, I have an idea- would it be all right if I came to church with you? I could drive…” Alani scrunched her face into an amused expression of mocking scorn as Chris laughed lightly and corrected, “I mean, I could get a car, and he could drive.”

  Alani laughed softly and asked, “You want to come to church, with us?”

  “Uh- yeah. If that's alright I mean. I- I almost feel like I need to, after all I've been through the last few days.”

  “Feeling a need to thank your guardian angels?”

  “Don't you think they deserve it?”

  Alani looked off into the distance, taking a long pause before responding. And then she said thoughtfully, “Probably way more than we think.”

  Chris sat in silence at the as he poked at the remains of his breakfast and then looked to his father across the table. Walter’s face was buried in the Wall Street Journal, his obligatory laptop and phone curiously absent. The morning was misty, the haze of nearly horizontal rain that the locals called a ‘blessing’ drifting lazily along the ground as intermittent shafts of golden light shot through the breaking clouds, a discordant note of thunder echoing in the distance.

  Finally Chris broke the silence, addressing his father’s hidden face, “Okay, Dad- What's this all about?”

  Walter lowered the paper, looking at Chris over half-moon readers and asking with poorly feigned innocence, “What?”

  “Oh, come on, you've been deliberately saying nothing this entire morning. What gives?”

  Walter folded the paper and laid it aside with careful deliberation. “Isn't a little quiet time with my son enough?” Stealing a surreptitious glance at his watch, he inquired, “Are you about done? We've gotta hurry if we want an early tee time.”

  “Tee time? What?! Dad, I hate golf. You know that.”

  Walter scoffed, “Oh, you do not. You just don't- play that often. You really ought to come out with me son- the course is very forgiving. It will give us a chance to spend some- quality time.”

  “Quality time? On the golf course? With you?” Chris stole a glance at the surrounding landscape. “Besides, the weather doesn't look too promising.” Chris hesitated, delaying the inevitable, and then ventured, “I can't.”

  “You can't? Why not?”

  Chris replied defiantly, “Because I promised Alani and her family I would drive them to church, okay?”

  “You what?! Church?! What in the name of God are you talking about? Since when do you go to church?”

  Chris rose abruptly, tossing his napkin down in a resolute gesture of determination and said, “Dad, I'm sorry, but I'm going... I'll catch a round with you later, all right? I promise...” And before a flustered and flabbergasted Walter could reply, he was gone.

  The long, charcoal-gray limo cruised slowly into the driveway, stopping with a crunch of gravel and squeak of brakes as it pulled to a stop in front of the Nakamura’s door. Chris stepped out and held the door as the colorfully-clad bulk of the Nakamura clan piled in.

  As the long, dark car slowly pulled away, Kenji watched it depart, peeking surreptitiously around a folded Roman shade. He watched the car disappear down the drive, and then he sighed in contentment and walked slowly out to the inner courtyard. Basking in the warmth of the early morning sun, Kenji closed his eyes, his lips moving in a brief silent prayer, and lit a thin length of incense as he knelt before the ancient family altar, waving the aromatic stick reverently over a Derek Jeter Bobble-head
as he continued to mutter his earnest prayers.

  Carefully placing the incense in a simple stone holder in the shape of a baseball, Kenji meandered towards the house, pausing briefly to toss a handful of morsels from the bridge to the multi-colored Koi that swam lazily in the pond below, musing on his reflection in the still, dark waters. He then sauntered lazily into the house, closed the wide Shoji panels carefully and settled with a contented sigh into the worn leather armchair before the giant television; a gloriously-proportioned, 52” flat-screen that was his sole extravagance in this otherwise austere household.

  Pulling the faded and stained New York Yankees baseball cap from a pouch in the side of the chair, Kenji placed it gently on his head, delicately adjusted it just so, and then clicked a remote that he had fished from another pocket of the chair. The familiar voice of Joe Buck resonated from the console as the game flashed to life- and perhaps, not-so-coincidentally… Derek Jeter was at bat.

  Walter stood silently surveying the various and sundry array of putters ranged along a low rack in the Pro Shop. He considered one, and immediately discarded it with a mocking scowl, “Looks like a goddamn microphone…” His gaze slid along the remaining putters in the group, a frown of disappointment creasing his face as he continued, “… why can't they make putters that just look like putters?” Finally spying one that met with his expectations, he said with satisfaction, “Ah, here we go…” With a confident grin, he pulled several balls to his feet, and with smooth precision, casually stroked a half-dozen balls toward a hole in the distance. All dropped in, dead-center, and he rose with a satisfied air. “Not bad...” he said, to no one in particular, and strode with his selection to the counter. “I'll take this one.”

  The Pro shop attendant smiled, “Very good, Mr. Matthews. Shall I put it on your account?”

  Walter frowned in reply, “Of course.”

  “Is Mrs. Matthews joining you today, sir?”

  Walter smiled grimly, “No. Just me.”

  The attendant replied with matter-of-fact emotionlessness, “I see…” He continued as his fingers traced a schedule of tee times, “I have a group of three going out in just a moment, would you like to join them?”

  “No, just me,” Walter replied with a note of sarcasm. “Is that all right?”

  “Uh- of course, sir. I can start you on the back, if you'd like.”

  “Fine… whatever.”

  “Would you like a cart, or a caddie?”

  Walter replied with disdain, “I'll walk, thank you.”

  The man hesitated, and then inquired with a hint of trepidation as he stole a glance out the window at the low clouds scudding by in the distance, “Are you certain, sir? You would have some shelter, if you needed it.”

  “Is this another one of your stupid club rules? I'll walk. Thank you. Call me, would you?” Walter gathered up the putter and turned his back to leave.

  “Sir? Mr. Matthews? Did you want a caddie?”

  Walter stopped with the door half-open and glared at the man. “Of course I want a caddie. I'm certainly not going to lug my clubs around the course myself!” And with that he stormed out of the building, punctuating his exit with a disgruntled, “Idiots.”

  Walter sat on the damp bench outside the pro shop, carefully tightening the laces on his ‘traditional’ metal-spiked shoes, a worn and faded sign above his head clearly reminding him- ‘Remember - Kuhuku Point Golf Club is a 'non-metal spike' facility.’ Walter parroted the phrase in a mocking tone and then continued his rant, muttering to himself, “Spike-less shoes, golf sandals, mandatory cart rental. Why the hell can't we just play golf?”

  A moment later, the phone rang in the noisy caddy shack, the assembled group of rag-tag individuals laughing and chiding each other over a vigorous game of poker.

  Andrew answered it with a single syllable, “Ya?”

  Holding the phone to one ear as he scanned down a list on the computer, he called over the din, “Hey! Who wants this one?”

  The group assembled around the table looked up as one, and then all shook their heads individually, muttering and going back to their game. Andrew repeated, insistent, “Hey! Don' all jump up at once! Who wants this?” Several members of the group cast a glance out the window, their attention drawn by the distant flash of lightning, a rumbling peal of thunder following close behind. Andrew followed their line-of-sight, frowning in sympathy as he leaned on the counter and said plaintively, “C'mon you guys, someone's gotta take this, who's it gonna be? Hey! Manuel, you go, it's your turn.”

  The individual identified as ‘Manuel’ sniffed in disgust, raising his head but not looking back at Andrew, throwing his cards on the table in resignation and said, “Hey! I ain't goin' out in dis stuff. Tell da stupid Haole to carry his own clubs, or take a cart! I ain't gonna get struck by lightning carryin' clubs for a stupid tourist who should be stayin' inside himself...”

  Andrew whined in desperation, “Dammit you guys, someone's gotta -!” His words were immediately truncated by a blinding flash of light and the accompanying crash of thunder that rocked the tiny building.

  In the echoing silence that followed, the door slowly creaked open and a short, squat individual quietly walked in. The room went eerily silent as they all turned as one to see their sudden and unexpected visitor.

  He was an anachronistic vision of old Hawaii- the ancient, leathery features and out-of-date clothing of the stout, gray haired man contrasting sharply with the pop-collared Polo shirts and slicked-back hair of the assembled group of caddies. Ragged flip-flops, knee-length Bermuda shorts and a faded ‘Aloha’ shirt graced his short, compact form, his powerful barrel chest sporting several curly gray hairs that protruded from its’ open top. Around his neck, a large, stylized Hawaiian fishhook dangled from a leather lanyard, partially concealing a tiny crucifix attached to a delicate gold chain.

  A single golden tear, a strange and anomalous tattoo from another time and place, graced the outer corner of his left eye, perched and oddly glowing on his cheek in the dim, fractured light of the caddy shack.

  Without so much as a word to the silent and stock-still group of men frozen in silence at the table, the man took a card from a rack on the wall and uttered two simple words. “I go.” And with that he disappeared through the door, a dull, ominous rumble of thunder underscoring his departure.

  Chris watched in fascination as the as the various bits and pieces of the sleepy Hawaiian village slipped by, oblivious to the animated chatter in Hawaiian from Alani beside him as she recounted her previous night’s adventure to a clearly concerned and disturbingly silent Noelani. Music of all genres drifted back and forth on the morning breeze, and the slowly dissipating mists that clung to the surroundings trees and hills refracted prismatically in a wonder of rainbow hues. Here a Buddhist shrine, there a simple Baptist church, in the distance a glorious Mormon temple, the village offered every type and style of church imaginable, a veritable spiritual smorgasbord of a typical Sabbath in Paradise.

  As they rounded a distant corner and came to the end of the road, Chris saw the object of their destination. It was a quaint, faintly gothic-styled church, the steep high-pitched roof in the Polynesian style, the sparkling jewel-bright stained glass windows contrasting with clean white-washed walls. Framed against a backdrop of every shade of green imaginable, the sky in the distance a rich and layered gray, the church was painted luminously in the early morning light, glowing like an impressionistic painting in almost ethereal fashion- rich, overlapping golden hues radiating from the white-washed surface, the soft shadows reflecting delicate shades of periwinkle, turquoise and teal. A riot of kaleidoscopic color that was the gathering of congregants were milling about at its entrance, slowly disappearing into the tiny structure as the first bells of that morning’s mass encouraged the flock to begin their worship.

  The long, dark car slowed and stopped, causing a brief stand-still to the thronging crowd as they all paused as one to stare at this clearly unexpected arrival. As Alani and
Chris emerged from the car, an elevated murmur of voices ramped up with juicy bits and snippets of inevitable gossip as the heretofore insular congregation assimilated this stranger. Chris looked around at the gathering, feeling as if the eyes of each and every one of them were probing his every detail. And if Chris hadn’t felt conspicuous enough, he was positively gobsmacked when Alani held him back by one elbow and whispered softly in his ear, “The police called this morning, they have my backpack…”

  Chris responded with a face-palm and a grimace, “Oh, hell- Sorry.”

  Alani merely grinned, a twinkle of mischief reflecting from her jade-green eyes. “Not as much as me- Daddy answered the phone.”

  The short, anachronistic caddy stopped in a bright patch of sunlight a few yards from the caddy-shack, the light making his graying hair glow with an almost silvery shimmer as he muttered a quick prayer to the sky. Holding his hands out to his sides, he suddenly brought them together in a sharp ‘clap’ above his head as a distant rumble of thunder echoed in reply. He quickly crossed himself in an oddly Catholic gesture of genuflection, and then kissed the tiny crucifix before tucking it back into his faded shirt. His ritual ministrations apparently complete, he turned and slowly shuffled off in the direction of the clubhouse.

  Walter stood looking to the hills with his hands knotted into fists on his hips, his eyes searching for a reassuring patch of blue. The ancient caddy silently strode up behind him, snatching his bag without a word and casually ambling off towards the 10th tee. Walter’s mouth fell open as he watched the mysterious man walk away, and then silently closed it as he shook his head in puzzlement, and followed.