JoAnn Bassett - Islands of Aloha 07 - Moloka'i Lullaby (3 page)

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.

“But the bride’s supposed to fold the cranes,” I said.

“Yeah, I know. But Lani’s convinced the kids it’s their duty to help their auntie Pali. It’s been great. They’ve been at it for hours, and there’s been a lot less bickering than usual. A busy house is a quiet house.”

“Speaking of busy, this last wedding I’m doing is going to keep me plenty busy. It’s being held over on Moloka’i.”

“Seriously? Why?”

By now the tea and steeped, and Sifu Doug handed me a mug of his famous green tea. I’m not a big fan of green tea, but his always tastes fabulous and it’s very relaxing. I have a hunch he spikes it with something that may alert the beagles at the airport, so I’m reluctant to inquire about the specific ingredients.

“It’s a May-December marriage,” I said. “And the groom—”

“A
what
kind of marriage?”

“A May-December marriage. That’s when the man is older than the woman.”

“Isn’t the guy often a little older than the woman?” he said.

“Yeah, but in this case we’re talking
way
older. Like capital “O” older. I’d say she’s in her mid- to late twenties and he’s gotta be, like, almost eighty or so.”

“Fifty years difference?” He let out a low whistle.

“Anyway, it seems he’s pretty well-off, financially, and he’s got a friend who’s got a place over on the west side of Moloka’i. They’re getting married there.”

“When was the last time you were over there?”

“It’s been years. Auntie Mana took us one time to visit some friends of hers. I’ll bet it’s been twenty, maybe even twenty-five, years ago.”

“Well,” he said. “I go over a couple times a year to help with a local kids’ tournament they do over there. And I can pretty much guarantee the place hasn’t changed one bit since you were there.”

“Huh,” I said. “So, is that a bad thing, or a good thing?”

He put a hand on his jaw and rubbed his clean-shaven chin as if checking for stray whiskers.

“I guess that depends on what you call ‘good,’” he said.

CHAPTER 5

Richard and Amanda were late for our nine o’clock meeting. I’m not a big stickler for punctuality, ‘cuz after all, I’m island-born and raised. But by nine-forty-five I was getting a little concerned. Richard didn’t strike me as the type of guy who’d play power trips by making people wait, and Amanda seemed so eager to become Mrs. Atkinson I was pretty sure she wasn’t the laggard.

At ten o’clock, my phone chimed.

“Pali, it’s me,” said the caller.

I consider it presumptuous to say “it’s me” when my only clue from caller ID is a mainland phone number. But Amanda was my only client, and I’d noticed she used a cutesy babyish voice whenever Richard was around, so it didn’t take great powers of deduction to figure out who was on the other end of the call.

“
Aloha
, Amanda.”

“Oh yeah,
aloha
. I forgot.” She giggled as if she’d just remembered to use the secret password. “Anyway, we’re gonna need to come in later today. Richard’s had something come up at work.”

Work? The guy worked? If anyone looked like they’d qualify to be a card-carrying member of the American Association of Retired Persons, it’d be Richard.

“Okay,” I said. “When would you like to come in? We’ve still got to finalize the guest list and decide the menu for the wedding dinner. I’m sorry to push, but we’ve got to get these things handled so I can line up people on Moloka’i, or arrange to bring in people from Maui. Either way, it’s going to take some scheduling and coordination to make it all happen.”

I hoped I hadn’t sounded as annoyed as I felt. But in my gusto to sign up my final client, I’d failed to adhere to one of my own tried-and-true wedding planning principles: sell them what works, and avoid what doesn’t.

If a cowgirl bride wants to get married on horseback, but the only horses available are smelly nags that are prone to bite, I’ll work hard to convince her she’ll have much more pleasant wedding memories if she opts for a stand-up ceremony in a lovely green pasture and then leaves on horseback after the reception. After all, when the wedding festivities are over, my job is done.

I should’ve at least
tried
to talk Amanda and Richard into honeymooning on Moloka’i after getting properly “I do’d” in some posh resort in Wailea.

“We can be there by two or two-thirty, right, dearest one?” she said.

I assumed she was cooing at Richard and not me. At least I hoped so.

“Great,” I said. “I’ll see you then. And please remember to bring your guest list.”

“We may have to add some more people later.”

“That’s fine. But we only have a little over two weeks, so we need to get things moving.” I started to hang up, but then added, “Oh, and by the way. Do you have your Hawaii wedding license, or do you want me to help you with that?”

“Uh, I’m not sure,” Amanda said. “Can we talk about it this afternoon?”

“Sure.”

I hung up, wondering what there was to talk about. Either you have the license or you don’t. But then, Amanda didn’t seem like a woman who saw things in black or white—unless, of course, she was selecting the color of a three-thousand dollar Chanel handbag she’d sweet-talked Richard into buying for her.

***

When they finally showed up at two-thirty, Richard looked even older and more infirm than he had on Tuesday. I pretended to be on a phone call when Amanda came through the door solo, which forced her to step up and maneuver Richard’s wheelchair into the shop on her own. It was that or risk having her golden oldie fiancé mowed down by the traffic on Baldwin Avenue.

Once they both were inside, I hung up on my fake phone call and greeted them with offers of coffee or fizzy water.

“Richard needs water,” Amanda said, panting. “No ice. And not too cold, either.”

I wondered if she was going to shake a few drops on her inner wrist like a mother checking her baby’s formula.

We all settled down after rearranging the furniture to accommodate Richard’s chair, and I inquired again about the marriage license.

“Richard says we don’t have one. He wants you to get it for us,” Amanda said.

“I can
help
you get a license. I can even go with you to the Department of Health,” I said. “But you have to appear, in person, to show your ID and take the oath.”

“What ‘oath’?” she said.

“It’s nothing. You just state that you are who you say you are, and you’re in good standing to get married. No big deal.”

Richard hadn’t uttered a word since arriving. I tried to read his face to see what was bothering him, but his expression was blank. His eyes had that thousand-yard stare people get when they’re completely oblivious to the here and now.

“Richard,” I said, looking directly at him.

He slowly turned his gaze to me. “Ah, yes.”

“Are you okay?”

“Sure, never better. Why do you ask?”

“You seem kind of preoccupied. I was wondering if something was bothering you.”

“He’s fine,” Amanda broke in. “He’s gotten some, well, I guess you’d say, bad news about his business. That’s all.” She’d hooked her fingers into air-quotes when she’d said,
bad news
.

“If I may ask, what is the nature of your business, Richard?” I said.

“He’s an art dealer,” Amanda said. “He has galleries in Los Angeles, New York, London, Paris. All over the world, really.”

“Not for long, my dear,” Richard whispered, just loud enough to hear. “Not for long.”

***

I offered to lead the way down to the Department of Health to get the marriage license, but I told Amanda and Richard they’d have to follow in their van. There was no way I’d be able to accommodate the two of them, along with Richard’s wheelchair in my Mini Cooper.

I also explained the usual procedure is for the bridal couple to get their license three to four weeks before the wedding, so we were cutting it close with being only a couple of weeks out.

When we got to the office, the line wasn’t long. A young couple ahead of us asked Richard if he’d like to go ahead of them. They must’ve thought the waiting was stressful for an old guy like him. I had to admit he looked so pale it looked as if he might pass out.

Amanda filled out the form, and then the two of them showed their ID and took the quick oath. Then it was time to pay. The Hawaii DOH only takes cash, so Amanda had to wrangle the money out of Richard’s pants pocket. He was belted into his wheelchair, and the buckle on the seat belt was one of those plastic things that requires squeezing both sides of the buckle while releasing the clip. I would’ve thought that by now she’d have talked him into allowing her to carry his cash in her purse, but no, he kept it in a back pocket of his pants.

The roll of money was so bulky, Richard had wound a thick yellow rubber band around it to keep it in place. I couldn’t imagine it was comfortable sitting on a wad that size all day, but after they’d paid, Richard was adamant about her replacing the rubber band and returning it to his pants pocket.

Amanda seemed relieved when we finally headed back out to the parking lot.

“Whew. I hate things like that,” she said. “I’d rather go to the dentist.”

Her brilliant white smile signaled she’d probably spent more time in dentist and orthodontist offices than I’d spent getting a college degree. As for me, I brush and floss and go in for my twice-yearly check-up and consider myself a martyr. No way I’d spend any more time, or money, on what my auntie Mana referred to as my “mouth bones.”