JoAnn Bassett - Islands of Aloha 07 - Moloka'i Lullaby (4 page)

As we bade our farewells, I asked if we could meet again the next morning.

“I’m heading to Moloka’i this weekend to see what’s available over there,” I said. “So, I’d like to get information on your venue and go over a couple of things we haven’t discussed, like what kind of music you want, and who you’d like to officiate.”

Richard looked up at me with an annoyed expression.

“I’ll let Amanda handle that,” he said. “I’m kind of busy putting out fires at work. It looks like I’ll need to go to LA tomorrow afternoon.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Will Amanda be going with you?”

Previously, we’d discussed we might all get together in Moloka’i on Monday after Hatch had gone back to work. I’d told them I’d be willing to stay one more day to iron out any last minute particulars or to deal with any problems I saw once I got over there.

“I’d love to have her come along, but you girls are busy with the wedding, so I’ll go alone this time.”

“But you promise you’ll be back by Tuesday. Right, Snookums?” Amanda said.

“That’s right, Sweet-pea. I’ll meet up with you at George’s.”

Amanda bent over and kissed the top of his head where his thinning hair had been combed over the bald spot.

I held it together all the way back to my car, but once I’d slammed the door shut, I allowed myself a full-body shudder. Then I felt guilty. To paraphrase the Pope,
Who am I to judge
?

***

That night after dinner, Steve called a “family meeting.” Actually, he’d used the Hawaiian word for family,
‘ohana
, which I thought was cute. But I’d never say so. He’d strike me mute with his death-ray glare.

We assembled in the living room: rotund Farrah taking up two-thirds of the sofa; her husband, Ono, wedged in alongside her; and me taking the scarcely fanny-width space on the other end. Hatch sat in the only other seat. It was an old wicker armchair that had done hard time on the front lanai and looked as if it was poised for the perfect moment to collapse in a heap of brittle straw. Steve remained standing, arms crossed.

Steve spoke first. “I called this meeting to discuss something of great importance to this household,” he said. “Mainly, food.”

“You need me to go to the store before we take off this weekend?” Hatch said. “If so, I need to go tonight. I’m on duty in the morning.”

“Thanks for the offer, but that’s not what I want to talk about,” Steve said.

Ono looked worried. I figured he was calculating his and Farrah’s share of the food costs and coming up with a number he didn’t like—or more honestly, one he couldn’t afford.

“If you need us to pitch in some money…” Ono said.

“No, it’s not that, either,” Steve said.

We all waited. The weird little wall clock I’d gotten from my auntie Mana’s estate ticked loudly in the silence.

“It’s about the division of labor,” Steve said. “Or, more importantly, the
amount
of labor required to satisfy everyone’s finicky eating habits.”

“We’re not finicky,” said Farrah. “We’re mindful. We respect the creatures of the universe by not chowing down on them.”

Steve slowly shook his head. “C’mon, people; work with me. I’ve got a full-time job, just like the rest of you. I don’t have the time, or the inclination, to buy and cook hot dogs for this one and extruded soy product for that one. I say, we all agree that each of us will fix dinner one day a week. And we’ll all promise to eat whatever’s put in front of us. If you don’t want to eat it, then you’re free to fend for yourself.”

“But there’s only five of us,” said Ono. “And there’s seven days in a week.”

“No, there’s seven of us,” Farrah said, tapping her belly.

“No way,” said Hatch. “No offense, Farrah, but I’d like to put forth a motion that you have to be an air-breather to make dinner. I can’t face the thought of quinoa and tofu three nights a week.”

“Huh. You want to share with everyone here what your cholesterol count was at your last firefighter physical?” I said, only half-kidding.

“Let’s not make this a health thing,” Steve said. “Of course healthy food is important, but this is about fairness. And it’s just not fair to ask me to be everyone’s personal chef.”

Farrah raised her hand.

“Yes, Farrah?” Steve said.

“Okay, so if everybody’s gonna do grinds one day each week,” she said. “Does that include Pali? I mean, she’s my bestest-best, and all, but…”

She didn’t finish. All eyes shifted to me, as if I’d been fingered as a potential witch in colonial Salem.

“You know, there’s such a thing as take-out,” I said.

They all expelled a collective sigh of relief, and I got up and went upstairs. About fifteen minutes later, Steve tapped on the guest room door.

“Why’d you leave the
‘ohana
meeting?” he said.

“You know darn well why.”

“Yeah, well, we got it all figured out. Your day will be Thursday.”

“And what about the two extra days?” I said.

“Hey, you left the meeting. Why should I catch you up on what you missed?”

I shot him my own death-ray glare.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” he said. “Hatch on Monday, or if he’s on-duty he’ll trade with someone else. Then me on Tuesday, Farrah on Wednesday, you on Thursday, and Ono on Friday. We all have the weekend off. We can eat out, or make something in, but we don’t cook for each other.”

“Huh. You put me on Thursday because it’s dollar taco night at the Ball and Chain, didn’t you?” I said. “You never eat here on Thursdays.”

“It just worked out that way,” he said with a grin.

“You’ll probably have all the others joining you down there, you know. It’ll really cramp your style.”

“No worries,” he said. “Nothing more entertaining than watching a butch fireman and a cocky boat captain fend off unwanted advances at a gay bar. And Farrah? She’ll clear the room in fifteen seconds with her breeder belly. Come to think of it, I can hardly wait!”

CHAPTER 6

Amanda was coming to my shop on Friday morning to clear up final details before I went to Moloka’i the next day. I’d forgotten to ask Richard the address of his friend’s place on the west side and I’d need it since I wanted to check out the venue. I’m one of those people who generally likes to avoid wandering into things blind. If Richard’s friend was an old Army buddy who’d tuned in, turned on, and dropped out in the 1960’s and now owned a squatter’s shack on a public beach, I wanted to know. It’d be a whole different ball game if the guy was a dot com millionaire with a flashy condo in a gated beach resort.

Personally, I was hoping the place would turn out to be something in the middle. Not a hovel, but not so pretentious that I’d have to get every guest vetted by an unsmiling, rules-quoting, security dude at a guard shack.

Amanda arrived right at nine o’clock. Again, she was wearing tight short-shorts, but this time she had on an almost see-thru white top with no discernable bra. I had to force myself to keep my eyes on her face.

I always find it amusing when women dress provocatively and then scowl and say, “
My eyes are up here
,” when you happen to cast your glance down to check out what they’re selling. Not that I’m buying, mind you. It’s just that I’ve been well-trained to always size up the physical attributes of the opposition.

“Have you ever met Richard’s friend?” I said to Amanda. “You know, George, the one who has the place on Moloka’i?”

“Of course.” She shook her head as if I’d asked a particularly lame question.

I didn’t take offense. I figured a lot of life’s questions were tough for Amanda. She was probably secretly relieved I’d tossed her a softball.

“Can you tell me a little about him?”

“Why? I’m not marrying him. Although I probably could’ve if I’d wanted to. But he’s kind of mean, so I think I’m better off with Richard.”

Okay. This was going down a road I wasn’t willing to take.

“Do you know how long Richard and George have known each other?”

“Like, forever,” she said.

“And what does George do? I mean, what kind of work?”

“He does the same thing as Richard. Art stuff.”

“Oh. Does he work for Richard?”

“Sort of.”

Getting information from Amanda was like pulling teeth—my own teeth, without Novocain. I chose to take a different tack.

“Have you ever been to George’s place on Moloka’i?” I said.

“No. This is my first time to Hawaii. Richard and I mostly live in LA.”

“Can you give me George’s address?” I said.

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to Moloka’i tomorrow and I’d like to go by and get a sense of the place. You know, do reconnaissance.”

She bit her lower lip, which left me wondering whether I’d stumped her with the word “reconnaissance,” or if she was merely unsure of the address.

“Let me call Richard,” she said.

Ah, the infamous “lifeline.” But before I allowed myself to get too smug about it, I remembered she was on the verge of scoring more dough than any winner of “
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire
?”

She took out her phone and made the call while I pretended to be occupied with a file in my lower desk drawer.

“Gimme a pen,” she said, wagging her fingers in a “hand it over”
gesture.

I rummaged through my pencil cup, which was closer to her than me, and fought back the urge to roll my eyes. After all, half of the pens in there were dried out. Just my luck she would’ve selected a dud.

She made the “gimme” gesture again; this time saying “Paper?” in an annoyed tone.

I used one finger to slide a yellow Post-It pad across the desk.

She painstakingly wrote down the address, digit-by-digit and letter-by-letter, as Richard spelled it out over the phone. I had to wonder if maybe half the reason this relationship worked was they both moved at a snail’s pace.

***

Hatch had worked on Friday, so we’d be heading over to Moloka’i as soon as he got off duty at eight o’clock on Saturday morning. He’d be coming back on Sunday in order to be back at work Monday morning. He’d tried to trade shifts, but hadn’t found a taker. That was strange, because the guys did it all the time. In fact, Hatch had a go-to guy on C-shift who already owed him more than a few switcheroos, but the guy claimed he couldn’t rearrange his second job.

Unlike large city departments, Maui Fire and Rescue doesn’t pay their firefighters the big bucks. Most of the guys have second jobs. Some have jock jobs like teaching surfing or taking tourists out on deep-sea fishing trips. Jobs like those can often be rescheduled as circumstances dictate. But other guys have more-or-less “real” second jobs, like delivering for UPS or working construction. Those gigs aren’t as forgiving.

Hatch doesn’t have a second job because a few years ago he lucked into the proverbial “deal you can’t refuse.” He manages a vacation estate for an Australian film director in return for a rent-free bungalow. Our housing situation is something we’ve talked about—
ad nauseam
.

After we’re married we definitely want to live together, but neither of us wants to give up our current digs. I contend I have the stronger argument since my house is my own, free and clear. I don’t pay rent and I don’t have a mortgage. Besides, it’s roomy: three bedrooms, two baths, with a free-standing garage and a charming, albeit somewhat scruffy, private yard.

Hatch likes my house, but he complains it’s too far from the fire station where he’s currently assigned. And, he argues, with his free ride in the bungalow on rent, taxes, and a gratis blazing-fast Internet connection, he gets to stash most of what he makes in the bank. But my ace in the whole is my house is
mine
. Nobody can take it away from me. Ever.

***

On Saturday morning I drove down to Kahului to pick Hatch up from work because his fire station is only minutes away from the airport. I waited in the station parking lot because if I’d gone in, it would’ve tacked on at least another fifteen minutes of hugs, wise cracks, advice, and farewells.

Hatch came out and threw a big duffel bag into the back of the Mini. I started the engine as he ducked his head and slid into the passenger seat. I love my car, but I have to admit it feels pretty cramped when my six foot-four fiancé’s filling up the passenger seat.

“How was your shift?” I said. I started to put the car in gear, but Hatch reached over and laid a hand on my arm.

“Oh, come on, we’re not that jaded with each other yet. Are we?”

He leaned in and turned my chin so I faced him, and then kissed me. Ah, yeah. Another perk of marriage. Coffee-tinged kisses from a guy who was Mr. August in last year’s Maui firefighter calendar. He smelled like shave cream and Ivory soap. Sign me up for that, too.

When we got to the Kahului airport it was surprisingly empty. Seems the jumbo jets heading back to the mainland don’t normally start loading until afternoon. Fine with me. The TSA workers always seem a lot more “aloha” when they’re processing
kama’aina
—that’s the word for locals—heading out to the neighbor islands, than when they’re herding throngs of grumpy tourists homeward bound after their annual trip to paradise.

But we weren’t going to be flying out of the jumbo jet terminal that morning. We’d be using the inter-island terminal, which is about a block away. We got to the open-air building and parked. Walking up to the counter, I was surprised to see no TSA presence.

“
Aloha
,” said the agent at check-in. “Name?”

We gave our names and she asked us how many bags we had. I pointed to my small roller-bag and Hatch hoisted his duffel.

“Just carry-ons,” said Hatch.

“No room for carry-ons on these planes,” she said, smiling. “Everything gets checked. Please step up on the scale with your bags.”

We each got on the scale and she typed our weight into her computer.

“You’ll be in row one,” she said.

“Wow, first class,” said Hatch. “Does that mean we get free drinks?”

The clerk gave him a weak smile signifying she’d heard that one, and a hundred other lame attempts at humor, many times before.

“Wait over by the chain-link fence,” she said. “Your flight will be called in a few minutes.”

We waited by the tall fence, watching for our aircraft. Soon, the air trembled with the thrum of what sounded like a million bees. A half-minute later, a tiny single-engine plane dropped down onto the tarmac and taxied to a stop. A door opened at the back of the plane and a spindly metal ladder unfolded from the open space.

“You ready for this?” Hatch said.

“You bet,” I said. “I love flying.”

Actually, I don’t really love flying. What I love is looking down on the islands from a bird’s-eye view. The sight takes my breath away. Trusting my life to the skills of a mechanic who had to pull an extra shift ‘cuz he’s behind on his rent, or to the good judgment of a pilot who probably would rather be home watching college football, was merely a regrettable means to the end.

We trudged out to the waiting aircraft and the pilot, who looked like he’d started shaving a week and a half ago, greeted us. He offered me a hand as I stepped up onto the impossibly tiny metal steps.

We got aboard and took our seats. Row one was directly behind the cockpit. There was no door to the cockpit, only two fake wood panels on either side that served as bulkheads. Since I could see everything—the instrument panel, the flight controls, and even out through the cockpit windshield—it was going to take some heavy duty self-discipline on my part to avoid back-seat driving.

We took off and the plane took its time gaining altitude. We seemed to graze the tops of the palms at Ma’alaea Harbor before heading out over a rippling expanse of lapis blue. I often get an uneasy feeling when I see Maui disappearing from view, and this was no exception. For almost ten minutes we were out over water with no land in sight. I felt a sense of limbo: with nothing solid below, we had merely the thrust of a solitary engine between us and twelve fathoms of deep blue sea.

It was odd for me to recall that for more than four months I’d spent most of my waking hours in that same ocean-sky limbo. Maybe that’s why I self-destructed as a federal air marshal. My conscious mind wouldn’t acknowledge my fear, so my unconscious mind took control.

I developed what was later diagnosed as narcolepsy: a strange malady that causes perfectly well-rested folks to suddenly drop off to sleep for no discernable reason. In my case, being in flight over water brought it on. I’d get about an hour or two into a twelve-hour flight from Honolulu to Taipei and boom! it was lights out for me.

Needless to say, the Department of Homeland Security wasn’t amused. After two warnings, I got caught catching z’s by a dead-heading pilot (but I was the true “dead-head” in this case) and my glorious one-hundred-and-thirty day career as a federal employee came to an abrupt and inglorious end. 

***

We approached Moloka’i from the east, dipping low over the steep sea cliffs of the Kalaupapa Peninsula. As we cleared the cliffs and began flying over land, I was struck by how different this island looked from the air than Maui. First, its topography is unique. On Maui, the mountain ranges were formed by two central volcanic zones: the southern mass topped by Mount Haleakala, and the northern mass crowned by Pu’u Kukui, in the West Maui Mountains. But on Moloka’i, the highest peaks are at the north edge of the island. This is because, millions of years ago, the volcano that created Moloka’i collapsed and half of it fell off into the sea. This created the steep sea cliffs along the north side.

Once we passed over the cliffs, we swooped over miles of a flat plain divided into tidy square patches of green, brown, and yellow. I wanted to ask Hatch what he thought was growing down there, but the drone of the engine was too loud to talk over.

We made a sharp turn to the left and dropped down quickly to approach the runway. Although the landing strip was tiny, with only one main runway with a second smaller runway dissecting it at an odd angle, the airport was hard to miss. Its red-roofed building was the sole visible outpost in a seemingly never-ending landscape of open fields punctuated by groves of trees.

We bumped to a landing and the co-pilot came on the intercom and gave instructions on how we would de-plane. It was impossible for most of the eight passengers onboard to stand upright in the tight quarters. From our front row seat, Hatch and I watched as the others made their way to the back of the plane, hunched over like a small band of Neanderthals filing out of their cave.

Once outside, we grabbed our luggage from the cart and walked across the tarmac to the terminal. It was a low, tan building with a couple of check-in counters and a small waiting area sporting a single low wooden bench. No frills, no amenities. I was reminded of the expression, “Just the facts, ma’am.”

Landing in Moloka’i is a completely different experience than landing on Maui. First off, the Maui Airport at Kahului makes no apology about being a visitor destination. The shops, the décor, the airport workers, the signage—everything is targeted to the tourist industry. The whole vibe is vacation friendly, and visitor-oriented. That’s not to say there’s not a down-home locals’ scene on Maui, because there is. It’s just that a huge chunk of the economic pie comes from tourist-related activities, so it’s essential to dazzle and cater to travelers from the get-go.