The Aloha Spirit

by Linda Ulleseit

  Copyright © 2020 Linda Ulleseit

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2020

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-723-4 pbk

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-724-1 ebk

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020902196

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1569 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  Book design by Stacey Aaronson

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Dedicated to

  Carmen Dolores James Medeiros Rodrigues

  Hawai‘i State Law: 5-7.5 “Aloha Spirit.” (a) “Aloha Spirit” is the coordination of mind and heart within each person. It brings each person to the self. Each person must think and emote good feelings to others. In the contemplation and presence of the life force, “Aloha,” the following unuhi laula loa (free translation) may be used:

  “Akahai,” meaning kindness, to be expressed with tenderness;

  “Lokahi,” meaning unity, to be expressed with harmony;

  “‘Olu‘olu,” meaning agreeable, to be expressed with pleasantness;

  “Ha‘aha‘a,” meaning humility, to be expressed with modesty;

  “Ahonui,” meaning patience, to be expressed with perseverance.

  These are traits of character that express the charm, warmth, and sincerity of Hawaii’s people. It was the working philosophy of Native Hawaiians and was presented as a gift to the people of Hawaii.

  “Aloha” is more than a word of greeting or farewell or a salutation.

  “Aloha” means mutual regard and affection and extends warmth in caring with no obligation in return.

  “Aloha” is the essence of relationships in which each person is important to every other person for collective existence.

  “Aloha” means to hear what is not said, to see what cannot be seen, and to know the unknowable.

  (b) In exercising their power on behalf of the people and in fulfillment of their responsibilities, obligations, and service to the people, the legislature, governor, lieutenant governor, executive officers of each department, the chief justice, associate justices, and judges of the appellate, circuit, and district courts may contemplate and reside with the life force and give consideration to the “Aloha Spirit.” [L 1986, c 202, §1]

  PART ONE

  1922 – 1931

  ONE

  Honolulu 1922

  Dolores’s father deemed her useless when she was seven. Neither he nor her older brother, Pablo, ever said that, but every detail of their leaving told her so. Papa had tried to explain the Hawaiian custom of hānai to her. All she understood was the giving away, leaving her to live with a family not her own.

  Papa had completed his work contract on Kaua‘i, but instead of returning to Spain, the place of his birth, Papa had come to Honolulu. Five years later, he decided to go to the mainland to look for work and take Pablo with him. In California there would be no one to look after Dolores, so Papa found a Hawaiian family to hānai his only daughter. Her father said Pablo was smart and strong, so even at nine years old he could work as a floor sweeper or fruit picker.

  If she were two years older, like Pablo, she might have gone with them. If Mama had lived long enough to teach her to sew or cook, she might have gone, too. Then again, if Mama had lived, they would all still be at the plantation on Kaua‘i, and Dolores would have another brother or a sister.

  Her father carried the cardboard suitcase that held Dolores’s clothes: a couple of dresses and some underthings. Clouds of dust turned her pale legs gray like an awa fish. The air on O‘ahu smelled of citrusy plumeria. At home on Kaua‘i, on the plantation in Makaweli, the dust was familiar and red, the air scented with sweet pīkake flowers. She looked up at Papa and tugged his hand. “Can’t we go home?”

  Pablo snickered, but Papa said nothing. “Dolores, quit acting like a baby. Papa’s explained all this to you a million times.” Pablo believed himself two years smarter, but nine was not grown up. She stuck her tongue out at him. He laughed, and she blushed, embarrassed to have proven his point so quickly.

  Wisps of dark hair stuck out beneath the brim of Papa’s straw fedora. He squeezed Dolores’s hand. “I worked with Kanoa for years on Kaua‘i, remember? His wife will take care of you, and she has other children for you to play with.”

  Dolores nodded because she had no say in the matter. The coconut palms swayed in the late summer breeze. Plantation cottages crowded the road, which was bordered by thick, tough grass. Taro patches gave way to fields of sugarcane in the distance. The plantation owners used every available inch for their money crops. Workers huddled together where they could. They walked past Portuguese Camp with its beehive forno. Dolores’s stomach growled when she smelled the pao duce—Portuguese sweet bread—and the sugary fried dough malasadas. Diamond Head towered over everything, but it wasn’t as big as Kaua‘i’s Na Pali cliffs.

  They approached a tin-roofed green plantation house, raised off the ground to discourage termites. Fruit-laden banana trees arced overhead, and a brilliant pink bougainvillea climbed the lana‘i. Scrawny ti plants lined the tin-roofed carport that jutted out from the house on its near side. A rusty truck sat there like it hadn’t moved since before Papa was born.

  Dolores tightened her grip on Papa’s hand, not caring that Pablo called her a baby. Her eyes fastened on a large Hawaiian woman seated on the lana‘i. A red hibiscus blossom quivered in the dark waves of hair that fell across her shoulders and down her front. White teeth gleamed in a dark face. Her smile and a graceful wave of her hand greeted them. Yards and yards of fabric, white hibiscus flowers on a blue background, billowed around her.

  A piercing howl broke the tension. Dolores recoiled from the wild native boy who screamed as he careened around the corner of the house. Another yelling boy followed, leaped onto the lana‘i, and dodged the wicker chairs. He knocked against the cane table, causing a statue of the Hawaiian god Kāne to rock as if alive.

  On the lana‘i, the Hawaiian woman’s booming laugh greeted Dolores’s family and sent the children scurrying.

  “Aloha. You must be Noelani,” Papa said. He pushed the brim of his hat back and scratched his forehead as he did when he was nervous.

  “Aloha,” Noelani said. “E komo mai, keiki. Welcome, children.”

  “Paul isn’t staying,” Papa said. “Just Dolores.”

  Paul? Not Pablo? Dolores dropped her eyes to the floor, suddenly shy. Her renamed brother shuffled his feet. She darted a glance at him, but he wouldn’t look back. His Americanized name must be something her brother and father had discussed without her, no doubt while they talked about leaving her with a bunch of strangers. She snuck a look at Noelani. How could Dolores convince Papa not to leave her with this stranger?

  “Paul?” Noelani asked as she looked at Papa.

  “Yes, on the mainland they’ll call me Paul, and he will be Paul Junior
.” He straightened his shoulders.

  Noelani nodded. “Welcome to my ‘ohana, Dolores. It be big family, blood and hānai, ya?” She grinned as if making a joke.

  Dolores smiled, her brain working harder than it ever had in first grade. Family meant Papa and Pablo—Paul—not a strange woman with a bunch of children.

  They followed Noelani into the house. The Hawaiian woman moved with an incongruous grace. Her great bulk flowed as if one with its environment. The sway of hands and hips mimicked the motion of breeze and ocean waves. Once inside, Dolores slipped off her shoes and placed them by the door. She glared at her brother until he did, too. The Hawaiians believed wearing shoes in the house brought bad luck, and she’d need all the luck she could get.

  Two windows, open to catch the breeze, flanked the doorway. A fan with enormous leaf-shaped blades spun lazily above her. It wafted a soft breeze over a massive rattan couch that dominated one side of the room. Lurid floral patterns decorated the cushions shaped for large Hawaiian bodies. A watercolor painting of a palm tree-lined beach hung on the wall. Through an arched doorway, three steps led down to the kitchen. Noelani flowed in that direction and reached into the open shelving for plates. She tapped first to scatter any cockroaches.

  “Pūpū, ya?” she said over her shoulder as she wiped a plate with a dishcloth.

  Papa, Paul, and Dolores stood in the center of the main room. Dolores flipped her skirt to stir air around her thighs. Papa frowned.

  Noelani brought a platter of food bites—shrimp and chicken and fish. She also set on the table a koa wood bowl full of poi. Dolores tried not to turn up her nose at the purple paste. Only native Hawaiians could enjoy it.

  “You sit,” Noelani insisted. She pulled Dolores’s arm and dragged her into a large rattan chair. The girl sank into it until her feet dangled above the floor. Papa and Paul perched on the edge of the couch. Noelani stood by Dolores, hand on the random curls that covered the girl’s head.

  “I must say, this feels odd,” Papa began.

  “Mo betta’ you leave her with someone who knows you, ya? Kanoa and I, we take good care,” Noelani said.

  Dolores twisted away from Noelani and studied the roughened skin of the woman’s palm, her arms the color of Kona coffee. She smelled of frangipani and rich dark soil.

  A slim boy a little older than Paul, clad only in short pants, came into the room and helped himself to the poi. He scooped it into his mouth with two fingers.

  “Kaipo, this be Dolores. She stay with us, ya?”

  His dark eyes glared at Dolores with no hint of welcome. “Where she gonna sleep?” His tone was as hostile as his eyes.

  “Be nice,” his mother scolded lightly. She eyed Dolores’s suitcase. “This all your things?”

  Dolores nodded. She liked to think she had memories of her own mother, who’d died when she was two, but in reality, they were other people’s memories told so often she had taken them as her own. Pablo said that Papa had actually laughed when Mama was alive. Her mother must have loved clothes. Papa had left her closet alone, and Dolores played among her dresses. Dresses now sold for two passages to California.

  A tiny girl with large dark eyes and tangled hair sneaked into the room and took Kaipo’s hand. “Leia, this is our new sister,” he said. His words dripped scorn.

  Leia’s gaze bored into her from eyes as deep as the sea, and Dolores’s stomach churned. Leia belonged in this place. Dolores belonged nowhere. “No need a new sister,” Leia said.

  “Show Dolores where she sleep, ya?” Noelani told the children.

  Papa handed Dolores the cardboard suitcase and nodded toward Kaipo. Dolores struggled out of the chair. Could she ask Kaipo to help her? He didn’t want her there, so maybe he would suggest her father take her with him. But she couldn’t find the courage.

  Kaipo indicated Dolores should follow Leia as the younger girl ran ahead. Dolores felt his eyes on her back as they walked through the small common room. She peeked past a drapery topped with bamboo rings into the room on the left. It was a jumble of boyishness—clothes, bedding, hats, sticks, and rocks littered the room. Kaipo waved her toward the room on the right, holding its drape aside. An open window caught the trade winds that fluttered thin white cotton curtains. Two big beds left very little room to walk around. The heads of both beds were against the wall to prevent demons reaching in the window to cut off sleepers’ heads. The foot of the bed faced the opposite wall, not the doorway. That way a night marcher couldn’t drag children out while they slept. Dolores took a deep calm breath. At least her new room would be safe.

  “So, you don’t want me here,” she whispered to Kaipo.

  He made an unintelligible noise that meant, “That’s obvious.”

  “Convince Papa to take me with him,” Dolores blurted, “and you’ll never have to see me again.”

  “Mama would just hānai another daughter we don’t want. You stay.” Kaipo smirked.

  Dolores gave him a look of disgust and entered the girls’ room. Leia perched cross-legged on a pineapple pattern quilt, a pillow on her lap, and stared at Dolores. Two other small girls curled next to each other. An older teenage girl occupied the only other bed in the room. She lay on top of a white- and-pale-pink quilt reading a magazine.

  Kaipo nodded to the older girl. He kept his eyes on her while he said to Dolores, “Sleeping arrangements are for you girls to work out.”

  Dolores must have looked dubious.

  “Not good enough?” he sneered.

  The teenaged girl looked up. “Pau. E komo mai.” The sharp order to stop was for Kaipo, and the welcome addressed to Dolores.

  Kaipo slipped out without a response. The girl on the bed didn’t look Hawaiian like Kaipo or Leia, even though her skin was sun-darkened and her hair black. With a sigh, she laid down her magazine—Paradise of the Pacific—and sat up. “I’m Maria, Noelani’s oldest hānai daughter. You must be Dolores.”

  Maria? Not Hawaiian then. Maybe Portuguese or Spanish? “Si,” Dolores told her.

  Maria’s mouth turned up into a grim smile. “Yes, I’m Spanish like you, but I don’t remember my parents. You can come with me to Mass on Sundays.”

  “Gracias, Maria,” Dolores said, relieved that she would have the familiar comfort of the Catholic Church.

  Leia rolled her eyes. The younger ones giggled. Maria quelled them with a glare.

  Noelani hadn’t been kidding when she said she had a large family. “You’re the oldest, Maria?”

  “Of those that hang around here, yes. Kanoa takes the two older hānai boys with him to the cane fields every day. The little boys beg coins from the tourists on the ships. The tourists love their smiles.”

  Dolores put her suitcase on the scuffed wood plank floor, unsure what to do next. She wanted to run back into the main room and cling to Papa, but she didn’t want Maria to think she was a baby like the other girls. Soft footsteps in the hallway saved her.

  “Ah, here you are, Dolores. This is nice.” Papa smiled at the room full of girls. “You’ve always wanted sisters, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, Papa,” she answered, too relieved to see him to make a fuss over his words.

  Maria laughed. “Well, now she has four sisters and five brothers! I hope she’s handy with the laundry!”

  Noelani answered, “She be big help bumbye.”

  Papa looked at his daughter, and his eyes softened. “Be a good girl, niña.”

  “Si, Papa.” Dolores’s eyes tried to tell him everything she couldn’t say in a house full of strangers. I love you. Will you visit? Will you send for me?

  He turned to Noelani. “She’ll go to church regularly? You’ll feed her well and make sure her clothes are clean for school? Can you make sure she writes to me?” Suddenly Papa seemed anxious. Dolores’s stomach twisted.

  “Pau, Paul,” Noelani told him. “Is orait, ya?”

  Papa took a deep breath and rubbed his neck. “Yes, Noelani, it will be all right. I will write to her.” His promise soun
ded weak, an afterthought. He settled his hat on his head once more. “It’s time to leave. Our ship will board soon.”

  Paul hovered in the doorway. “See ya, Sis.” His effort to be casual failed miserably since tears were swimming in his eyes.

  Dolores looked away. She blinked to stall her own tears.

  Papa leaned over to kiss Dolores on the top of her head and whispered, “Remember, be good. Familia es todo.”

  Family is everything. Her father’s favorite saying. Dolores clenched her teeth so she wouldn’t sob and beg to go.

  Noelani walked Papa and Paul to the door. Dolores trailed after them.

  “Aloha, then,” Papa said. “Mahalo.”

  Dolores stood at the open front window and watched her father, with her brother a smaller replica—her entire family—walk along the roadway to catch the streetcar to Honolulu Harbor. Neither looked back.

  “Orait, Dolores, they be gone,” Noelani said. Her laughing face transformed into one chiseled from cooled lava. “You clean the girls’ room, ya?”

  A shiver of fear ran down Dolores’s spine.

  TWO

  Laundry Day 1922

  The next morning, Maria woke Dolores by climbing over her to get out of bed. Dolores had allowed the teenager as much space as possible by scrunching up on the edge of the mattress. Dolores sat up and rubbed her eyes. In the predawn of what promised to be a warm day, she could barely see the three youngest girls, curled around each other like puppies, beginning to stir in the other bed.

  “Time to get up, Dolores. The laundry won’t do itself.” Maria pulled on the same dress she’d worn yesterday.

  Dolores crossed herself and muttered, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” Maria glanced at her, and Dolores continued her morning prayer silently. God protect Papa and Pablo—no, Paul—in a strange place. Amen.

  She stretched and stepped out of bed onto the bare wooden floor, slipped into her own dress, and followed Maria to the house’s single bathroom. Kaipo hunched over the pedestal sink, legs spread and elbows angled to claim it for his own. Dolores recognized the two wild boys from the day before. Polunu and Makaha went to her school. They were not children Papa had allowed her to play with.