The Aloha Spirit

by Linda Ulleseit

  Dolores refrained from slapping her, but just barely. She carried out the rest of the instruction brusquely, with no apology for the heat of the water or the heaviness of the wet clothes. Leia was puffing heavily from exertion by the time they were through with the first load. Dolores smiled. She’d toughen up this spoiled little girl in no time.

  They’d finished four loads when Noelani came to the door. “Enough for today. Dolores, I need you in the kitchen.”

  “Mama, Dolores was mean.” And to Dolores’s astonishment tears appeared on the little girl’s face. Dolores’s eyes darted to Noelani. She knew the older woman had never accepted such weakness from Dolores at that age, nor from the boys either.

  “You’ll learn more tomorrow. Go rest before dinner,” Noelani told her daughter. It wasn’t a nurturing tone, but she didn’t snap at Leia either. Noelani had always favored her own children.

  Leia scampered off to her room faster than Dolores had seen her move all morning. Dolores shook her head and returned to the kitchen to cook the chicken and help Noelani prepare the rest of the meal—rice, sweet bread, and a big bowl of Hawaiian coleslaw with cabbage, pineapple, and onion.

  Leia dragged herself to the dinner table with a very unhappy face. Dolores remembered how sore her muscles had been on her first laundry day. But then she remembered her first day had been a full day, not just four loads. And the second day she’d been all by herself.

  Kaipo looked tired, too, since he’d started in the cane fields with Kanoa, Nui, and Koa. Kanoa read the paper, Noelani sewed, and the two littlest girls ate silently. They were now in charge of making the beds in both rooms. While Noelani’s machine whirred in the background, the girls peeked at the boys from lowered eyes. Makaha, at ten, was in the awkward age between the innocent play of childhood and the hard work of the men in the cane field. Polunu poked Makaha with a sugar cane from his pocket.

  “Leia worked hard today, Noelani,” Dolores said. “It might be better if she had help tomorrow. Anyone else want to learn?”

  Noelani looked up from the sewing machine. “You boys all help with laundry tomorrow, ya?” She turned to Dolores. “It okay if you not finish, Dolores,” Noelani said. “You wear dem out, ya?”

  Dolores smiled. “I can do that.”

  As dinner broke up, and the family went their separate ways, Dolores heard Leia whisper to her brothers, “You work hard. Dolores is mean.”

  At school the next day, Dolores never saw Makaha, Polunu, or Leia. They avoided her with a skill she hadn’t known they possessed, and she enjoyed it. For the first time in over a year, she jumped rope with Rose and Kimiko at recess and went back into the classroom with a big smile.

  After they returned to Noelani’s, Dolores went to the back porch. She stood with one hand on her hip and the other on the washing machine as the two boys came out the screen door. For the first time since she’d arrived, she had the upper hand. Leia was the youngest by three years. Her long dark hair hung in neat braids tied with bows. Dolores couldn’t imagine a little girl keeping those bows tied all day, but Leia managed. The boys were only a year apart in age but the same height. Makaha appeared taller because he was so slim and wiry. Polunu would grow up to be a massive Hawaiian man like the ones who played drums at the weekly lū‘au. All three had dark hair and dark eyes with coffee-colored skin that made Dolores’s arms look like the white sand on the Big Island’s Hapuna beach. They all looked timid, even afraid. Dolores couldn’t help the gleeful surge of power that shot through her.

  “Bedsheets.” She pointed to the stack of dirty laundry. “We didn’t do them yesterday, so we have to do them today.” She picked up a corner and waited while Makaha, Polunu, and Leia found the other corners. With the bedsheet gathered up between them, they moved it to the rinse water. Dolores remembered Maria letting her wring the sheet out by hand. She half wished she had time to make these three do that. Instead, she showed them the wringer and let Makaha wrestle with the crank.

  “Don’t just stand and watch him do it,” Dolores warned the others. “You have to sort those two baskets and get another sheet ready.”

  It was a warm afternoon for February. The ever-present trade winds had stilled, and the palm fronds drooped on the trees. Birds sang from hidden shady places in the yard’s foliage. Nothing moved that didn’t have to. Makaha, Polunu, Leia, and Dolores sweated until they were as wet as the sheets before they went through the wringer.

  Makaha stopped the crank at one point and stretched. He reached his arms to the sky and arched his back. Dolores waited for him to finish. “Back to work,” she said.

  Dolores prodded each of them until they finished the laundry. By that time the sky had turned red and orange from the setting sun. Orange light splashed on the children and made them look as if they were on fire. Makaha’s shoulders slumped, and Polunu bent at the waist, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Leia stood next to Dolores and said, “You think you’re sore today? Ha! Wait until tomorrow!” Although Leia tried to hide it, Dolores could see fatigued muscles tremble in the girl’s arms.

  When they all gathered around the dinner table that evening, the usual chatter was gone. Kanoa disappeared behind his paper. Kaipo, Nui, and Koa ate without their usual banter, their hands and arms reddened with sugar cane cuts. Makaha’s and Polunu’s eyes were half closed. They swayed in their seats and woke up for a moment to eat a bite. Then they drifted off again. Leia wasn’t much better. Meli and Kali stared wide-eyed at everyone.

  Noelani broke the silence when she brought out a chocolate haupia pie. “You all work hard today, ya?”

  Dolores’s mouth watered as she put a bite of pie in her mouth. Chocolate and coconut heaven.

  “Dolores is one strict luna,” Makaha said.

  Kanoa’s paper rustled as he lowered it. “Luna is no joking matter, Makaha. Many very strict men oversee our work in the fields. Cruel men, even. Our Dolores is not a luna.”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” Makaha said, but so low Kanoa couldn’t hear.

  ON Easter Sunday in April, parishioners decked the church with strands of plumeria and gardenia and hibiscus. The celebration of the Savior’s resurrection lightened Dolores’s heart and gave her hope. She vowed to talk to Maria on the ride home about an idea she’d been considering more seriously since she first imagined it.

  Dolores regaled Maria and Peter with tales of her three helpers and mentioned learning to cook. She looked at the glow of happiness that surrounded Maria. A new Easter hat and dress made her look even brighter. “Spring is a time of new beginnings,” Dolores said, parroting words from the morning’s sermon. “I long for a new beginning every day.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Wish there was something I could do,” Maria said.

  The door opened. No more time to plan how to say it. Dolores said, “Maybe you could let me live with you.” The words dropped like rocks. The silence that followed them seemed even louder. Dolores’s stomach twisted.

  “That’s a wonderful idea, but I don’t think we can manage it just yet.” Maria shot a glance at Peter, who looked out the window and seemed lost in his own thoughts. “We’re struggling to pay our way and get started. I’ll talk to Peter, though, all right?”

  Dolores nodded but was silent for the rest of the ride.

  Over the next few hours, the heat from the kitchen beaded Dolores’s brow and seared future plans from her mind. Dolores crossed herself and cut another onion. Noelani banged through the screen door and collapsed into her chair at the big table. She looked grim, her hair dark with sweat against her face. Dolores put the onions into the pot with shaky arms. “You look tired,” she ventured.

  “You tired too if you be me.” Noelani leaned forward so Dolores could get a better view of the steel in her eyes. “Kanoa hurt his back, ya? His work all pau.” Her hands lifted to the sky in a gesture of disgust. “He sit listen to the music, and I work hard to look for the new customers. Moloā kāne!”

  Dolores frowned. An injury didn’t
make Kanoa lazy. Her brain whirled with possibilities. If she moved out, Noelani would have one less mouth to feed.

  That afternoon’s lū‘au was more sedate than usual. Softer music played, and it seemed like fewer ‘ohana had come. Most of the men would have heard about Kanoa’s injury. Were they staying away to make the load easier? Dolores served poi and poke, teriyaki chicken and pineapple rice. She took the empty platters back into the kitchen, rinsed them, and filled them again.

  At night, Dolores fell into bed and dreamed of a life with Maria and Peter. She’d never been to the dairy and imagined the house and buildings and cows. At school, she daydreamed of working at the dairy, laughing with Maria, cooking, and cleaning.

  After school, she arrived at Noelani’s as smiling and happy as if Maria had already agreed. Her three helpers were waiting on the back lana‘i with fearful expressions on their faces. That gave Dolores pause. She didn’t want them to be afraid of her. Maria hadn’t been friendly at first, but Dolores had never been afraid of her. She wanted to work with the other children, not lord it over them. “So which basket should we do first today? Leia, why don’t you pick?” Leia, startled, pointed at a basket of brightly colored clothes. “Good choice,” said Dolores with a smile. “Let’s get to work. Shall we sing to pass the time?”

  The four of them worked together. Leia sang softly. Peace spread over Dolores. It was pleasant when everyone had a task they completed without complaint. Then Polunu’s sugar cane fell out of his pocket into the washing machine. He dove in after it and his belly knocked the laundry onto the floor.

  “Pupule! Crazy porker!” Makaha held his arm with his other hand. “You wrenched my shoulder!”

  “My sugar cane,” Polunu began.

  “Now is not the time,” Dolores said. “We have to redo this entire load. Before we do so, we have to get mangled sugar cane out of the rollers!”

  Leia rolled her eyes.

  “We have no time for that, missy!” Dolores snapped.

  Leia stepped up to help her, eyes wide.

  Dolores wondered if they would behave differently if they were doing something they loved. She retreated into dreams of life with Maria and Peter.

  SEVEN

  Summer 1924

  One Sunday late in August, Maria seemed preoccupied during Mass. When they settled themselves on the streetcar for the ride home, Dolores said, “What’s wrong, Maria?” Peter grinned like Polunu holding a fresh stick of sugar cane. “What?” Dolores asked. “Tell me.”

  “I’m going to have a baby,” Maria said with an incredulous voice as if saying it out loud was still too new.

  “A baby? Oh, Maria, that’s wonderful!” Dolores felt her eyes widen and her heart quicken. She reached out her arms and hugged her friend tight.

  “Do you want a boy or a girl?” Dolores asked.

  “Boy,” Peter said.

  “As long as it’s healthy,” Maria said, but Dolores knew she wanted to give Peter what he wanted.

  “You’ll be a great mom.” Dolores’s brain spun into action. She knew Maria helped Peter run the dairy. Maybe she would need help with the baby. Before she could stop herself, Dolores blurted, “You’ll need help at first. Maybe now I could come live with you? And help?” She wanted this so much her knees trembled. But how forward of her to just ask outright.

  Peter frowned, but Maria said gently, “We love you, Dolores.” She gripped Dolores’s hand as she looked up at Peter with arched eyebrows as if pleading with him to say yes.

  For the longest moment in the history of the world, the streetcar was silent. From the corner of her eye, Dolores could see the sunshine and palm trees that lined the road. They flashed by as if they marked a faster time than Dolores could perceive. The promise of a better life hung just out of grasp, so close her heart yearned to snatch it.

  “We won’t be able to pay you,” Peter said slowly.

  Maria turned to Dolores. Her eyes were shining. “But you’ll share everything we have. You’re my sister, after all.”

  “Are you serious?” Dolores couldn’t believe it had been so easy. She would be free of Noelani and her endless laundry.

  “We can’t bring you right away,” Peter said. “How about end of September? Maria will be quite far along by then and might appreciate the help.”

  “Might? I get breathless now if I do too much!”

  “Then don’t do too much,” Dolores said, smiling at her friend. The vision sparkled in her head. She would feel the satisfaction of walking out. Only one short month. “September, then. Thank you so much! You don’t know how much this means to me.”

  Maria hugged her close. “Yes, we do. Keep aloha in your heart until then.”

  They reached Dolores’s stop before she could gather words to respond. She hugged both of them good-bye.

  “A hui kaua. Until we meet again,” Peter said with a smile.

  Dolores smiled back, her heart full. Numbly she got off the streetcar and walked to Noelani’s house that had never been home. She stood for a moment on the front walk. The flowers carpeted the house as they did at all times of the year. Today Noelani’s huge wicker chair sat empty. Dolores felt nothing.

  Inside, Kanoa sat listening to slack key guitar on the wireless. Dolores thought she recognized Sonny Cunha’s “Honolulu Hula Girl.” Since there was no harm in being friendly, she said, “Sonny Cunha?”

  “Very good. His guitar no ka ‘oi.” His voice was straining to be kind, unusual for Kanoa.

  “The best,” Dolores echoed. She didn’t hear Noelani in the kitchen. “Where’s Noelani?”

  “Shopping?” he guessed with no interest.

  Dolores peered at him, noticing how awkwardly he was sitting in his chair. “Does your back hurt, Kanoa?”

  He nodded. “No more working cane for me until it heals.” His voice held so much dejection that Dolores wanted to pat his arm.

  At a loss for more words, she headed to the girls’ room. Deep under the bed she now shared with Leia, dust covered her old suitcase. The boys hadn’t swept as they should have. She pulled it out and used a sheet corner to wipe off the dirt. One month until she would be free of this family. She muttered a prayer under her breath: “Please, Lord, allow Noelani to let me go. Amen.” She knew it would be hard for Noelani to let the laundry income dwindle, since Kanoa couldn’t work.

  “Whatcha doin’?” Leia asked.

  Dolores stayed on her knees and pushed the suitcase back under the bed. She turned to see Leia in the doorway. Leia was hanging on to the door jamb with one hand and leaning so her long dark braids swung free like two thick ropes. She seemed so much older than when Dolores had first met her. Big dark eyes regarded her with curiosity. Dolores didn’t want to lie to her, but she would not be the first one to hear of her plans. In fact, there was no need to tell anyone anything. Not yet. “Nothing.”

  She shrugged, bored. “Hiki nō.” She bounced onto the bed, captured one of the braids in her hands, and fussed with the yellow bow tied to the end.

  For two weeks, Dolores supervised Leia, Makaha, and Polunu doing the laundry while she cooked. Noelani sewed for hours at a time, making up for Kanoa’s lack of work. The Iwilei girls she sewed for had spread the word, and new orders were coming in. Late into the night, Dolores could hear the whir of the machine. Kanoa’s back still pained him, but he refused to see a doctor. “No money for that,” he said.

  Despite Noelani’s efforts, the family didn’t make as much money as they had before Kanoa’s injury. One afternoon at the end of September, when Dolores came in from the back lana‘i to start dinner, Noelani was sitting motionless at her sewing machine, staring off into space. A beautiful silky fabric of green and gold rippled over the sewing machine table and Noelani’s lap.

  “Noelani?” Dolores said.

  She turned to look at Dolores. “Just tired.” She tried to smile. “Time for dinner already? My, the time she fly.” Her words were light but worry etched deep lines near her eyes and her tone was flat.


  Maybe this was the time to tell her about Maria and Peter. Dolores took a bowl of chicken pieces out of the refrigerator and pushed errant strands of hair out of her face. “I might be able to help.”

  “‘Ae? Yes?”

  “Maria and Peter have offered me a job.” Best to make it sound like improved employment rather than preferred family.

  “How much kālā you bring home? It betta’ make up for the laundry you not be doing.”

  “‘A‘ole kālā. No money.” Dolores told her, hoping the Hawaiian negative would soothe her. “They want me to live with them and work for room and board.”

  Noelani rocked back in the chair and tossed her chin to the sky. Her hands rested on her belly as she guffawed. “Oh, dat be good! Such an innocent keiki! Why would you leave here and go somewhere else where you have to work hard?”

  Dolores kept quiet. It wasn’t the hard work she wanted to leave, but she couldn’t say that to Noelani.

  She shook her head and got to her feet. “You say yes, ya?” Dolores nodded. “When you go?”

  “Next week.”

  “You crazy little haole, Dolores,” Noelani said and bent over her sewing.

  The news spread quickly. By the time everyone gathered for dinner, the older boys were staring at Dolores, their expressions ranging from Nui’s curiosity to Kaipo’s hostility. Kanoa’s Honolulu Bulletin lay unopened next to his plate. He and Noelani looked at each other, then at Dolores, then back at each other. Part of Dolores wished she could immerse herself in the simpler world of the boys, who pinched and kicked and poked under the table among giggles and grunts.

  “Nui, could you please pass the laiki?” Dolores asked.

  The bowl of rice made its way around the table. She spooned some onto her plate. Normally the table buzzed with conversation. Now even the younger children noticed and fell silent.

  Noelani spoke. “Dolores leaves next week.”

  Her words seemed to give the others permission to discuss her life. Like a floodgate bursting open, the questions rushed toward her.