Sunset Sanctuary

by R J Castiglione

  "I was wondering if you're hiring."

  The man sighed and closed his book. "No, I'm not. Are you going to buy anything?"

  I looked around the cold, dark store. I was sure I could find something to buy. I just couldn’t afford to spend right now.

  "Sorry, no."

  He turned his attention back to his book, completely ignoring me rather than enticing me into a purchase. What an asshole.

  I left the store, the last one in Whalers Village, and decided to check out the beach. This area of the island sported the most picturesque views. In the afternoon, after the haze burned away, one could easily see Kaho'olawe, Lanai, and Moloka'i across the waters. To me, it felt like a magical archipelago, a home to countless adventures, myths, and legends.

  I passed some restaurants and bars, but I knew from hearsay they rarely hired people like me off the street, especially with no restaurant experience. I thought about applying for the catamaran cruise company, but I had zero boating or entertainment experience.

  Around me, tourists fluttered from one shop to the next, stuffed their faces with rich island food or Asian cuisine, or drank at a bar. They tossed money around left and right, willing to pay exorbitant prices to chain stores and tourist traps. I just didn't know how to get my hands on any of that money.

  "Fuck," I mumbled to myself. Standing in the middle of Whalers Village surrounded by a horde of hyper vacationers made me feel out of place. For the last two decades of my life, I dreamed about returning to Maui and how comfortable I would feel once I got there. Instead, I felt like a minimum wage busboy at a black-tie gala surrounded by intangible wealth. When I was a child, I never grasped that aspect of the island, the part where tourists reigned supreme, and locals were trodden underfoot.

  Auntie understood it. Tad sure did. The smile on his face after finding a free coconut proved that. As a child, I supposed Auntie and my mom made sure I never had to see this side of their lives, the part where they struggled to make ends meet while everything around them became more expensive, including the very land they owned.

  A loud wedding party danced by, their winter-pale skin turned red from a day in the sun. I felt an urgent need to get out of there. I came to Maui to escape these people. I walked back to the parking garage. As I reached my car, my phone buzzed. I flipped it open and read a message from Tad:

  Bro, Auntie said u was looking 4 a jb. Tlk to Jim @ Safeway. He hook u up. -T

  Another text message came in — a list of groceries with every other item in the list misspelled. Tad wanted me to pick them up at the market. A group of teenage girls walked by me as I leaned against my car. I pocketed my phone and jumped into the driver's seat after they whispered to one another and giggled, making fun of my flip phone. They paused long enough for one of them to hold out their too large smartphones attached to a selfie-stick and all formed duck lips while they took a selfie. I wanted to take the stick away from them and snap it in half.

  As I left the parking garage, I handed my voucher to a young ticket taker. "That'll be twelve dollars," he said.

  I pulled out my wallet and mulled over handing him a twenty but he scratched his cheek, then tore up my ticket and raised the gate.

  "Sorry, brah. Locals park for free," he lied as he waved me on.

  Forty minutes later, thanks to evening traffic, I walked into the supermarket to the sound of Ed Sheeran's "Thinking Out Loud," barely loud enough to hear. I grabbed a cart and got to work roaming from one aisle to another as the song followed me. With a basket full of eggs, meats, veggies, fruits, pancake mix, bread, cold cuts, and other things, my fond memories of my childhood suddenly shattered when I landed on the last item in the list, POG concentrate. And in the juice section, I exchanged the childhood joy accompanying every single "hand-squeezed" glass of POG juice for a chilled, ultra-thick concoction of lies. The red carton sported an anthropomorphic pineapple with Mr. Peanut-like, white-gloved hands standing on a surfboard. Mr. Pineapple seemed to taunt me for daring to think every glass of my beloved POG was hand-squeezed.

  I felt appropriately sad, like a child learning there was no Santa Claus, loaded my cart up, and made my way to the checkout. There, a pimply-faced teenager with a tan shirt, black shorts, and an apron rang me up.

  "I'm looking for Jim. Is he around?" I asked.

  The kid pointed at a man hovering over a small podium with a highlighter in his hand. He was a few years older than me, Tad's age. I guessed they went to school together. I paid the tender in cash and collected my groceries before I rolled my cart over to Jim. He spotted me as I approached.

  "Sir, is there anything I can help you with?" he asked.

  "Yeah. I'm Adam Frost, Tad's cousin. He told me to speak to you about a job?"

  "Sure did, boss!" He warmed up immediately and waved me behind him to an employee break room just off the store's front end.

  "Lucky Tad called me when he did. We let two guys go today. Fools didn't show up to work! If you'll show up on time, work hard, and treat customers good, the job's yours!" Jim sounded too happy, like he had a perpetual sugar high.

  "What will I be doing, exactly?"

  "Well, what won't you be doing? You'll work for me in the front. We'll start you out bagging groceries, collecting carts, emptying the bottle returns, and generally keeping the store clean. What do you say? I can start you out at $10.10 an hour for 25 hours a week."

  The job offer was literally the best I had all day. It was certainly better than the $7.25 an hour I made back in Georgia.

  "When do I start?" I asked. I was pleased with the offer. Not only would it earn me some pocket money, but it was within walking distance of the inn. I wouldn't have to burn through Auntie's gas or kill her car to get to work.

  "What do you think about Thursday?" Jim pulled a clipboard off the wall with a schedule chart on it. He penciled my name in. "I can have you on a 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. shift. Can you show up around 8:30 to fill out the application and employment forms?"

  "Application form?" I asked.

  "Yeah. Boss doesn't like me hiring off the street like this. A proper application form will put his mind at ease. Don't worry, though. He won't even notice you. The guy spends most of his days locked up in his office in the back of the store."

  The loudspeakers chirped, and a crackly voice filled the air. "Jim to the front end, please. Jim to the front end."

  Jim put the clipboard back on the wall with my name written in tiny letters above a crossed-out former employee's. "Duty calls," he said. "See you first thing on Thursday."

  "Wait! What do I need to wear?" I asked.

  "Black pants and a black, v-neck t-shirt. We'll fit you with company shirts and an apron when you get here!" he said, then he sped away to the registers leaving me with my cart of groceries now very much in need of refrigeration. Already, a carton of ice cream on the very bottom of the list, most likely added by Tad, started to bulge as though it would rupture and leak at any moment.

  I smiled, pleased with myself, and grateful that my cousin hooked me up.

  I've got a job!

  4

  Day 5

  Auntie wanted little to do with Tad and me when we showed up for breakfast. The dining table was filled, Auntie now fixed firmly at the head of the table where she belonged with the Jones family at her side.

  The night before, new guests checked in, the family of a local friend who needed a place to stay a few nights while they moved house. I recalled guests like these when I was a child. They fluttered in and out of the inn like birds looking for a perch, always taking advantage of Auntie's kind nature for a cheap roof over their heads and warm food in their bellies.

  Today, those roosting birds included an older gentleman, his adult daughter, and two snot-nosed children who spent half the morning chasing one another around the inn screaming bloody murder. Tad leaned against the wall near the guest sign-in stand, his arms crossed, an angry expression on his face.

  "You see this?" He gestured to the guest register as
I came downstairs. Laughter exploded from the dining room as the older gentleman entertained a disinterested Mrs. Jones with a tawdry story of his ocean mishaps as a young boy growing up on Maui.

  As I turned the registry over, I felt a sudden headache coming on. Scrawled in Auntie's shaky handwriting, the names of our guests corresponded to the rooms they occupied. Of the twelve guest rooms we had, the family occupied four. A big X was penned in with Auntie's initials next to it on the room-rate column along with NA next to their checkout date. I wondered if it was a mistake, so I used the small key Auntie gave to me to open the key box hanging on the wall.

  Sure enough, the guest copies for the four rooms were missing.

  "She's not charging them?" I asked.

  He huffed and pulled me into the kitchen so the guests couldn't hear us. "Oh, she's charging them, that's for sure. They paid in overripe fruit, liquor, and half a bottle of laundry detergent."

  "So… they’re costing us money?"

  "That's an understatement. They're eating a mountain of food, taking crazy long showers, and the kids already broke one of the beds."

  I mulled over the situation as I grabbed and started eating an apple banana, enjoying the acidic, apple-flavored banana not found on the mainland. I admired Auntie's charitable nature, that was for sure, but now was no time for charity when she risked losing her home. It would be different if the guests paid some small amount. Losing money on them was an entirely different matter.

  "I'll talk to her later. We can't exactly kick them out now that they're already here. Auntie would kill us."

  "That's for sure. Maybe she'll listen to you. God knows she don't listen to me."

  Tad stormed off in a tizzy. Moments later, I heard his truck peeling out and speeding away. The older man in the next room, sitting directly across from Auntie, belly laughed again. I left the kitchen in time to see one of the kids, hardly four years old, tip over his glass of juice and stain Auntie's white tablecloth. She didn't seem to mind as the young woman sitting next to her father mouthed an apology and started dabbing up the juice into a white cloth napkin.

  Mr. Jones, Auntie, and the older male guest seemed happy. Mrs. Jones sat there silently, poking a cold heap of scrambled eggs with her fork, waiting for her husband to finish so they could get out of there.

  I needed to talk to Auntie. But not now. I didn't want to upset her in front of her guests and friends. So I slipped my sneakers on and left, first to Cannery Mall to get some new clothing, and then for an afternoon in Lahaina Town. There was undoubtedly no repair work for me at the inn that day. Not with two kids running around destroying everything in their path.

  The morning was hot. Too hot. An "it's going to rain soon" hot. The sun blazed overhead, despite the dark storm clouds hovering over the mountains only a few miles away. I hoped the storm wasn’t strong enough to make its way into town. The last thing I needed on a day out on foot was a soaking.

  I lucked out. It only started raining just as I walked into the indoor mall, shocked by the rapid transition from hot, humid air to the brisk cold of an overused air conditioning system.

  The mall only had fifteen clothing stores, half of them for beachwear or women's wear. Still, I found several items I needed: a new knapsack, new shorts, shirts, a bathing suit, two pairs of black pants, and some black v-neck undershirts. I cringed as I watched my wallet get thinner and thinner as cash practically flew into the hands of too-friendly cashiers. I almost regretted not taking Auntie's car to the outlets near the airport, where most locals shopped. I might have saved myself $100 if I went to a big-box store instead. However, I detested the idea of paying even more money to mega-corporations that tended to suck revenue off the island in exchange for cheap clothing that wore out after a few months.

  With my brand new knapsack wrapped around my shoulders, nearly bursting with new clothing, I made my way down the now damp Front Street, the town's main tourist road, glad the rain had stopped.

  I wanted to get reacquainted with the city I once called home. So I walked by one mixed plate restaurant after another, by Luau schools and outdoor theaters, and by too many snorkel and swimwear shops to count. Snorkeling sounded like fun if only I had the money to make it happen. Sure, Tad would let me borrow his gear, but his head was too big. And so was his mouth.

  With only a few hundred bucks to spare, I settled for a nice cup of mango water ice and parked myself on a bench in Lahaina Banyan Court, admiring how bustling the downtown was, at least for a Tuesday during the off-season. Ignoring the streams of tourists around me, I zoned out while spooning slushy into my mouth. Banyan Court made me feel truly at home. The massive tree covered half an acre and was over fifty feet high, its giant limbs growing horizontally and vertically with thick vines hanging down from the canopy. The tree possessed a mystical quality. Everyone, including children, knew it was something special. Despite being a tree-climbers paradise, no one dared climb it for fear of harming the tree.

  Scattered throughout the square, local artists started setting up tables again after the brief rain, removing plastic from their tropical-colored canvases of magentas and aquas and blues and greens.

  This part of Lahaina exemplified paradise, although the ever-growing crowds of travelers left me uneasy. Back in Atlanta, Jeff rarely let me go out. And when he did, even when in a crowded place, he had no problem making me feel like crap. "Why can't you look like that guy?" he would sometimes ask when an in-shape gym bunny passed us. Or, "Why waste MY money on crap you’re not going to finish?" when the money also happened to be mine. I stupidly allowed him to deposit any money I earned into a joint checking account and wasn’t permitted a debit card or checkbook.

  Thinking of Jeff Thatcher spoiled my mood. It even soured my water ice. The sweet taste of mango turned metallic and bitter on my tongue. As I walked across the square, I tossed it in a trash barrel. My phone buzzed. I flipped the screen up and read a new text message.

  I'll see you soon.

  My stomach clenched. The message came from an unknown number and a strange area code. I stuffed my phone back in my pocket, my palms already turning wet. Beads of sweat started to collect on my brow. For the first time in two days, my ribs twinged. Pain from my prior injuries broke through the ibuprofen I dosed myself with like clockwork.

  I scanned the crowd for any sign someone might be looking at me. I jumped from one man to another until, a hundred feet away, I spotted a familiar figure. My stomach lurched. I felt as though I might hurl. The man had his back turned to me, but his broad shoulders, built frame, cropped haircut and black hair were familiar to me. I sneaked around the banyan tree to get a better look. Even from a distance, the man possessed Jeff's chiseled jaw, thin cheeks, and high cheekbones.

  My heart raced, the gentle organ pounding and palpitating in my chest. I was on the brink of a full-on panic attack even after I determined the man wasn't Jeff. He had a fully grown beard and wore glasses, two things Jeff most certainly didn't have. I turned and fled, speed-walking through the streets back towards the inn. Every step I took back home required so much energy. The bag clinging to my shoulders felt as though it had rocks in it.

  I couldn't make it back to the inn. I turned down a side street and found myself in the Puupiha Cemetery surrounded by tombstones erected in mounds of beach sand. I nearly banged into a crooked cemetery sign and tripped over a rusty chicken-wire fence as I hid behind an old palm tree with my back pressed into the scratchy bark.

  I pulled out my cell phone again. It had been three days since Jeff last texted or called. Surely he didn't find me already. I bought the ticket with cash at the airport after paying cash for a taxi there. Only my mother and sister knew where I was.

  I scrolled through my contact list and dialed a number, clutched the phone against my ear, and listened as it rang.

  "Adam, honey? I'm still at work. Can I call you back?"

  "Mom," I blubbered into the phone, "did you or Maria get a new number?"

  All I heard over the line
was static and silence.

  "Mom?"

  "No, honey. Why? Is something wrong?"

  I couldn't hide the fact I was crying. My stuffed nose and trembling voice gave me away.

  "I'm scared, Mom. I got a strange text. All it said was 'I'll see you soon.'"

  My mom cleared her throat. I heard shuffling of papers and some banging around, followed by a door slamming.

  "Honey, where are you? Are you with Tad or Ala?"

  "No. I'm at Puupiha Cemetery."

  "Why in God's name are you there?"

  "I couldn't get home, so I turned down a street and..." I trailed off. "Mom, you didn't hear anything from him, did you?'

  "Since you left? Not a peep. Your sister hasn't seen or talked to him either."

  I wiped tears from my burning cheeks and did my best to clear my nose.

  "Do you think he found me?" I asked.

  "I don't see how. There's no reason for him to think you're not still home."

  "I am home, Mom."

  "You know what I mean. Do you want me to follow up with the police?"

  I mulled the idea over. Getting the police involved required they check on Jeff. If they did, he would know something was up. As a criminal attorney, he had friends in the Atlanta PD who always fed him information. I suddenly felt like I was in witness protection. The island began closing in on me like a prison.

  "No. I don't want to risk him finding out where I am. It's better not to get the police any more involved."

  "Adam, you can't hide out the rest of your life. Sooner or later, you'll have to deal with this. Have you thought about talking to someone about it?"

  I laughed a little, although that made my rib cage throb all the more. "I couldn't afford it even if I wanted to."

  "Still, you can talk to Tad and Ala. They need to know what happened to you."