05-O'ahu Lonesome Tonight?

by JoAnn Bassett

  The hostess wore an authentic Japanese kimono. It was an exquisite silk wrapping of coral pink, white and pale blue. Her hair was done up in a heavily-lacquered bun. She took a look at us and her face displayed the tiniest flash of concern. She bowed her head slightly. In a small voice she greeted us in Japanese and gestured for us to follow her.

  “I think this is a Japanese restaurant,” I whispered to Jeff.

  “Of course it’s Japanese,” he said. “It’s sushi.”

  “No, I mean I think this is a restaurant for Japanese people. Not for us.”

  “I don’t see a sign saying we can’t eat here,” he said. By now four or five diners positioned at the sushi counter along the back wall were staring at us, chopsticks poised in mid-air.

  “They probably don’t speak English,” I said. I gripped Jeff’s elbow in an attempt to steer him back outside.

  “Well, I didn’t come here for conversation,” he said. “I came for sushi. Don’t you think they save the best stuff for the people who know what it’s supposed to taste like?”

  By now we’d arrived at the sushi counter. The hostess indicated two chairs at the end of the bar and we sat down.

  “I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” I said. “We won’t know how to order.”

  “Look Pali, back home I eat sushi whenever I can. I know the words. And besides, look at the menu. It has pictures.”

  I glanced at the glossy menu and indeed there were rows of pictures of pink, white, red, and gray seafood. Most things were shown wrapped in either green or black seaweed. To me it looked more like a bait shop list than a menu.

  “Do you think they have California roll?” I said to Jeff. “Or maybe something with cooked shrimp?”

  Jeff snorted. “Let me order for you. I know the good stuff.”

  “Can we get some hot saké?” I said. I knew whatever fish concoction he was going to foist on me would go down a lot easier after a few gulps of piping hot rice wine. Besides, maybe the saké would ‘cook’ the fish when it hit my stomach.

  “Sure. Good idea.” Jeff expertly ordered a large ginjo saké—in Japanese.

  “Do you speak Japanese?” I said.

  “A little. I worked on a project with a team from Tokyo University in Shinjuko. Their way of getting the job done was to work for ten to twelve hours straight and then go to a kyabakura, or hostess bar, and get falling-down drunk. You get up the next day and do it all over again. Those dudes were relentless.”

  The saké came in a thin white vase about ten-inches tall. The hostess placed two tiny porcelain cups in front of us and poured the first round. The warm saké went down like a cool flame—hot yet numbing. After the first cup I was enjoying myself a lot more. By the second cup I was up for taking a stab at things like raw eel and urchin.

  Everything tasted like rubbery sea-water to me, but I didn’t care. We had a great time, and the other diners seemed to get a kick out of Jeff’s tortured Japanese. They must’ve figured me for his well-trained wife since I didn’t utter a word. Even if everyone had been speaking English I still probably wouldn’t have said much. The saké had seen to that.

  We walked back to our high-rise—Jeff expertly steering me up over curbs and away from light poles.

  “You’re a cheap drunk,” he said when we finally got into the elevator.

  “Arigato,” I said, saying ‘thank you,’ in Japanese. It was the only word that had stuck with me.

  He laughed. “The good thing is we don’t have to get up tomorrow morning and design a propulsion algorithm.”

  “I can’t even spell algorithm, let alone design one,” I said.

  He draped an arm around my shoulder as we walked the ten steps from the elevator to the penthouse door. “I’ve missed you, sis.”

  “I’ve missed you, too, bruddah.”

  “Let’s tear up O’ahu,” he said. “Let’s see it all, eat it all, and act like a couple of obnoxious tourists for the whole week. I want to go home tired and guilty.”

  “Sounds good. Goal for the week: little sleep and lots of remorse.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Since Farrah had left for Honolulu on Friday, I was a little concerned when I hadn’t heard from her by Sunday morning. Ono was scheduled to take Tomika’s guests out that day, so I figured it’d be a good time to call.

  “Aloha,” she trilled as she took my call.

  “Aloha, yourself. How was the trip over?”

  “Groovy beyond words.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. It was bumpy, like you said, but fun bumpy. It wasn’t ‘we’re all gonna die’ bumpy like on an airplane.”

  “I’m really happy to hear that. So, what are you doing today? Do you want to hang out with me and Jeff?”

  “Sorry, but Ono says we won’t be back until after dark,” she said.

  “Oh. So are you going with him to Ko Olina?”

  “Yeah, Ono calls me his ‘cabin girl.’ Isn’t that cute—cabin girl? I’m gonna help him with the drinks and stuff.”

  “You know Ono doesn’t drink, right.”

  “I know. He told me. We pretty much haven’t stopped talking since we left Maui.”

  “Are you guys like—”

  “Oops. Sorry but I gotta go. Ono’s calling me. He wants me to taste the mai tai he made and see if it’s good. He’s so sweet. Let me call you when we get back, okay?”

  I hung up and felt a tickle in my ear. Green monkey? Maybe. But just a little one.

  I made coffee and Jeff stumbled into the kitchen a half-hour later. “Wow, you’d think with the time change I’d have been awake at five,” he said. “But I was wiped out.”

  “I know. I think ginjo sake trumps jet lag any day.”

  “Especially lots of ginjo saké,” he said. “Do you remember if I paid the bill?”

  I laughed. “Of course you did. I thought I was the only sloppy drunk last night.”

  “Any appearance of sobriety on my part was purely for show. I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t hold my liquor. It’s one of a half-dozen prized skills I learned from my Japanese counterparts. Never let ‘em see you slobber.”

  “Well, bravo. You certainly fooled me. So, what do you want to do today?” I said.

  “I’m up for anything that doesn’t involve damaging my liver.”

  “Do you want to go out to Pearl Harbor? I can order the tickets online.”

  “Tickets? I thought it was a National Monument.”

  “It is, but it’s a very busy monument. If you don’t want to wait in line for hours it’s best to get a reservation before you go out there.”

  “Leave it to a wedding planner to sweat the details,” he said.

  I fired up my laptop and found that the next available admission time was two o’clock. I ordered two tickets and wrote down my reservation number.

  “It’s going to be hard to find a parking spot out there,” I said. “You willing to take the bus?”

  “Sure. I’m up for anything.”

  I looked up the Honolulu bus schedule and found the Number 42 bus would take us in a pretty direct route from Waikiki to the Pearl Harbor Memorial site. It would take more than an hour to get there, but we didn’t have anything else to do anyway.

  We caught the bus on Saratoga Road and found seats near the front. But when we pulled away from the stop at the Ala Moana Shopping Center the bus had filled up. We gave up our seats to two older ‘aunties’ who were wrestling large shopping bags along with their suitcase-sized purses.

  “I can’t believe the bus is so crowded on a Sunday,” Jeff said.

  “It’s crowded every day. When I was in school here I used to take the bus down from Manoa to the beach. Sometimes the buses were so crowded going back up I’d get out and walk. And it’s a long, hot climb after lying in the sun.”

  We arrived at the memorial with less than an hour to go until our tour reservation. Jeff and I ran through the exhibits showing the events that led to the war. Fifteen minutes before the tim
e on our tickets we got in line for the boat that takes visitors to the USS Arizona’s final resting place. Everyone in line was somber. Even after seventy years, the pain of that horrific day still stung. The park ranger reminded everyone this was hallowed ground; a cemetery no less than the Punchbowl Cemetery of the Pacific located inside the Puowaina Crater up the hill from Honolulu.

  The ride out to the over-water memorial only took a few minutes but it served to remind us of how vulnerable the men on the ships that day were. They were not docked at a pier so there was no way to escape to land, even if they’d had time. But of course they didn’t have time. Nor would they have tried to flee. That’s why their memory endures. And that’s why their sacrifice is still honored.

  When we got out to the memorial it was eerie to watch the “Black Tears of the Arizona” emerge from the sunken wreckage. Drops of thick black oil still escape the ship’s fuel tanks more than seven decades after she was sunk. The drops form shimmering rainbow circles on the water’s surface as if to remind us to never forget.

  On the ride back to shore everyone remained quiet. What can you say after seeing the watery tomb of eleven hundred brave young men trapped for eternity?

  We got on the bus and rode back to Waikiki.

  ***

  When we returned to the penthouse we were still in a somber mood. After witnessing so much heroism and sacrifice it was hard not to feel our lives were pretty petty by comparison.

  “How about tonight?” I said. “Do you want to go out?”

  “I don’t know. I think I’d like a quiet dinner. Then maybe turn in early.”

  “You won’t get an argument from me. But would you mind if I called Farrah to see if she’d like to join us? We could have dinner over near the Royal Hawaiian and then go check out her suite. She made me promise I’d bring you over so she could see you. She’ll be heading home tomorrow so now’s our only chance.”

  I called Farrah but had to leave a message. She was probably still out on the day sail to Ko Olina. Cell phone reception on the catamaran is often sketchy, especially if the boat’s in open water.

  My phone rang as Jeff and I were walking to dinner. I snatched it out of my purse and answered. “Hey Farrah, you back yet?”

  “Uh. I’m sorry. I must have the wrong number.” It was a male voice. And not one I recognized.

  “Who are you trying to call?” I said.

  “I’m trying to reach Pali Moon, from Maui. This is her brother, Stuart Wilkerson.”

  “Oh, Stuart. I’m sorry, I didn’t check my caller ID.”

  “My mom said you were going to be on O’ahu this week. Are you?”

  “I am. In fact I’m with my brother, Jeff, right now. We’re just heading out to dinner.”

  “Mom said you might be willing to meet me while you’re here.”

  There it was. It was a given that sooner or later I’d meet the half-siblings I’d learned about back in July and I guess that time had come. It’d been sticky business to finally learn the truth about the father who’d walked out of my life when I was a baby and to find out I had seven half-siblings. No backing down now.

  “I’d love to meet you, Stuart. Are any of the others around?”

  “Just my brother, Michael. But I don’t keep in touch with everybody so I’m not sure who else might be in town.”

  “Well, I’d love to meet you and Michael,” I said. That was sort of a lie. What I’d ‘love’ was getting it over with.

  “How about tomorrow? I can take the afternoon off. My wife has been bugging me to take her to tea at the Moana Surfrider. You up for something like that?”

  “Sounds interesting. What time?”

  “I’m thinking around two. They do it out on the back veranda, near the beach. The whole thing is ‘veddy’ British.” He laughed. “Say, would your brother Jeff like to come? I can make the reservation for five.”

  “Hang on, I’ll ask him.” I covered the phone and asked Jeff. He scowled and shook his head ‘no.’

  “Thanks, Stuart, but Jeff’s got a conflict. Maybe another time.”

  “Okay, then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. Two o’clock at the Moana. You know where it is, right? Down on Kalakaua? It’s next to the Outrigger on the Beach.”

  As if I had any clue as to where the Outrigger on the Beach was.

  “Sure. No problem. I’ll see you there.”

  We hung up and Jeff shot me a wry look. “Lucky you. Not everybody gets invited to high tea with Satan’s spawn.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Phil Wilkerson had been my biological father. I say ‘biological’ because other than his contribution to my DNA he hadn’t been much of a father to me. He’d disappeared when I was an infant only to reappear after he’d died and named me in his will. The whole sordid affair involving my father was a sore subject with Jeff. Phil wasn’t his father, but he’d figured prominently in messing up Jeff’s life. After I’d explained it all to him, I’d promised to never utter my father’s name in Jeff’s presence again.

  We walked over to the Royal Hawaiian Hotel and I called Farrah’s room on the house phone. Steve answered.

  “Hey, I was wondering if I’d hear from you,” he said. “Did Jeff get in okay?”

  “Yep, he’s here with me now. We’re down in the lobby. Is Farrah around?”

  “Haven’t seen her for two days.”

  “What? She’s not staying there?”

  “Nope.”

  “But she was so excited about staying at the Pink Palace.”

  “Yeah, well, it seems she’s traded her pink palace for a snug harbor.”

  “She’s staying on Ono’s boat?” I said it louder than I’d meant to and a couple of matronly aunties in matching peach and aqua polyester pants outfits looked over and shot me some stink eye.

  “Looks that way,” he said. “Say, do you guys want to come up and see this place? It’s some kind of gorgeous suite she’s wasting. Can you imagine, trading chic for cramped? But then our Farrah has always been a fan of the road less traveled. Anyway, come on up. We can raid the mini-bar. Farrah told me all the room charges are being picked up by Go Hawaii.”

  “Mahalo, but we’re just heading out to dinner. Do you want to join us?”

  “I’d love to. I’ve been obsessing over my portfolio for the past two hours. I’ll need a few minutes to get decent, though.”

  “It’s six-thirty at night and you’re still naked?”

  “Oh, honey. I’m covered. But no way am I ‘go out’ ready. Come on up. It’s room three-four-two in the main building.”

  We found the elevators for the main building and went up to the third floor. Even the halls oozed vintage Hawaiian charm with intricately-carved wooden doors, dark wainscoting and pale gold walls. The hustle and bustle of Waikiki felt a million miles from the quiet serenity created by plush carpet and whispering air conditioning. Whereas the exterior and lobby of the Royal Hawaiian really pushed the Pepto pink; inside it was all dark wood and neutral earth tones.

  Steve opened the door wearing a Royal Hawaiian bathrobe. He had an enormous towel draped over his head making him look like a sheik.

  “Did you just get out of the shower?” I said.

  “Nope. Been this way since noon. I’ve been pretty much nocturnal since I got here.”

  “Well, it’s almost dark.”

  “Good. Make yourselves at home while I slip into something fetching.”

  We waited in the sitting area while Steve went into the bedroom to change. The view from the wall of glass on the far side of the room looked down on a perfectly manicured lawn and then out to a well-groomed beach dotted with pink umbrellas and chaises lined up in precise rows. There was an ornate white arbor on the lawn covered in tropical flowers in anticipation of tonight’s Royal Hawaiian wedding. I could put on less than half the weddings I do and make twice as much money if I worked for a posh resort like the Royal Hawaiian. But I’d have to keep regular hours and work with brides with unlimited budgets and never-ending demand
s. It wasn’t a trade-off I was willing to make.

  Steve finally appeared in the doorway to the bedroom, one arm stretched high against the door sill in his ‘making an entrance’ pose.

  “How do I look, darlings?”

  I’d made the mistake of kidding him once and saying, ‘I’ve seen you look better.’ It was something just short of a fatal error. He’d gone back and fussed over three or four outfit changes and we’d been an hour late for dinner.

  “Mah-ve-lous, as usual,” I said.

  I nudged Jeff. “Yeah, you look dashing,” he said.

  We went to Roy’s. Roy Yamaguchi is a local celebrity chef who’s made it big and now has restaurants all over the country, even in Las Vegas. His locations rarely have great views. In fact, at his Waikiki location, the restaurant is on a busy street corner hemmed in by towering high rises. But the ‘Hawaiian fusion’ cuisine is fresh and colorful as well as the clientele. I once did a gay commitment ceremony for two mainland guys and after they spent an evening at the Roy’s Ka’anapali they’d made so many new friends they ended up doubling their guest list.

  After dinner, Jeff and I walked Steve back to the Royal Hawaiian. “You want to come up for a night cap from the mini-bar?” Steve said.

  “Mahalo, but no. You need to get to bed,” I said. “What time is your interview at Go Hawaii?”

  “Early. I think it’s something crazy like eight o’clock or something. But I’ve got to take the bus so I’ll get there when I get there.”

  Jeff and I looked at each other. I let him speak first. “Uh, I work in a lab and it’s the polar opposite from the artsy kind of thing you do, but I think pretty much all employers expect you to be on time for the initial job interview.”