After an interminable pause, the man spoke. “I usually shoot uninvited guests.”
“He said he would warn you we were coming,” Parker said, looking around and probably wondering where she was.
“Nope.”
A chill blew across her skin and Violet climbed out from her hiding place. She had nothing to lose. She ducked under his roof. “Mr. Lalamilo, it’s Violet Iverson. I believe you knew my husband, Herman.”
The man stared right through her and for a moment she wondered if he was deciding to shoot her. Then something like recognition lit his watery eyes. “Herman Iverson. One of the only haole I ever liked.” Violet frowned, causing him to chuckle. “Men, I mean. Women are different. Any kine is good for me.”
Her heart was pounding in her teeth, but she tried to smile. He gave her a cockeyed look that might have been his own version of a smile. She wasn’t sure.
The engine turned over again without success.
Bernard shook his head and yelled, “Boy! Your jeep isn’t going anywhere. Even if it was, the river’s too high to cross. Come inside.”
Parker hung his head out the window. “But we’re soaking.”
Bernard disappeared inside and returned with a towel, holding it up for Violet. “Here.”
It didn’t matter who was offering. A dry towel was a welcome sight. She patted off as best she could and hoped by some miracle their spare clothes were dry. Her hair was wringing wet and full of grass, and mud streaked the towel, which she hung on the door handle for Parker. Why was it always something with him? Wana, angry bulls, stolen vehicles and now this.
Bernard motioned them in. Two lanterns hung from the ceiling, adding warmth to the drab walls. A lauhala mat covered the entire floor and the room contained exactly one pune’e against the back wall, one table and two chairs. Bernard had also amassed an impressive assortment of glass fishing floats, which were piled in the corner. Some looked too big to wrap her arms around. Violet did a double take. There, lying on a mess of blankets, was the pig.
“Oh, look who it is,” Violet said in surprise.
Bernard nodded toward the pig. “Akala. She doesn’t like the rain.”
The animal rubbed her nose around on the old blanket, grunting at the sound of her name.
Violet laughed. “You’ve chosen the wrong place to live, then, haven’t you?” she said to the pig.
Bernard grumbled, “Smart, that one. She knew a good thing when she saw it.”
Parker tapped his knuckles on the door as he pushed it in. “Sergeant Parker Stone, Marine Fifth Division, sir.” He held out his hand. “I apologize for the intrusion. I was under the impression you’d gotten word.”
The old man paused as if deciding whether to shake. “Lalamilo,” he finally said.
Violet sized up the two men, who were about as different as a cat and a dog. Parker paled next to Bernard, whose umber skin looked like tanned leather. The top of his head barely reached Parker’s chin, and there was a gap where two of his teeth should have been. In her estimation, he was ten years past handsome, with thinning hair and loose skin.
“Any suggestions for getting the jeep out of here?” Parker asked.
“Tomorrow. By morning, no problem.”
“Morning?” Violet said.
It was probably the moisture making it hard to breathe. But staying here overnight was out of the question. Ella needed her home and Violet felt heavy with the weight of her daughter’s fear mingled with her own apprehension. The man might be a murderer. And he had a pig in his house, for heaven’s sake. Surely they could find a way out.
Bernard waved toward the window. His palms were pink. “We got five waterfalls in this valley. They all empty into this river. So until the water drops, you stay.”
On cue, the rain started up again, sounding like horses galloping across the tin roof. Violet could make out swirls of rain as they pounded the window.
“At least our clothes are still dry,” Parker said, holding up the bag.
“You don’t understand. I have to get home. Ella worries and has nightmares.”
“Zach knows my plan, and at least we know she’s in good hands.”
Trapped was how she felt. Coming here had been a mistake. She knew that now. “Where are we going to stay?” They both looked at Bernard.
He shrugged. “I have a bed in my shop.”
“So there’s no chance the water will drop before dark?” she asked.
“Zero.”
Parker groaned. “Let’s just hope the jeep starts up tomorrow or I’m going to have some explaining to do.”
* * *
After changing into dry clothes, Violet felt mildly improved. She had broken down and accepted Parker’s extra utilities, even though they were loose where they should have been tight, and tight where they should have been loose. Thankfully, there was a small mirror in the bathroom that worked if she stood on her tippy toes. The bottom half had tarnished with age. Her hair was a mass of tangled weeds, which she brushed with her fingers. She dabbed a smudge of color on her lips, while at the same time wondering why she bothered.
In the living room, both men sat at the table facing each other. Parker had changed into dry pants and a T-shirt, but the sheen on his face remained. Bernard stood up and offered Violet a chair. She sat.
“I was hoping to bring back some of your okolehao. It would do a world of good for my boys,” Parker said, butchering the word in the process.
“Auwe, boy. I have one rule. You need to be able to say the word before I sell you any.”
Parker turned to Violet for help. She enunciated each syllable for him. “Oh-koh-lay-how.” He imitated her several times, until the word flowed out smoothly. He sounded like a real local.
“Better,” Bernard said.
“Not supposed to have it at camp, but hell, we’re shipping out at Christmas.”
The old man scratched the white stubble on his chin. “I got a batch of something wicked. Brewed from red ti roots. I can spare ten pints, but it won’t be cheap.”
One sip of his special spirit would probably render her a bumbling fool. But maybe that was the point. Erase your worries, if only for the time being.
“Can we sample some?” Parker asked.
Bernard led them to a shack out back—this one even more dilapidated than the house. Violet had to look twice to make sure a banana tree really was sprouting through the window. Inside, oak barrels and iron pots and bottles lined the walls in neat rows. It reminded her of a science laboratory.
Akala trailed behind them. “Damn pig loves this stuff,” Bernard said.
“The liquor?”
He nodded. “Got to keep a close eye on her. Found her once belly up and snoring in the middle of the floor. Turned out she’d gotten into one of the pots.”
Akala sniffed around the floor, eventually tickling Violet’s feet. “Ella would love her.”
“Be my guest,” Bernard said.
He wasn’t fooling anyone. Violet could tell by the way he looked at the pig that he was well attached.
“What does okolehao mean, anyhow?” Parker wanted to know.
Bernard coughed and looked at the floor. “‘Iron bottom.’ It came from how the pots look like a plump woman’s backside.”
He launched into a description of how you had to wait for the ti plant to mature so that the stalk was at least the size of a man’s wrist. Then you knew the root would be big enough, sometimes weighing as much as a small dog. After that, you baked them in an imu—where the magic took place. Distilling came next.
“Don’t ask me to tell you my secrets,” he said.
“What is it about the ti?” Parker asked.
“Ti root turns to sugar easily. You ask me, anything else is crap.”
“When can we try it?”
“Dinner.”
* * *
Darkness came early, along with the mosquitoes. Violet was ravenous from the hiking and so much nervous energy expended. Between her and Parker, all they had left was an apple and a bag of soggy crackers. Fortunately, Bernard had speared a papio that morning and planned to cook up rice, taro and watercress. All from his compound.
Violet offered to help, but he motioned her away, grunting the same as his pig.
Instead, she sat wringing her fingers and thinking about Ella. Parker went out to check on the water level of the stream. It was then that a ringing noise came from the cupboard, startling her upright.
“What the dickens was that?” she asked.
Bernard opened the wooden doors, pulled out a shiny black telephone and set it on the countertop. “Lalamilo,” he answered.
He cast a glance at Violet and she heard a man’s excited voice on the other end.
“Right in front of me,” Bernard said.
Why was it so unthinkable he would have a phone? After all, Waipio Valley was home to several churches and hundreds of people. No doubt they’d run a line down. But she hadn’t seen one in his house and assumed a man like Bernard would not own one.
He handed her the phone. “For you.”
“Violet? It’s Zach. Are you folks all right? Everyone here’s been flipping their wigs.”
She had to hold the phone away from her ear. “I can hear you loud and clear, Zach. We’re fine. Until this very moment, I had no idea there was a phone in this house. The river flooded and the jeep is stuck. Mr. Lalamilo here has been kind enough to offer food and shelter for the night.”
When Parker walked in, his look of surprise caused her to smile.
“Zach,” she mouthed. “How’s Ella?”
“Well, I don’t want to offend you, but with Roscoe here, it wasn’t until almost dark that your name even came up. Since then, she’s been anxious. But we tracked down Irene, who helped us get ahold of Lalamilo’s number. Took a little work, but here you are.”
Violet wanted to kiss him for being so dogged. “Can you put her on?”
“Hi, Mama.”
“Sweetie, I’m sorry to put you through this.”
“When are you coming back?”
“We have to spend the night because we can’t cross the river. But I promise we’ll be back as soon as possible tomorrow. Main thing is we’re safe and there’s nothing to worry about.”
Ella’s voice sounded strained. “Are there any bad people down there?”
“No bad people. Just Parker, Mr. Lalamilo and a pig named Akala that you would adore.”
She looked over and saw that Akala had burrowed under the blanket and was now invisible.
“Can Uncle Zach and Roscoe sleep over?”
“Of course they can, as long as Zach doesn’t have to be back, honey.”
This seemed to mollify Ella and she started on about how she spent the whole day with Roscoe. How they walked him into town to the soda fountain. And how half the people were terrified and the other half were dying to pet him. “He loves vanilla ice cream, too,” Ella said.
“I’m proud of you.”
“Uncle Zach wants to talk to Parker. But one more thing,” Ella said. “Can Roscoe sleep in my bed? Actually, your bed, since it’s bigger.”
Violet had to smile. “How about on the floor?”
“Why not the bed?”
“Ella, most kids would just be happy to even see a lion. You don’t need one in your bed.”
Ella sighed. “I love you.”
“Love you, too, sweetie.”
A lion in her bed—that would be a first. She handed the receiver to Parker and felt fifty pounds lighter.
* * *
Bernard shuffled around the kitchen mumbling to himself. Every now and then he barked a peculiar question at one of them. “Do you believe in ghosts?” “Ever been to Louisiana?” “What do you think of Lana Turner?” “What’s it like to fly?” He refused all attempts at help. “I have a system,” he said.
Violet couldn’t quite determine if he appreciated their company or was annoyed at the intrusion. Every now and then, she caught Parker watching her. He made no move to hide it, either, which raised a flush on the back of her neck. But now that Ella knew they were safe, nothing else bothered her. She would eat frogs from the mud outside if she had to, and sleep with the moonshine-drinking pig.
When dinner was ready, Bernard dragged in a barrel from the back lanai and used that as an extra chair. The fish flaked apart on its own accord and he had pounded a strange brand of white taro sweeter than the purplish-gray root she was used to. By the time she tried the watercress, she was drooling.
“How did you make this?” she asked.
“Lightly steamed and sprinkled in sea salt,” he said, matter-of-factly.
A murky bottle stood in the middle of the table. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought he was bottling river water. Bernard twisted off the cap and poured two jarfuls. When he began to pour a third, she held her hand out. “None for me, thanks.”
The one and only time she’d drunk okolehao, Herman had to carry her home from the bar. The next morning, she felt like she’d split her head open on a rock.
He poured anyway and raised his jar. “May the worst never happen.”
Parker winked when their eyes met. “I’m all for that,” he said.
Not wanting to offend the old man—since who really knew what he was capable of?—she first held the jar to her nose. It reeked of earth and roots and fermented fruit, possibly banana. She took a sip. All at once, her mouth caught fire and her eyes teared up. Fearing her throat had been badly injured, she followed it with sweet potato.
Bernard emptied his jar and slammed it down. “Puts more hair on your chest, every bottle.”
“Just what I need,” Violet said.
Parker managed a big gulp, and he looked panic-stricken when he swallowed. “This’ll do.”
She hated to imagine what the old man’s insides looked like.
“Speaking of ghosts, there are two that live in the house. Just so you know,” Bernard said.
Have we been speaking of ghosts? She gave Parker a questioning glance.
“Oh? Are they friendly ghosts?” she said.
“Plenty friendly. But they like to move stuff around and cause mischief now and then. Knock things over, open doors, that kind of stuff.”
Violet thought it sounded more like a forgetful mind and wind blowing through open windows, but she kept her mouth shut.
“They have names?” Parker asked.
Her blood stopped, suddenly terrified he might say one was named Herman.
“Thelma and Birtha.”
Something nudged her hand and she jumped a foot off the chair. But it was only Akala. A huge breath of relief. The old man must have been serious about his pig liking the okolehao, because she went from person to person, sniffing out hands and legs.
“Akala, go!” Bernard yelled, his eyes ablaze.
The pig ignored him, instead lying at the foot of Violet’s chair and breathing on her toes. Parker was trying his darnedest not to laugh. Bernard shoveled food in his mouth, and from the clicking that accompanied each chew, it sounded like several of his teeth might be coming out with the meal. In between bites, he wanted to hear about the war and where Parker was off to. About artillery and airplanes.
As dinner progressed, he grew harder to understand, running his words together like youasmewegonnablowemtasmithereens. He was on his third jar when he said, “You two together?”
His unfocused eyes passed over Violet. The tiny house fell silent.
Parker was the one who answered. “No beating around the bush here, is there?”
“Parker is a good friend,” Violet said.
Bernard continued to stare at Parker. A vein
bulged in his temple. “What kind of fool are you, boy?”
“It’s complicated, sir. Maybe someday?”
Violet opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. Even with just one sip of the okolehao, her thoughts had blurred.
Bernard blew like an angry horse. “Nonsense. There is no someday. You live like that, you die alone, wondering what you were waiting for.”
It took an act of forced concentration to sift through his speech, and Parker glanced over at her with eyebrows raised. A heaviness draped everyone in the room. The old man seemed to be just beginning.
“I spent my whole life in this valley, watching women come and go. Always knowing another would show up. I always found reasons to let them go. One wanted me to pick up and move, one didn’t approve of my drinking, one hated the rain. I should have done whatever I had to keep even one of them. Don’t squander your chance to live. You hear me?” By the time he stopped, he was panting.
He had a point.
Violet tasted fear—layers of it. From the ache of her own father heading out on the train that day, and the empty letters, stirring up hope every time; to the void of Herman and the hollow place in her chest.
“My husband disappeared, Mr. Lalamilo, and my daughter is only now recovering. But she’s changed. There are some things beyond our control.”
“How long it been?”
“A year.”
Bernard sat back in his chair and stared at her. She could see his mind mulling over some big idea. For a hermit, he sure had plenty of opinions about the world. In fact, he reminded her of a Hawaiian version of her own grandfather, who always wanted to stuff her full of good advice. “Why do you think they tell you to smell the roses? Because they’re going to wilt and die. That’s why.” The way of old people, she supposed.
“Speaking of Herman, I got a hunch where you might find him,” he said.
Every drop of blood ceased to flow. Violet felt herself turning the color of Minnesota snow.
Chapter Thirty-One
Violet
Violet slammed her eyes shut. With hands that seemed to have a mind of their own, she clutched the jar of moonshine hard enough to crack it into pieces. To be sure, Bernard Lalamilo had been a man of contradictions, but these were about the last words she’d expected to spill from his mouth. Her most recent trip to see Sheriff Souza and the admiral had turned up plenty of nothing, as usual.
Island of Sweet Pies and Soldiers Page 21
