Mr. Family

Adele drew on her cigarette with a wry smile. “Hawaii can be tough on malihinis—newcomers. Especially haoles like us.”

Caucasians. Erika remembered the word.

“But, hey,” said Adele, “Haena’s a beautiful place. And all he wants is to know if you follow Dr. Spock or James Dobson.” She rolled her eyes again. “Take my advice. Get a dog.”

Erika’s present living situation didn’t allow for a dog. In fact, she’d never lived anywhere she could have one. Dogs were for people with homes. They implied permanence. Erika wanted permanence—if she could get it without more change. She’d known too much of that.

She contemplated the personal ad in Island Voice. Celibate marriage. She was probably one of the few people in the world who could see the appeal of that.

Mr. Family, she thought. Mr. Family.

Minutes later Adele paid the check with her gold card, and they stepped outside into a crisp winter breeze that made the palms chatter. Her faded carryall slung over her shoulder, her silk dress from Pier 1 Imports swishing against her legs, Erika accompanied Adele to her black Saab.

Erika walked with the slight limp that had become natural to her. Two years of rehab had made her strong and lean, but her legs would never be as they once were. She felt Adele’s appraising glance.

“You look great,” said Adele. “Really.”

“Thanks.” Adele had known her in the periods Erika thought of as Before, During and After. The present was After.

Something to remember, to be thankful for.

They paused beside the driver’s door of the Saab and embraced. “Now take care,” Adele told her, “and remember, the invitation to Hilo is open. Kurt would love to have you, too.”

“Thank you, Adele.” Erika released her. “Drive safely.”

After Adele had backed the Saab out of its space and driven off, headed for an appointment with an artist in Solvang, Erika made her way under the palms to her own car, the sun-bleached, sea-foam green Karmann Ghia she had bought eleven months before, when she began driving again.

Sliding behind the wheel, she set her carryall on the passenger seat. The copy of Island Voice showed from the top, and Erika drew out the magazine, thumbing through, looking for the ad for Sand Castles, to convince herself that she really could paint.

But she couldn’t find the right page, and instead, she turned to the classifieds in the back. Mr. Ohana…

Haena’s a beautiful place. And all he wants is to know if you follow Dr. Spock or James Dobson.

Nothing else.

Not even sex.

Erika shut the magazine and started her car. Afraid to take risks.

No pain, no gain; no guts, no glory?

No risk…no fulfillment.

Ever since David had met Jean, ever since Erika had begun to feel superfluous to her brother and his son, she’d been lonely. She missed Chris.

She wanted a family of her own.

But the usual route to that place was not for her. She always met the same obstacle in the road. No, really, it’s not you. It’s me. I’m just not ready for this. Trying to sound normal, blaming it on her accident.

Yes, Adele, I’m afraid. You would be, too.

Mr. Ohana’s personal ad, however…maybe this was a risk she could take. A child. A celibate marriage. Yes, she liked the idea.

But why did he want it?

What’s wrong with you, Mr. Ohana? she wondered. What’s your story?

Pepeluali: February

Haena: the heat

On the island of Kauai…THE RAIN SHATTERED through the Java plum trees and the ironwoods, drumming on the roof of the bungalow hidden in the foliage. Wet tropical blossoms gave off a heady aroma scarcely noticed by the occupants of the house. On the porch, Hiialo was catching rainfall in a plastic cup to measure—a “science experiment,” she had told Kalahiki.

Kal was glad she was busy—and happy. Everyone knew when she wasn’t. He turned from the envelopes littering the throw rug to the open front door and the barefoot little girl beyond. He could hear her voice under the rain, talking to a lizard out on the porch.

“Aloha, Mr. Skink. My name is Hiialo. This is Eduardo…”

Eduardo was an imaginary friend of Hiialo’s, a thirty-foot mo’o, or magical black lizard. A fearsome sight for Mr. Skink, thought Kal.

“Oh, don’t run away,” said Hiialo. “Eduardo won’t hurt you. He only eats shave ice.”

Danny’s voice drew Kal’s eyes toward the floor where he sat. “Spark dis.” Pidgin for “Check this out.”

Running a negligent hand through his short-cropped hair, Kal moved to stand over the muscular brown shoulders of his Hawaiian brother-in-law. On the floor in front of Danny lay a photo of a bottled blonde whose curves belonged on a beer poster. She stood beside a sailboard, smiling brightly at the camera.

Well, sort of brightly. Kal was choosy about smiles. A smile wasn’t a matter of orthodontic work or a pretty mouth. A smile came from the soul and shone through the whole being. A good smile was contagious.

There was a sound from Kal’s bedroom, the amplifier going on. Jakka, Danny’s cousin, six foot four and 240 pounds, emerged from the hallway, carrying Kal’s Fender Stratocaster guitar. He played a riff, and Kal’s own fingers itched for the strings. They’d planned to practice today.

Besides being part of his ohana, Danny and Jakka were members of his old band, the three-man band they’d called Kal Nui—high tide. And his former band mates haunted Kal’s house as though waiting for something to change, for that tide to come back in. But today’s jam session had never gotten off the ground. Danny, the percussionist, had seen Kal’s mail and wanted to read the replies to his ad. Now he was perusing the letter from the blonde with the sailboard. He grimaced. “She’s from the mainland.”

Jakka, whose fingers were master of the bass, slowly attempted the lead-guitar melody to “Pau Hana,” the song that had helped make Kal Nui the favorite band on the Garden Island. Long time ago…

Playing the right chords at the right tempo in his mind; Kal tried to lose the nervousness that had been with him ever since he’d visited his post-office box that day. Seeing the letters filling the box—and the larger stack he’d had to stand in line at the counter to collect—had made it real. He hadn’t been serious when he sent the ad to Island Voice. He wasn’t that desperate. It had been Danny’s idea. Nonetheless, Kal had written the ad. It had seemed barely possible to him that somehow it would all work out. He might find someone he could get along with, someone who would love Hiialo. Hiialo would have two parents again, instead of just a never-there father—him.

And he…well, maybe things would be better for him, as well.

He hadn’t expected many answers. At most, two or three. But now he was getting replies from not just Hawaii but the mainland. There were dozens of envelopes on the floor.

Danny pored over another letter. “Did you really say a celibate marriage?”

“Yes.”

Jakka stopped playing and frowned at the letters on the floor. “Nobody wants that.” A line divided his brow from top to bottom.

Kal said nothing. His stomach hurt. Work tomorrow. On your left is Kauai’s stunning Na Pali Coast. “Pali” means cliff, and…He reached into his shirt pocket and surreptitiously popped an antacid.

“You know,” remarked Jakka, “if you marry some rich woman, you could quit baby-sitting tourists and play with us again.”