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Pakalaki Memories: 8

Kirby Wright

I tossed the bag again. "Ben likes crumbs." I tried my one-hand catch and fumbled the bag on the sidewalk.

"Foah the love ah Pete," Gramma said.

The Olds pulled up and I could see Ben in the back seat. He had our mother‘s blonde hair, green eyes, and refined features. I had the dark complexion of our hapa haole father. My mother wasn‘t in the Olds. Ben made the "kiss my ass" sign at me through the side window and pressed his lips to the glass. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt like me.

The bellhop opened the passenger door. "Have one shakah day," he told Gramma.

"Yah not gettin' a tip," she answered.

I climbed in back with Ben and Gramma slid into the front seat. The bellhop slammed the door.

My father sped down Bishop Street toward the wharf. He wore horn-rimmed glasses like battle gear and had trouble smiling. He told Gramma he'd made reservations at a private club for lunch.

Ben punched me in the arm. "Wha'd Gramma buy you?" he asked.

"Chocolate eclairs and mint brownies."

"Fatso."

"Where am I fat?" I asked. "Show me where I'm fat."

"You're fat all over, including the brain."

I handed him the bag. "Feed your face."

He opened the bag and grabbed the brownie. "I'm staying with Gramma tonight," he said and gobbled it down.

My father took the Waikiki way back because he wanted to point out all the hotels he'd drawn up contracts for. "The Ilikai wouldn't exist if it wasn't for me," he said. Gramma said how proud she was of Tommy managing the Queen's Surf nightclub. My father ran two yellow lights on Kalakaua Avenue. He braked for a third only because two squad cars were monitoring the intersection. Tourists streamed over the crosswalk. My father grimaced and looked at his watch. He seemed aggravated by Gramma's presence, as though she should be back on Moloka'i taking care of Hale Kia instead of wasting time in Honolulu. He'd already called her a kua'aina for coming off the plane wearing a fern-and-berry wreath around the crown of her hat. I'd seen the wreath on the dresser back at the hotel. They stopped talking and both fidgeted in their seats. Gramma stuck a Chesterfield on the end of a long chrome holder and lit it up with her Lancer's matches. She studied the tourists on the sidewalk and flicked ashes out the open window. "Damn puhi'us," she said.