My Collection of Short Stories & Published Works
My Collection of Short Stories & Published Works
My Collection of Short Stories & Published Works
My collection of writings and published stories for you to enjoy!
My collection of writings and published stories for you to enjoy!
My collection of writings and published stories for you to enjoy!
Stories Menu
Stories Menu
Good Grief
Good Grief
Good Grief
The Phoenix, Nude Bruce Review
The Phoenix, Nude Bruce Review
Duke usually greets me after my morning walks. At this stage of his life, the old guy prefers sleeping in the shade to traipsing through fields. Labrador retrievers, especially black ones, aren’t bred for a life in the tropics. He must miss Seattle’s chilly climate; undoubtedly, he misses Anne too. When he didn’t emerge from the cool, dank crawl space beneath the house, my chest tightened. I walked around calling for him and was surprised to find a Polynesian woman with long, graying hair and a broad face on my back lanai, rubbing the dog’s stomach.
“I’m Nani,” the woman said, smiling. She gave Duke a few solid strokes before standing. “I live on the mauka side of the road.” She pointed in the direction of the mountains. The pale- pink hibiscus flower tucked behind her ear matched those on the print of her faded blouse. Though disturbed by her unexpected appearance, her pleasant, grandmotherly demeanor and musical intonation put me at ease.
I greeted her as people in Hawaii do, with a respectful kiss on the cheek. “I’m Perry Hansen.”
“For you,” she said, offering me a loosely woven basket she’d brought with her. “A makana. Poi and pipi kaula. The poi was made yesterday, so if you like it more sour, wait a day or two before you eat it.”
“Thank you.”
“I would have come over sooner, but I wanted to see what you’d do with the place.”
Though honest, I thought her words abrupt, if not rude. “Did I pass your test?”
She shook her head. “No test. My great-grandparents built this house.” She wrapped her wide brown hand around the wooden railing. “Some people who move to the islands knock things down without knowing and take away our history. My grandfather and his family were born here. If my father hadn’t gotten sick, my family would still own this place.”
I nodded, wanting to express that I understood. “You must be an Emerson.”
“On my mother’s side. I’m Nani Lindley.” She dusted the seat of her shorts. “I’ve lived in Makapuna my whole life.” Her expression grew serious. “Why are you here?”
My hand made a sweeping gesture.
She tilted her head and narrowed her almond-shaped eyes. “And you live here alone?”
I nodded. A year had passed since my wife’s death. It still pains me to acknowledge the loss.
“Where are you from?”
“Seattle. At least, that’s where I lived before moving here.”
“It’s cold there.”
“You’ve been?”
She shook her head. “I’ve only left this island once, years ago––to visit an old auntie in Hana.” She faced clouds on the horizon that reflected the sun’s golden light and a landscape that sparkled. “Why would I go anywhere else?”
Meeting a person who had never traveled beyond a rural island in the middle of the North Pacific intrigued me.
She took a deep breath and walked down the stairs. “I should go.”
“Thank you for the gift. You’re welcome anytime.”
“When?”
I hesitated. “How about tomorrow? For lunch.”
She nodded.
As I watched her leave, I wondered if she would approve of what I’d done to her family’s house. The detailing created by its single-wall construction had not been altered, nor had the two modestly sized bedrooms that shared a small bathroom made crowded by a tall Japanese soaking tub. It seemed that her opinion would matter.
Duke usually greets me after my morning walks. At this stage of his life, the old guy prefers sleeping in the shade to traipsing through fields. Labrador retrievers, especially black ones, aren’t bred for a life in the tropics. He must miss Seattle’s chilly climate; undoubtedly, he misses Anne too. When he didn’t emerge from the cool, dank crawl space beneath the house, my chest tightened. I walked around calling for him and was surprised to find a Polynesian woman with long, graying hair and a broad face on my back lanai, rubbing the dog’s stomach.
“I’m Nani,” the woman said, smiling. She gave Duke a few solid strokes before standing. “I live on the mauka side of the road.” She pointed in the direction of the mountains. The pale- pink hibiscus flower tucked behind her ear matched those on the print of her faded blouse. Though disturbed by her unexpected appearance, her pleasant, grandmotherly demeanor and musical intonation put me at ease.
I greeted her as people in Hawaii do, with a respectful kiss on the cheek. “I’m Perry Hansen.”
“For you,” she said, offering me a loosely woven basket she’d brought with her. “A makana. Poi and pipi kaula. The poi was made yesterday, so if you like it more sour, wait a day or two before you eat it.”
“Thank you.”
“I would have come over sooner, but I wanted to see what you’d do with the place.”
Though honest, I thought her words abrupt, if not rude. “Did I pass your test?”
She shook her head. “No test. My great-grandparents built this house.” She wrapped her wide brown hand around the wooden railing. “Some people who move to the islands knock things down without knowing and take away our history. My grandfather and his family were born here. If my father hadn’t gotten sick, my family would still own this place.”
I nodded, wanting to express that I understood. “You must be an Emerson.”
“On my mother’s side. I’m Nani Lindley.” She dusted the seat of her shorts. “I’ve lived in Makapuna my whole life.” Her expression grew serious. “Why are you here?”
My hand made a sweeping gesture.
She tilted her head and narrowed her almond-shaped eyes. “And you live here alone?”
I nodded. A year had passed since my wife’s death. It still pains me to acknowledge the loss.
“Where are you from?”
“Seattle. At least, that’s where I lived before moving here.”
“It’s cold there.”
“You’ve been?”
She shook her head. “I’ve only left this island once, years ago––to visit an old auntie in Hana.” She faced clouds on the horizon that reflected the sun’s golden light and a landscape that sparkled. “Why would I go anywhere else?”
Meeting a person who had never traveled beyond a rural island in the middle of the North Pacific intrigued me.
She took a deep breath and walked down the stairs. “I should go.”
“Thank you for the gift. You’re welcome anytime.”
“When?”
I hesitated. “How about tomorrow? For lunch.”
She nodded.
As I watched her leave, I wondered if she would approve of what I’d done to her family’s house. The detailing created by its single-wall construction had not been altered, nor had the two modestly sized bedrooms that shared a small bathroom made crowded by a tall Japanese soaking tub. It seemed that her opinion would matter.
***
***
The next day began clear and bright; nevertheless, the pall that often met me since losing Anne rolled in like fog. I’d come to this remote place hoping to leave haunting memories behind, but fragrant tropical flowers and melodious concerts performed by larks and thrushes provided no more than a transitory escape. Anne had always done the grocery shopping, as well as the cooking; my contributions were limited to occasional barbecuing and the selection of appropriate wines. Since Anne’s death, eating had become more mechanical than pleasurable. To offer Nani something special for lunch, I would have to drive into town.
The winding journey cut through a dense forest, verdant hillsides, and over one-lane bridges that spanned steep ravines carved by narrow streams. Enormous split-leaf philodendrons climbed the trunks of mango, Albizzia, and kamani trees, their vines hanging from the tall canopies like drapery. Along the way, sacred Hawaiian sites, Portuguese and Chinese cemeteries, a tiny Episcopal church with a stained-glass window, and a brightly painted Buddhist temple testified to the island’s patterns of immigration.
My destination, Takashima Market at the opposite edge of town, was a cavernous building of painted steel and concrete block that looked as though it sold used tires. In addition to having such basics as milk, eggs, butter, packaged luncheon meats, and spongy white bread, it carried an assortment of items ranging from metal lunch boxes to fishing lures to fountain pens. Two elderly Japanese women worked the register under tube fluorescent lighting that drained all color from their complexions. Each spoke annoyedly to the other until customers approached wanting to pay––then they directed their irritation toward them. Frequently, they gave out the incorrect change, mostly to their advantage, though sometimes not. Regardless of how it worked out, I’d never heard anyone say anything but “Thanks.”
While Takashima Market offered an impressive selection of beer and cigarettes, the produce it sold looked limp and sad. Bags of short-grain rice lay slumped beneath tins of Spam and Vienna sausages, alongside dusty boxes of cereal––mostly the sugary brands kids want. Sparsely stocked shelves held cans of soup, franks and beans, and boxed macaroni and cheese. In spite of its shortcomings, and perhaps because of them, I liked the Takashima Market. Food shopping was a relatively new sport, and its limited selection made deciding easier. Only this time, I wanted lunch to be especially good.
I circled the aisles in search of anything I might have overlooked, but found nothing of interest. Finally, I gathered the courage to ask one of the ladies, “Do you sell fish?”
“Sardines, tuna, and mackerel,” she huffed, flicking her fingers in the direction of cans on a far shelf.
“I’m sorry,” I said, somewhat timidly. “I meant fresh fish.”
The woman rolled her eyes. A local man standing behind me choked back a laugh before mumbling something about an ocean full of fish. He suggested that I go catch one.
I drove home with my “catch”––a canned ham, two bruised mainland apples, a locally grown pineapple, and two heads of iceberg lettuce that had only just begun to wither. On the way, I had one of my talks with Anne. I began by telling her how much I missed her, then wound up pounding my hand on the steering wheel, pissed that she was gone forever.
The next day began clear and bright; nevertheless, the pall that often met me since losing Anne rolled in like fog. I’d come to this remote place hoping to leave haunting memories behind, but fragrant tropical flowers and melodious concerts performed by larks and thrushes provided no more than a transitory escape. Anne had always done the grocery shopping, as well as the cooking; my contributions were limited to occasional barbecuing and the selection of appropriate wines. Since Anne’s death, eating had become more mechanical than pleasurable. To offer Nani something special for lunch, I would have to drive into town.
The winding journey cut through a dense forest, verdant hillsides, and over one-lane bridges that spanned steep ravines carved by narrow streams. Enormous split-leaf philodendrons climbed the trunks of mango, Albizzia, and kamani trees, their vines hanging from the tall canopies like drapery. Along the way, sacred Hawaiian sites, Portuguese and Chinese cemeteries, a tiny Episcopal church with a stained-glass window, and a brightly painted Buddhist temple testified to the island’s patterns of immigration.
My destination, Takashima Market at the opposite edge of town, was a cavernous building of painted steel and concrete block that looked as though it sold used tires. In addition to having such basics as milk, eggs, butter, packaged luncheon meats, and spongy white bread, it carried an assortment of items ranging from metal lunch boxes to fishing lures to fountain pens. Two elderly Japanese women worked the register under tube fluorescent lighting that drained all color from their complexions. Each spoke annoyedly to the other until customers approached wanting to pay––then they directed their irritation toward them. Frequently, they gave out the incorrect change, mostly to their advantage, though sometimes not. Regardless of how it worked out, I’d never heard anyone say anything but “Thanks.”
While Takashima Market offered an impressive selection of beer and cigarettes, the produce it sold looked limp and sad. Bags of short-grain rice lay slumped beneath tins of Spam and Vienna sausages, alongside dusty boxes of cereal––mostly the sugary brands kids want. Sparsely stocked shelves held cans of soup, franks and beans, and boxed macaroni and cheese. In spite of its shortcomings, and perhaps because of them, I liked the Takashima Market. Food shopping was a relatively new sport, and its limited selection made deciding easier. Only this time, I wanted lunch to be especially good.
I circled the aisles in search of anything I might have overlooked, but found nothing of interest. Finally, I gathered the courage to ask one of the ladies, “Do you sell fish?”
“Sardines, tuna, and mackerel,” she huffed, flicking her fingers in the direction of cans on a far shelf.
“I’m sorry,” I said, somewhat timidly. “I meant fresh fish.”
The woman rolled her eyes. A local man standing behind me choked back a laugh before mumbling something about an ocean full of fish. He suggested that I go catch one.
I drove home with my “catch”––a canned ham, two bruised mainland apples, a locally grown pineapple, and two heads of iceberg lettuce that had only just begun to wither. On the way, I had one of my talks with Anne. I began by telling her how much I missed her, then wound up pounding my hand on the steering wheel, pissed that she was gone forever.
***
***
Seattle’s rain often fell as a light mist that lasted for days; in Makapuna, the rain came down hard and fast, with hardly any space between the drops. In the time it took to slide the ham from its triangular tin onto a pan and into the oven, the gutters overflowed with rainwater. I washed gelatinous fat from my hands, listening to the torrent drumming on my metal roof and thinking that nothing good ever started with a canned ham.
I had expected bouts of melancholy to accompany my grief, but hadn’t anticipated that a year later, Anne’s death would continue to cast such a deep and imposing shadow. My neck and back frequently spasmed—stress, I assumed—and emptiness and despair often overwhelmed me. When Nani appeared with jeans rolled up to her knees, holding a tattered golf umbrella in one hand and a covered casserole in the other, I blinked, guiltily wishing her away, no longer wanting a visitor, not wanting to talk. But there she remained, at my invitation, upending her umbrella and setting it on the lanai.
She hesitated in the doorway. “Sorry, I’m a little wet.”
I handed her a towel. “So, what do you think?” I asked, inviting her inside.
“About what?” she said, drying her feet.
“The house.”
“I love this house.”
“Do you like the way I fixed it up?”
She returned the towel. “I will always love this house.” She went to the casserole dish I’d set on the counter and lifted the lid. “Sweet potatoes.”
“They’re purple.”
“Yes, I grow the purple kine sweet potatoes.”
I chuckled. “Want to see the rest of the house?”
“No need.” She leaned against the counter separating the living room from the kitchen. “You’ve painted it a nice color.”
“I want you to know that I’m taking good care of this place.”
She nodded, frowning slightly.
Believing it best to shift the topic, I opened the oven door and peeked at the ham. “Apologies in advance. I’m not much of a cook.” I smiled. “Can I offer you a beer, some wine, or a glass of water?”
“Water’s good.”
When I put the glass on the low table beside her chair, my lower back cramped, causing me to issue a sharp cry. “Sorry,” I said. “This happens every so often.”
“But you’re young,” she cooed sympathetically. “I can help. I do lomilomi. Hawaiian-style massage.”
Since I anticipated running out of conversation within minutes, her offer seemed well timed.
“Take off your shirt and lay face down on your bed,” she said. “Put a pillow under your chest so your head can hang.”
She followed me into the smaller of the two bedrooms, which I had set up as a guest room. It occurred to me that Nani was getting a tour of the house after all. I removed my shirt. Had we been at the beach, I would be far less clothed, and yet I felt awkward.
“Relax,” she whispered. “Breathe in and then out, like waves washing onshore.” She made soft swishing sounds as she dragged her heavy fingertips up and down my spine. “Let the muscles in your body go, one at a time. Start with your head and work your way down.”
I did as she said, first releasing the clenched muscles around my temples, between my eyebrows, and in my jaw––finding more tension there than I’d thought. I focused next on my neck and shoulders. I’d never tried to consciously release muscle tension before, but it seemed I could.
“Good,” she encouraged softly. “Good.”
I thought so as well.
She placed her hefty forearm across my shoulder blades and, like a rolling pin, ran it down to my tailbone and back up to the base of my neck. After a while, she positioned her forearm vertically and pushed her elbow into my back, following the long muscles that ran lengthwise, taking me to the edge of discomfort but not over it. I imagined her elbow an old-fashioned wood planer, smoothing ridges and shaving knots.
At some point, my thoughts drifted to Anne––her face, the sweep of her auburn hair. I saw us skiing together on that black diamond trail, our vaporous breaths making clouds in the frigid air, and how I had goaded her into going faster than she liked. I relived my alarm at seeing a kid in a red knit cap cut directly in front of her, sending her swerving into a stand of pine trees. That’s where I found her––lying on her back in the snow, her blue eyes so dilated they looked black. She’d died on impact––at least that’s what they told me.
“It’s okay,” I heard Nani whisper.
I was weeping and had lost track of where I was or what was happening.
“Who is Anne?” she asked.
I rolled onto my side and wiped my nose and face with the palms of my hands.
“You were calling for her.”
“She was my wife. She died a year ago.”
Nani stood and looked down at me. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“What about lunch?”
“Tomorrow.”
Seattle’s rain often fell as a light mist that lasted for days; in Makapuna, the rain came down hard and fast, with hardly any space between the drops. In the time it took to slide the ham from its triangular tin onto a pan and into the oven, the gutters overflowed with rainwater. I washed gelatinous fat from my hands, listening to the torrent drumming on my metal roof and thinking that nothing good ever started with a canned ham.
I had expected bouts of melancholy to accompany my grief, but hadn’t anticipated that a year later, Anne’s death would continue to cast such a deep and imposing shadow. My neck and back frequently spasmed—stress, I assumed—and emptiness and despair often overwhelmed me. When Nani appeared with jeans rolled up to her knees, holding a tattered golf umbrella in one hand and a covered casserole in the other, I blinked, guiltily wishing her away, no longer wanting a visitor, not wanting to talk. But there she remained, at my invitation, upending her umbrella and setting it on the lanai.
She hesitated in the doorway. “Sorry, I’m a little wet.”
I handed her a towel. “So, what do you think?” I asked, inviting her inside.
“About what?” she said, drying her feet.
“The house.”
“I love this house.”
“Do you like the way I fixed it up?”
She returned the towel. “I will always love this house.” She went to the casserole dish I’d set on the counter and lifted the lid. “Sweet potatoes.”
“They’re purple.”
“Yes, I grow the purple kine sweet potatoes.”
I chuckled. “Want to see the rest of the house?”
“No need.” She leaned against the counter separating the living room from the kitchen. “You’ve painted it a nice color.”
“I want you to know that I’m taking good care of this place.”
She nodded, frowning slightly.
Believing it best to shift the topic, I opened the oven door and peeked at the ham. “Apologies in advance. I’m not much of a cook.” I smiled. “Can I offer you a beer, some wine, or a glass of water?”
“Water’s good.”
When I put the glass on the low table beside her chair, my lower back cramped, causing me to issue a sharp cry. “Sorry,” I said. “This happens every so often.”
“But you’re young,” she cooed sympathetically. “I can help. I do lomilomi. Hawaiian-style massage.”
Since I anticipated running out of conversation within minutes, her offer seemed well timed.
“Take off your shirt and lay face down on your bed,” she said. “Put a pillow under your chest so your head can hang.”
She followed me into the smaller of the two bedrooms, which I had set up as a guest room. It occurred to me that Nani was getting a tour of the house after all. I removed my shirt. Had we been at the beach, I would be far less clothed, and yet I felt awkward.
“Relax,” she whispered. “Breathe in and then out, like waves washing onshore.” She made soft swishing sounds as she dragged her heavy fingertips up and down my spine. “Let the muscles in your body go, one at a time. Start with your head and work your way down.”
I did as she said, first releasing the clenched muscles around my temples, between my eyebrows, and in my jaw––finding more tension there than I’d thought. I focused next on my neck and shoulders. I’d never tried to consciously release muscle tension before, but it seemed I could.
“Good,” she encouraged softly. “Good.”
I thought so as well.
She placed her hefty forearm across my shoulder blades and, like a rolling pin, ran it down to my tailbone and back up to the base of my neck. After a while, she positioned her forearm vertically and pushed her elbow into my back, following the long muscles that ran lengthwise, taking me to the edge of discomfort but not over it. I imagined her elbow an old-fashioned wood planer, smoothing ridges and shaving knots.
At some point, my thoughts drifted to Anne––her face, the sweep of her auburn hair. I saw us skiing together on that black diamond trail, our vaporous breaths making clouds in the frigid air, and how I had goaded her into going faster than she liked. I relived my alarm at seeing a kid in a red knit cap cut directly in front of her, sending her swerving into a stand of pine trees. That’s where I found her––lying on her back in the snow, her blue eyes so dilated they looked black. She’d died on impact––at least that’s what they told me.
“It’s okay,” I heard Nani whisper.
I was weeping and had lost track of where I was or what was happening.
“Who is Anne?” she asked.
I rolled onto my side and wiped my nose and face with the palms of my hands.
“You were calling for her.”
“She was my wife. She died a year ago.”
Nani stood and looked down at me. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“What about lunch?”
“Tomorrow.”
***
***
I stepped onto the front steps of the house, a mug of morning coffee in hand. I thought Duke had business to do, but he wanted to greet Nani, who was walking toward the house carrying a small box, and with a shovel and hoe slung over her shoulder. Silhouetted in the morning light, she appeared bigger, squarer, and stronger than she had the day before. Her early arrival, and Duke’s apparent delight at her approach, irked me. Mornings without Anne could be difficult. Today was no exception.
“A little early for lunch.” I managed to sound upbeat, but there was irritation in my voice. “What are the tools for?”
“Your garden,” she replied.
“I don’t have a garden.”
“We’re going to make one––for Anne.”
Hearing Nani speak Anne’s name was a puncture wound. Anne was dead. “Maybe you didn’t understand…”
“I do,” Nani said, looking around. “Where would you like to put her garden?”
Resisting seemed too effortful, and would require conversation. “You suggest.”
“I brought a few starters and some seeds––peas, beans, peppers, onions––plants to mālama your body, as she did your soul.” Nani pointed decisively. “My grandparents had their garden over there.”
At that moment, one place seemed as good as another. “Fine,” I said, wondering if this garden wasn’t a way for Nani to work through her own grief at her family’s loss of the house.
I stepped onto the front steps of the house, a mug of morning coffee in hand. I thought Duke had business to do, but he wanted to greet Nani, who was walking toward the house carrying a small box, and with a shovel and hoe slung over her shoulder. Silhouetted in the morning light, she appeared bigger, squarer, and stronger than she had the day before. Her early arrival, and Duke’s apparent delight at her approach, irked me. Mornings without Anne could be difficult. Today was no exception.
“A little early for lunch.” I managed to sound upbeat, but there was irritation in my voice. “What are the tools for?”
“Your garden,” she replied.
“I don’t have a garden.”
“We’re going to make one––for Anne.”
Hearing Nani speak Anne’s name was a puncture wound. Anne was dead. “Maybe you didn’t understand…”
“I do,” Nani said, looking around. “Where would you like to put her garden?”
Resisting seemed too effortful, and would require conversation. “You suggest.”
“I brought a few starters and some seeds––peas, beans, peppers, onions––plants to mālama your body, as she did your soul.” Nani pointed decisively. “My grandparents had their garden over there.”
At that moment, one place seemed as good as another. “Fine,” I said, wondering if this garden wasn’t a way for Nani to work through her own grief at her family’s loss of the house.
***
***
Nani staked out a four-by-six-foot rectangle. She used the hoe and shovel to rip up sod, while I pulled at roots that had grown deep and clung tightly, a demanding task. Neither of us spoke, though I was tempted to tell her how much I admired her strength and deftness with the hoe––furrowing the soil into neat mounds. She put a packet of seeds in my hand. “Go down the rows and push your finger into the dirt. Put a seed or two in each puka.” She did a couple to show me how deep and wide-set to make the holes. “Do you have a watering can or bucket?”
I filled a bucket with water and got an empty tin can.
“Was Anne sick for long?” she asked when I returned.
“No. She had an accident.”
Nani followed me, spilling water on the seeds. “Harder still.”
I moved down the row, pushing seeds into the ground and covering them with dirt. When I saw Duke shaking off billows of dust, I thought of how Anne’s off-key singing had made him shake and howl. She used to say that he was singing along. I knew differently. The memory made me laugh.
Nani nodded when she heard me and saw my expression. “I didn’t forget,” she said. “You promised me lunch.”
Nani staked out a four-by-six-foot rectangle. She used the hoe and shovel to rip up sod, while I pulled at roots that had grown deep and clung tightly, a demanding task. Neither of us spoke, though I was tempted to tell her how much I admired her strength and deftness with the hoe––furrowing the soil into neat mounds. She put a packet of seeds in my hand. “Go down the rows and push your finger into the dirt. Put a seed or two in each puka.” She did a couple to show me how deep and wide-set to make the holes. “Do you have a watering can or bucket?”
I filled a bucket with water and got an empty tin can.
“Was Anne sick for long?” she asked when I returned.
“No. She had an accident.”
Nani followed me, spilling water on the seeds. “Harder still.”
I moved down the row, pushing seeds into the ground and covering them with dirt. When I saw Duke shaking off billows of dust, I thought of how Anne’s off-key singing had made him shake and howl. She used to say that he was singing along. I knew differently. The memory made me laugh.
Nani nodded when she heard me and saw my expression. “I didn’t forget,” she said. “You promised me lunch.”
Good Grief
The Phoenix, Nude Bruce Review
Duke usually greets me after my morning walks. At this stage of his life, the old guy prefers sleeping in the shade to traipsing through fields. Labrador retrievers, especially black ones, aren’t bred for a life in the tropics. He must miss Seattle’s chilly climate; undoubtedly, he misses Anne too. When he didn’t emerge from the cool, dank crawl space beneath the house, my chest tightened. I walked around calling for him and was surprised to find a Polynesian woman with long, graying hair and a broad face on my back lanai, rubbing the dog’s stomach.
“I’m Nani,” the woman said, smiling. She gave Duke a few solid strokes before standing. “I live on the mauka side of the road.” She pointed in the direction of the mountains. The pale- pink hibiscus flower tucked behind her ear matched those on the print of her faded blouse. Though disturbed by her unexpected appearance, her pleasant, grandmotherly demeanor and musical intonation put me at ease.
I greeted her as people in Hawaii do, with a respectful kiss on the cheek. “I’m Perry Hansen.”
“For you,” she said, offering me a loosely woven basket she’d brought with her. “A makana. Poi and pipi kaula. The poi was made yesterday, so if you like it more sour, wait a day or two before you eat it.”
“Thank you.”
“I would have come over sooner, but I wanted to see what you’d do with the place.”
Though honest, I thought her words abrupt, if not rude. “Did I pass your test?”
She shook her head. “No test. My great-grandparents built this house.” She wrapped her wide brown hand around the wooden railing. “Some people who move to the islands knock things down without knowing and take away our history. My grandfather and his family were born here. If my father hadn’t gotten sick, my family would still own this place.”
I nodded, wanting to express that I understood. “You must be an Emerson.”
“On my mother’s side. I’m Nani Lindley.” She dusted the seat of her shorts. “I’ve lived in Makapuna my whole life.” Her expression grew serious. “Why are you here?”
My hand made a sweeping gesture.
She tilted her head and narrowed her almond-shaped eyes. “And you live here alone?”
I nodded. A year had passed since my wife’s death. It still pains me to acknowledge the loss.
“Where are you from?”
“Seattle. At least, that’s where I lived before moving here.”
“It’s cold there.”
“You’ve been?”
She shook her head. “I’ve only left this island once, years ago––to visit an old auntie in Hana.” She faced clouds on the horizon that reflected the sun’s golden light and a landscape that sparkled. “Why would I go anywhere else?”
Meeting a person who had never traveled beyond a rural island in the middle of the North Pacific intrigued me.
She took a deep breath and walked down the stairs. “I should go.”
“Thank you for the gift. You’re welcome anytime.”
“When?”
I hesitated. “How about tomorrow? For lunch.”
She nodded.
As I watched her leave, I wondered if she would approve of what I’d done to her family’s house. The detailing created by its single-wall construction had not been altered, nor had the two modestly sized bedrooms that shared a small bathroom made crowded by a tall Japanese soaking tub. It seemed that her opinion would matter.
***
The next day began clear and bright; nevertheless, the pall that often met me since losing Anne rolled in like fog. I’d come to this remote place hoping to leave haunting memories behind, but fragrant tropical flowers and melodious concerts performed by larks and thrushes provided no more than a transitory escape. Anne had always done the grocery shopping, as well as the cooking; my contributions were limited to occasional barbecuing and the selection of appropriate wines. Since Anne’s death, eating had become more mechanical than pleasurable. To offer Nani something special for lunch, I would have to drive into town.
The winding journey cut through a dense forest, verdant hillsides, and over one-lane bridges that spanned steep ravines carved by narrow streams. Enormous split-leaf philodendrons climbed the trunks of mango, Albizzia, and kamani trees, their vines hanging from the tall canopies like drapery. Along the way, sacred Hawaiian sites, Portuguese and Chinese cemeteries, a tiny Episcopal church with a stained-glass window, and a brightly painted Buddhist temple testified to the island’s patterns of immigration.
My destination, Takashima Market at the opposite edge of town, was a cavernous building of painted steel and concrete block that looked as though it sold used tires. In addition to having such basics as milk, eggs, butter, packaged luncheon meats, and spongy white bread, it carried an assortment of items ranging from metal lunch boxes to fishing lures to fountain pens. Two elderly Japanese women worked the register under tube fluorescent lighting that drained all color from their complexions. Each spoke annoyedly to the other until customers approached wanting to pay––then they directed their irritation toward them. Frequently, they gave out the incorrect change, mostly to their advantage, though sometimes not. Regardless of how it worked out, I’d never heard anyone say anything but “Thanks.”
While Takashima Market offered an impressive selection of beer and cigarettes, the produce it sold looked limp and sad. Bags of short-grain rice lay slumped beneath tins of Spam and Vienna sausages, alongside dusty boxes of cereal––mostly the sugary brands kids want. Sparsely stocked shelves held cans of soup, franks and beans, and boxed macaroni and cheese. In spite of its shortcomings, and perhaps because of them, I liked the Takashima Market. Food shopping was a relatively new sport, and its limited selection made deciding easier. Only this time, I wanted lunch to be especially good.
I circled the aisles in search of anything I might have overlooked, but found nothing of interest. Finally, I gathered the courage to ask one of the ladies, “Do you sell fish?”
“Sardines, tuna, and mackerel,” she huffed, flicking her fingers in the direction of cans on a far shelf.
“I’m sorry,” I said, somewhat timidly. “I meant fresh fish.”
The woman rolled her eyes. A local man standing behind me choked back a laugh before mumbling something about an ocean full of fish. He suggested that I go catch one.
I drove home with my “catch”––a canned ham, two bruised mainland apples, a locally grown pineapple, and two heads of iceberg lettuce that had only just begun to wither. On the way, I had one of my talks with Anne. I began by telling her how much I missed her, then wound up pounding my hand on the steering wheel, pissed that she was gone forever.
***
Seattle’s rain often fell as a light mist that lasted for days; in Makapuna, the rain came down hard and fast, with hardly any space between the drops. In the time it took to slide the ham from its triangular tin onto a pan and into the oven, the gutters overflowed with rainwater. I washed gelatinous fat from my hands, listening to the torrent drumming on my metal roof and thinking that nothing good ever started with a canned ham.
I had expected bouts of melancholy to accompany my grief, but hadn’t anticipated that a year later, Anne’s death would continue to cast such a deep and imposing shadow. My neck and back frequently spasmed—stress, I assumed—and emptiness and despair often overwhelmed me. When Nani appeared with jeans rolled up to her knees, holding a tattered golf umbrella in one hand and a covered casserole in the other, I blinked, guiltily wishing her away, no longer wanting a visitor, not wanting to talk. But there she remained, at my invitation, upending her umbrella and setting it on the lanai.
She hesitated in the doorway. “Sorry, I’m a little wet.”
I handed her a towel. “So, what do you think?” I asked, inviting her inside.
“About what?” she said, drying her feet.
“The house.”
“I love this house.”
“Do you like the way I fixed it up?”
She returned the towel. “I will always love this house.” She went to the casserole dish I’d set on the counter and lifted the lid. “Sweet potatoes.”
“They’re purple.”
“Yes, I grow the purple kine sweet potatoes.”
I chuckled. “Want to see the rest of the house?”
“No need.” She leaned against the counter separating the living room from the kitchen. “You’ve painted it a nice color.”
“I want you to know that I’m taking good care of this place.”
She nodded, frowning slightly.
Believing it best to shift the topic, I opened the oven door and peeked at the ham. “Apologies in advance. I’m not much of a cook.” I smiled. “Can I offer you a beer, some wine, or a glass of water?”
“Water’s good.”
When I put the glass on the low table beside her chair, my lower back cramped, causing me to issue a sharp cry. “Sorry,” I said. “This happens every so often.”
“But you’re young,” she cooed sympathetically. “I can help. I do lomilomi. Hawaiian-style massage.”
Since I anticipated running out of conversation within minutes, her offer seemed well timed.
“Take off your shirt and lay face down on your bed,” she said. “Put a pillow under your chest so your head can hang.”
She followed me into the smaller of the two bedrooms, which I had set up as a guest room. It occurred to me that Nani was getting a tour of the house after all. I removed my shirt. Had we been at the beach, I would be far less clothed, and yet I felt awkward.
“Relax,” she whispered. “Breathe in and then out, like waves washing onshore.” She made soft swishing sounds as she dragged her heavy fingertips up and down my spine. “Let the muscles in your body go, one at a time. Start with your head and work your way down.”
I did as she said, first releasing the clenched muscles around my temples, between my eyebrows, and in my jaw––finding more tension there than I’d thought. I focused next on my neck and shoulders. I’d never tried to consciously release muscle tension before, but it seemed I could.
“Good,” she encouraged softly. “Good.”
I thought so as well.
She placed her hefty forearm across my shoulder blades and, like a rolling pin, ran it down to my tailbone and back up to the base of my neck. After a while, she positioned her forearm vertically and pushed her elbow into my back, following the long muscles that ran lengthwise, taking me to the edge of discomfort but not over it. I imagined her elbow an old-fashioned wood planer, smoothing ridges and shaving knots.
At some point, my thoughts drifted to Anne––her face, the sweep of her auburn hair. I saw us skiing together on that black diamond trail, our vaporous breaths making clouds in the frigid air, and how I had goaded her into going faster than she liked. I relived my alarm at seeing a kid in a red knit cap cut directly in front of her, sending her swerving into a stand of pine trees. That’s where I found her––lying on her back in the snow, her blue eyes so dilated they looked black. She’d died on impact––at least that’s what they told me.
“It’s okay,” I heard Nani whisper.
I was weeping and had lost track of where I was or what was happening.
“Who is Anne?” she asked.
I rolled onto my side and wiped my nose and face with the palms of my hands.
“You were calling for her.”
“She was my wife. She died a year ago.”
Nani stood and looked down at me. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“What about lunch?”
“Tomorrow.”
***
I stepped onto the front steps of the house, a mug of morning coffee in hand. I thought Duke had business to do, but he wanted to greet Nani, who was walking toward the house carrying a small box, and with a shovel and hoe slung over her shoulder. Silhouetted in the morning light, she appeared bigger, squarer, and stronger than she had the day before. Her early arrival, and Duke’s apparent delight at her approach, irked me. Mornings without Anne could be difficult. Today was no exception.
“A little early for lunch.” I managed to sound upbeat, but there was irritation in my voice. “What are the tools for?”
“Your garden,” she replied.
“I don’t have a garden.”
“We’re going to make one––for Anne.”
Hearing Nani speak Anne’s name was a puncture wound. Anne was dead. “Maybe you didn’t understand…”
“I do,” Nani said, looking around. “Where would you like to put her garden?”
Resisting seemed too effortful, and would require conversation. “You suggest.”
“I brought a few starters and some seeds––peas, beans, peppers, onions––plants to mālama your body, as she did your soul.” Nani pointed decisively. “My grandparents had their garden over there.”
At that moment, one place seemed as good as another. “Fine,” I said, wondering if this garden wasn’t a way for Nani to work through her own grief at her family’s loss of the house.
***
Nani staked out a four-by-six-foot rectangle. She used the hoe and shovel to rip up sod, while I pulled at roots that had grown deep and clung tightly, a demanding task. Neither of us spoke, though I was tempted to tell her how much I admired her strength and deftness with the hoe––furrowing the soil into neat mounds. She put a packet of seeds in my hand. “Go down the rows and push your finger into the dirt. Put a seed or two in each puka.” She did a couple to show me how deep and wide-set to make the holes. “Do you have a watering can or bucket?”
I filled a bucket with water and got an empty tin can.
“Was Anne sick for long?” she asked when I returned.
“No. She had an accident.”
Nani followed me, spilling water on the seeds. “Harder still.”
I moved down the row, pushing seeds into the ground and covering them with dirt. When I saw Duke shaking off billows of dust, I thought of how Anne’s off-key singing had made him shake and howl. She used to say that he was singing along. I knew differently. The memory made me laugh.
Nani nodded when she heard me and saw my expression. “I didn’t forget,” she said. “You promised me lunch.”
Awards
Literary Award
The Outing” — Winner, Stories Through the Ages Baby Boomers Plus 2022 International Short Story Contest
The Outing” — Winner, Stories Through the Ages Baby Boomers Plus 2022 International Short Story Contest
The Outing” — Winner, Stories Through the Ages Baby Boomers Plus 2022 International Short Story Contest
Editor’s Choice
Counting the Ways” — Editor’s Choice, Ignatian Literary Magazine, University of San Francisco
Counting the Ways” — Editor’s Choice, Ignatian Literary Magazine, University of San Francisco
Counting the Ways” — Editor’s Choice, Ignatian Literary Magazine, University of San Francisco
Social Media
Social Media
Social Media
Social Media
© 2026 Alan Gartenhaus
© 2026 Alan Gartenhaus