Come Fly with Me

Chapter Twenty-Three Beverly

Chapter Twenty-Three

Beverly

The plane hits an air pocket, and my stomach lurches into my throat. I’ve flown often enough to recognize that this kind will be sustained, so it does not surprise me when Captain Davis calls me up to the cockpit and tells me to make the announcement that everyone needs to buckle up, including the stewardesses.

You know it’s serious when the stewardesses have to go sit in the jump seats.

It’s just as well—I burned myself on a casserole an hour ago and haven’t been able to tend to it yet. My first injury of what will certainly be many. Like rings on a tree, you can tell a stewardess’s time in the air based on the number of burns on her arm.

Whereas my skin is red, Judy’s skin looks green from the rough air. But stalwart girl that she is, she makes her way down the coach aisle confirming that all the passengers are buckled and secure. I see her grip the backs of the seats to keep her balance, and when we both arrive at the rear of the plane, we collapse into our seats and keep silent until we’re certain that we won’t lose our lunches.

In moments like these, I rue the circumstances of geography that place our country squarely between two oceans. To travel to either Europe or Asia, one has to cross a vast span of water. And though we studied the mechanics of the airplanes in Miami, and I know there is little to fear, it is still my instinct to wonder if this kind of turbulence will send us down into the belly of the Pacific.

So much for the Pan American advertisement that shows two people in first class and boasts, “So smooth, so free of vibration, chessmen won’t move until you move them.”

Well, maybe in comparison to the old prop planes, as far as I’m told. But that does nothing for my anxiety at this moment.

“Distract me,” Judy screeches as she places both of her palms on her stomach.

“I heard that Joe Clayton kissed you, and don’t go denying it.”

It was exactly the right thing to say. At the mention of Joe’s name, Judy’s face relaxes, and she actually smiles.

“He did,” she answers coyly.

“ He did ? Two words? That’s all you’re going to give me?”

“It’s not ladylike to kiss and tell.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine then. Tell me this much. Was it a ladylike kiss?”

Her green hue turns pink as she blushes. Mind over matter.

“Mostly.”

“ Mostly. He did. My, aren’t we loquacious? Three whole words. After all I’ve done to get you two together.”

She folds her arms, and her grin grows wider. “Fine. It was proper enough that it wouldn’t have garnered any attention if we’d been out in public. But—”

“Oh yes. There has to be a ‘but.’”

“Buuuut,” she draws out. “I could tell that it has the potential to be so much more.”

I nod. Though that was a mistake. My stomach didn’t like that. I need to keep still. “I see. So it was a smolder. Calm on the outside but fiery underneath.”

“Yes.” She leans in. “A lot of fire underneath.”

“Interesting. Interesting.” I stroke my chin in an exaggerated motion. “So what we have here is a smolder that’s covering a fire that’s really an inferno .”

This time, she rolls her eyes. “And now this conversation is officially getting out of hand.”

“Those are my favorite kinds, of course.” I love to goad her.

“And what about you and Mark Oakley?” she asks. “Smolder or inferno?”

I smile. I’ve told her a little about my two-day layover last time. The Reef Hotel. The sail the next day on the Ali’i Kai catamaran. The evening movie at the Waialae Drive-In.

The kissing? I haven’t spilled those beans yet.

But definitely inferno.

Drive-ins are rather ideal places for that. The confinement of the car. The concealment of the dark.

The details I’ll keep to myself. Most people have good imaginations.

“I’ll say this. The ones who seem all calm and respectable on the outside are often boiling cauldrons inside.”

I look at Judy and see the frozen look of shock on her face. I can tell I’ve struck a nerve, and I realize that my flirtatious statement could be understood to have a whole different meaning. Henry. She’d married someone who presented himself as one thing only to be another after the wedding. And not in the Casanova way I’d been teasing at.

“Oh, Jude, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” I lay my head against hers and squeeze her arm. Mercifully, the plane stops rocking in that moment.

“Don’t worry. I know what you meant. It’s just raw for me because I thought—I thought I saw him the other day.”

“You what ?” I sit up straight so quickly that the buckle around my waist tightens in protest.

She hangs her head and picks at her nails. “Just as Joe left the house in Burlingame. There was a man outside in a car. In the dark, he looked like Henry. It gave me an awful fright.”

“But it wasn’t him?”

I never had told Judy that Henry came searching for her in Miami. I’d hoped that the wild-goose chase I’d led him on had given him the hint to stay away. I was going to protect this girl, whatever it took. I was relieved that we had this flight together. Maybe we could finagle it to have more of our routes coincide or talk to our other housemates to make sure that someone was always scheduled to be at our home base of SFO whenever Judy was.

Even as it crossed my mind, I realized that it was too complicated to work.

“It wasn’t him, though,” she says with relief. “He was waiting for a neighbor who came out of a house a couple of doors down not long after I noticed him. He had been looking at me—which I did find unsettling—but he might as easily have been peering at our house number to see if he was in the right place.”

“What would you have done if it had been Henry?”

Judy squirms in her seat, but I can see that she understands the merit of my question.

“I don’t know, to be honest. Run inside and lock the door?”

“That’s not a plan, Jude. You need a plan.”

Now I’m really regretting that I didn’t tell her about his Miami trip. What if he doesn’t take that hint? What if he comes looking for her again?

I realize that there’s no reason I can’t tell her now. She has to be alert. She has to know that he could come back.

“Judy,” I begin.

But before we can continue, the pilot announces that we have clear air and that drink service is ready to begin.

“You have to book a flight to Mexico.”

Judy and I are not assigned a room together at the Royal Hawaiian, so we’ll have to talk about this later. She is clearly exhausted and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek after receiving her key at the front desk. She says that she is going to take a nap before watching the sunset on the beach later. That’s how I’d like to spend this evening in Honolulu. Ideally on Sunset Beach with Mark. He told me how beautiful it is, and goodness knows I could stand to kiss him again. But today, I have a different agenda. To meet my family.

When I wrote him, he understood. Besides, I’ll see him sooner than later. Judy and I are both on the Honolulu to Wake Island to Tahiti to Hong Kong route, which reverses itself before returning home.

I can wait the ten days. I hope.

I take the elevator up to the fourth floor and turn the key on room four-eleven. I never tire of walking into a hotel room. The scent of freshly washed cotton sheets is a heady delight, mixed as it is with the smell of salt water. The balcony door is open to let in the breeze, and the room this time is low enough that I can hear the waves like they’re thunder. As much as I want the bed by the window, I’m rooming with Rosamaria tonight, and she’s planning to stay in.

I drop my Pan Am–issued blue vinyl bag on the opposite bed and eye those soft-looking pillows. Turning around, I walk toward the bathroom sink and turn the faucet on to its coldest setting, splashing the refreshing water on my face. I scrub the thick foundation off my skin, trusting that bleach will restore the towels to their brilliant-white color. Mascara comes off in curved streaks as I avoid the delicate area under my eyes lest I wrinkle before I should. I dab on some moisturizer and consider what I’m going to wear. I run my hand down the emerald-green dress that Mr. Chan finished for me on my last trip to Hong Kong. And then I consider the sundress I packed for time at the beach.

That’s one thing I’ve learned about Hawaii. The less, the better. Less cosmetics. Less fuss about my hair. Less clothing. Life is simple here.

But the green silk dress wins out. After all, I’m meeting some of my family for the first time and representing my mother. I have to look my best.

A line of taxis waits at the edge of the hotel’s portico, and I rattle off the address on Aluahaina Street. The driver takes up the entire seat in both width and height, his straw-hatted head hitting the top of the car. He wears a bright-green Hawaiian shirt with yellow plumeria blossoms all over it and it makes me think of Mr. Chan’s shop.

It occurs to me that Honolulu and Hong Kong both fall near the Tropic of Cancer, facing each other as if they were sister cities. I send a mental wave to the place across the other half of the Pacific and think about how, in just a few days, I’ll be back in the shop picking up the red bolero that I’ve commissioned for my mother.

Isn’t it marvelous to live in a century where this is possible?

Fifteen minutes into our ride, the driver utters his first words.

“See our new memorial? Over there,” he says, pointing out the left-side window.

He is thickly accented, though I do not know the island’s history well enough to identify it. He could be Samoan, Tongan, or hailing from a myriad of other Polynesian islands. I want to ask him but don’t know the local customs enough to understand if that would be considered rude. I detest when people make assumptions about New Yorkers that are far from correct, and I’m determined not to do the same thing.

I have so much to learn.

I look to where he is indicating, and far out on the bay, I see the rectangular white building sitting in the middle of the water. It’s the USS Arizona Memorial, commemorating the attack on Pearl Harbor. I’d read about it back in May, shortly before leaving for Miami. It had just opened and I’d looked forward to seeing it ever since.

Has Mark been there yet? Maybe it’s something we could do together on a future trip.

The driver takes a right, slow and easy, unlike New York taxi drivers who sometimes make you feel as if you want to get your life right with Jesus before entering one. Not here. I’d recently heard the phrase island time , and this is a good example of it.

I kind of like it.

He pulls up to a house—a duplex, as I look closer—and I hand him three dollars for the two-fifty fare.

Here we go. I’m buzzing with anticipation. My cousins had written back to my address in Burlingame agreeing to meet me on this layover. Their enthusiasm was palpable both in their words and in miniature watercolor scenes of Hawaii that one of them had decorated the stationery with.

You don’t go to all that trouble if you’re holding a grudge.

Besides, the family troubles happened long before any of us were born, so there seems no point in perpetuating it.

I like them already.

There are two front doors to the left of the carport, but I don’t have to wait to figure out which is the correct one. The one right in front of me swings open.

“Cousin!”

This is shouted in my ear as I find myself enveloped in a tangle of arms before I can even see what is happening. As I step back, I see two girls near my age and nearly identical to each other.

Karina and Ann. Despite their beautiful letter, I would not have guessed I’d receive this kind of reception. Their brand of exuberance is certainly not how we greet each other in New York. There, it’s a polite kiss-kiss on the cheek, like the chic in France.

“Come in, come in.”

I couldn’t tell which one said it.

I follow them up a straight and narrow staircase, expecting their home to be similarly cramped, but I am surprised to find that it is quite spacious and even modern. The ceiling is peaked and made of painted-white driftwood. The living room, kitchen, and dining room are all one open space and completely casual in comparison to the ornate formal rooms of most Park Avenue homes. It evokes that island time I was just thinking of. And as if to punctuate that, the floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a thin line of blue that would be enough to advertise it as having a water view.

“Take your shoes off,” says one of the girls. “No one wears high heels in Hawaii.”

I notice that her long black hair lays at her waist while her sister’s stops midback. Perhaps the only way I’ll be able to tell them apart. Once I know who is who.

I am immediately aware of how spectacularly I have overdressed. They both have loose-fitting floral dresses on, and their feet are bare. Their skin is a coffee-colored shade of brown, and I wonder how much of it is heredity and how much is sun exposure. I am more curious than I would normally be because of our shared blood.

“I’m Karina,” the longer-haired one announces, answering a question I have not yet asked.

“I’m Beverly.” They know that. But it is all I can think of to say. Because I’m looking at Karina’s eyes and I see my own. And my mother’s. And Sami’s.

Remarkable. It’s like a puzzle piece. It all fits. I feel giddy, like an explorer at the dawn of the discovery he’s hoped to find.

I feel like I belong . What a strange thing to experience so immediately and in such unfamiliar surroundings.

“And I’m Ann.” The other girl laughs and takes my hand, pulling me over to the table that sits next to the kitchen. She sets a cutting board in front of me.

“We’re putting you to work. This is your initiation to Hawaii.”

Karina comes from behind her and places a long knife and an enormous pineapple on the board.

“I’ve known you for two whole minutes, and you’re putting me to work?” I grin as I say it, surprising myself with both my words and my ease.

“Wait! Don’t cut it yet!” Ann runs off and comes back with a fitted bedsheet. She wraps it around me as if I’m in a hair salon, evoking images of Sami, and ties it in an awkward knot around my neck. “We wouldn’t want you to get your pretty dress dirty.”

“Maybe this was a bad idea, A,” Karina says, putting her hand on her hip. “We didn’t realize you’d be so—dolled up.”

I feel every bit of my misstep. Nothing about these girls is fancy. And yet they exude natural elegance with their shiny hair, flawless skin, and lithe bodies that suggest a great deal of time spent outdoors. There are no debutantes here. Except for me. And I am already finding that lifestyle far less attractive than the one I’m immersed in at the moment.

Karina starts to pull the sheet away, but I place my hand at the back of my neck to stop her. “No—I’ll cut it. I want to cut the pineapple.”

She looks at me askance, and I recognize the expression as one I’ve seen on Sami before. Especially the time when I suggested an unusual haircut before she talked me out of it.

I assure Karina that I’m up to the task. If I stain the dress despite the precaution, so be it. I’m sure Mr. Chan could take the remaining fabric and fashion something else wonderful out of it.

I would give everything I’ve ever had to permanently feel the camaraderie that I am feeling right now. A dress is nothing in comparison.

Something delicious is wafting from the kitchen. Ann is stirring a pot, and I ask her what she’s making.

“Adobo chicken,” she says as she sprinkles some pepper into it. “To serve on top of poi.”

The only word I recognize is chicken .

“The adobo is Filipino, and the poi is Hawaiian,” she explains. “The perfect welcome for our dear cousin.”

Karina pulls out a chair and sits next to me. She doesn’t seem to have a role in the preparation of the dinner, but I’m glad as I have so many questions, and she’s undistracted as I talk.

“Tell me all about New York,” she says, putting her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her palms.

I don’t want to talk about New York. I want to hear all about them. About the family I didn’t know I had. But Marymount taught me to be a gracious guest as much as a gracious host.

I slice into the pineapple as I talk, and I see them get most excited by the more glamorous things I describe. So I emphasize the fancier part of my life in the city, careful to hold some things back so as not to appear to be bragging.

This was not so tricky when all my friends came from my social circle. But I’ve been putting restraint into practice as I’ve met some of the girls on Pan Am. And now, my cousins.

By the time they’ve had their fill of tea at the Plaza Hotel, carriage rides in Central Park, and shows on Broadway, Ann has finished cooking and tasted the dish and declared it ready. She sets an array of beautiful ceramic dishes on the table. And I have muddled my way through my task. The cubes are not perfectly square, but Karina says brashly that “it’s not going to matter as you digest them.”

I smile to myself. I can’t imagine such a thing being said at the tables I’ve sat at with my mother. “Kar, we’ve been pestering Beverly long enough with our questions,” Ann says to my great relief. “It’s your turn now, cousin. Do you have any questions for us?”

I scoot my chair in, catching the corner of the sheet on the leg of it. But I don’t dare take it off, despite looking like a deflated hot-air balloon. The adobo chicken is bathed in a red sauce that would be murder on silk.

“Yes,” I answer. “Please tell me everything. From the beginning. About the family.”

The sisters look at each other and then back at me, and I smile at the way their expressions are identical to each other. Right eyebrows raised, lips pursed as they ponder the request.

Karina takes a deep breath and begins. “You know about the rift, of course. Our mutual great-grandmother was beside herself when our auntie Sami and her sister left for the United States. And the eastern part of the country, no less. She knew when she said goodbye that she would never see them again. And that letters might take weeks and weeks to get back and forth. They say she died of a broken heart.”

I nod. This is as much as my mother told me.

“So what is your part of the story, then?” I ask. “If the family was so upset about them leaving, how did you all end up here?”

Ann takes over and gives me a chance to take my first bite of the adobo. It is amazing . Like nothing I have ever had. And—criminy, as it sits on my tongue, it is blazing hot .

I take a drink of water as discreetly as I can, though it might take the entire Pacific to quench it. But I want to hear every word that Ann has to say. My ears steam as my mouth stays shut.

“After her death, the family split further. There were four siblings. Sami; your grandmother, Gloria; our grandmother, Diwa; and a sister named Tala. Sami and Gloria went to New York. Tala stayed back, as she felt an obligation to keep up the family’s small restaurant in Manila. But Diwa missed her sisters. And as soon as she was old enough and had saved for the ship fare, she followed them to the United States. But the little money she had was stolen while she was on the ship, so when she arrived in Honolulu, she had nothing. Nowhere to stay. And definitely no money to continue on to New York.”

I sit back and cross my arms, taking this in. I’d met a Gloria when I was quite little. The first time my mother took me to Sami’s for a haircut. I must have been four or five. She smelled of gardenia perfume. Too much of it. But I didn’t mind because she gave me a big hug and slipped me some candy when we arrived. That happened a few times and was indelible on me because I never received such warm embraces at home. And because I loved the candy.

On one visit, she wasn’t there. I remember asking Sami where she was. And she answered that Gloria had left to live with God. I didn’t understand what that meant, and I didn’t ask any more. Because a look passed between my mother and Sami that seemed sad.

A chill runs through me at the memory. So Gloria had been my grandmother. No wonder I’d taken such a liking to her. Not just the hug, not just the candy. But maybe there was some subtle connection we had by way of our shared blood, and I sensed it without knowing what it was.

I remember it feeling like what I felt now. The instant liking of my cousins.

That puzzle piece fit.

“And my grandfather? Do you know what happened to him?”

I remember my mother saying that he’d been American. A teacher. But I didn’t know his name and had not yet been able to ask this question.

Ann shrugged. “I don’t know a lot. Just that he died only a few years after they’d moved to New York. Maybe the Spanish flu? I feel like that’s what I heard at one point.”

Wow. To move all that way for love. To have given up so much. Only to lose him. I wonder if Gloria had thought it had been worth it.

“And what about Diwa?” I persist. “Did she ever see her sisters again?”

Ann crosses her arms and rests them on the table. She hangs her head as she answers.

“Sadly, no. It wasn’t just expensive to travel, but it would have taken her away from work for too long. Hairdressing doesn’t make millionaires.”

“Wait—Diwa cut hair too?”

“Yes—apparently they used to practice on each other growing up. It was a skill they could use since they didn’t have much formal education. Diwa—our grandma, our lola—worked at the salon here at Hickam Air Force Base until she died. Our mom took her place and still runs it.”

Karina speaks up. “High and tights. Over and over. Both famous for a perfect fade.” She smoothed her hair with an exaggerated stroke.

Ann continues. “She wanted to be here to meet you today, but she and our dad already had tickets for their annual trip to Las Vegas.” She laughs. “If you spend enough time in Hawaii, you’ll learn that Vegas is the most popular flight out of here.”

Even more family to meet. I am insatiable for it.

I pick up a pineapple chunk with my fingers and pop it in my mouth. As the sweet juice spills out over my tongue, it occurs to me that until recently, I would have been appalled at my own lack of manners. In New York, a regular dinner had a minimum of seven utensils, and never, ever were our fingers used. I’d not ever been allowed to order a hot dog from a street vendor for that very reason.

But here—here I am abandoning over two decades of polish for this casual comfort.

With a big sheet surrounding me like a tent.

I’ve had enough of that, at least.

I stand up, remove the sheet, and bring my plate to the sink.

“No, we can do that! You’ll ruin your dress.” Karina hops up and tries to take the plate from me, but I don’t let her.

“I don’t care about the dress. I’ll wear something else next time. If you’ll both let there be a next time.”

“Are you kidding?” Ann asks. “Consider this home. We’ll even get you your own mattress if there is any chance of tearing you away from your digs at the Royal Hawaiian.” She puts her nose up in the air in an exaggerated expression of affluence. But I know she’s only teasing.

Funny, but staying here with my cousins holds more appeal than any of the fancy hotels I’ve stayed in so far. I look at my wristwatch. It’s still early. I don’t have to head back yet.

Karina must be thinking the same thing. “For dessert, how about we pop some corn and watch The Beverly Hillbillies ?”

Ann grins. “Hey—Beverly! Life imitating art. Here you are, our own princess from New York, hanging out here in little old Oahu.” I land a light punch on her arm, surprised that I feel such familiarity so quickly.

“I can’t remember when I’ve had so much fun,” I admit. “So if that’s life imitating art, I’m all in.”

Ann tosses her head back and laughs. “This is your idea of fun? Oh, cousin, you haven’t seen anything yet!”

We turn on the television. As one show turns into another, we make more popcorn until I am full. Full in heart and in stomach. Hours pass and no one really pays attention to what is airing. Our chatter never has a lull and everything changes only once a yawn escapes me.

I try to cover it up before they can see, but I’m not quick enough.

“Kar, we’ve kept her too long. She had that long flight, and then we’ve gone and monopolized her evening.”

“Yes. Gosh, we could go on all night. I’m sorry, Bev. Can we drive you back to make up for it?”

I don’t want to leave. Don’t want to make that early flight. But the offer to drive to the hotel and spend even a few more minutes with these cousins who have welcomed me so immediately is a small consolation.

As I lay my head on the pillow that night, I smile dreamily, pleased that this went better than I could have imagined.

I can’t wait to tell my mother.