Haole Wood (3 page)

My grandmother did a few rapid “da-di-da’s,” knuckled me in the ribs and wrenched her arm free, still holding the huge knife. She whacked off a sprig of what might have been rosemary, growing in a pot on the shelf above my head. She stood on tiptoe and reached behind me again and retrieved a bamboo platter. She pointed to my tea with her knife and stomped over to the sink. She began cutting up pineapple, mangoes, and papaya with the sharp knife and arranged them on the platter. The rosemary, or whatever it was, looked lovely. Its tart, almost antiseptic smell almost disguised the rank odor of my fear.

Oh. “Thanks, Halmoni.” I smiled and used my napkin to wipe the sweat off my face. My grandmother came back to the table and set the fruit between us. I drained the last of my tea, before spitting out the loose dregs that clung to my tongue. I laughed nervously. “I didn’t really think you were going to kill me.” My grandmother just took my cup and refilled it, and came back with a cup of her own.

“Cheers,” I said, lifting my cup to toast her, hoping she would forget about that scene I just caused over the knife. Ha ha. I have been calmer in an LA traffic jam with my almost-out-of-gas light flashing.

I drank even more tea to give my mouth something to do besides talk. My grandmother slurped her own tea. Oddly enough, I started to feel better. The primitive golden orange succulent slices on the platter were so perfectly ripe, I could taste their colors. I plunked a bright yellow chunk of pineapple into my mouth, and I don’t even like pineapple.

“Pineapple is only good in Hawaii,” I told her. I chewed the juicy, sweet smooth fruit that smelled just like it looked. “On the mainland it’s like eating a piece of rope.” My grandmother parlez-vous’ed some more gibberish and showed me the top of the pineapple she cut off, with its crown of prickly grey-green leaves. As she held it out to me, I smiled. I tugged on one of the leaves from the very center. It pulled out with a quick snap, a minimum amount of pressure. The spectrum of green on the plucked leaf melted down into a pale, pale shade at its base, like the inside of the inner stalks of celery. “I remember,” I said. “That’s how you tell when a pineapple is ripe and ready to eat.”

Halmoni nodded and either said “not that,” which would have made no sense, or something along the lines of crazy haole as she filled up my cup again.

Again with tea
? I was kind of getting used to the taste, though. “Thank you, Halmoni.”

I tried the mangos and even the papaya, which I never really liked before either. They were also as delicious as they looked. I munched on the fruit loudly, sounding like a Bugs Bunny cartoon. The stress of the day seeped out of me. I relaxed into my chair and thought I saw a quick flash over my grandmother’s shoulder, but nothing was there. My nervous system must have been operating on overtime. Boy, I was tired. I drank my tea and ate more fruit and began to feel better and better. I was starting to Maui mellow.

Halmoni motioned for me to go upstairs to my room, the same one I stayed in with my sister when we were young. Halmoni may not have been the best housekeeper, “She sweeps the room with a glance,” my mom always used to say, but the bedroom was tidy. The twin beds snuggled under the same worn Hawaiian cotton quilts that my grandmother made. The wooden floor offered up its trail of faded yellow and orange throw rugs scattered like stepping-stones to the beds. An oval mirror studded in seashells hung above the rickety dresser whose drawers still screeched when you tugged them open, just like they did when I used to play MaryAnn to my sister’s Ginger. I sank down on the bed near the window and could see the sun dip toward the ocean in the far distance. I was so sleepy. I should call my parents, I thought, but it was too late. It was the middle of the night back in Ohio. That was the last thing I remembered thinking before my cell phone rang.

“Hello?” I fumbled with my cell phone.

What time was it? I wondered. It was dark outside my window. I cleared my throat and tried to pretend I was wide-awake. “What? Who is this?” Oh. Oh, no. “What?”

“A freak summer thunderstorm swamps San Diego, and you tell people to get out and enjoy the sunshine?” It was my news director. Screaming through the phone. “Don’t forget the sunscreen?” He paused for more breath. “This is the most irresponsible weather forecasting I have ever seen. How did you get to work? You had to have driven through flooded streets to get to the studio. Well, you did make the
San Diego Union Tribune
and now our station is the laughing stock of the city. Are you a complete moron?”

“Oh, Fred, I’m so sorry. You see, I—”

“You what?” I could feel his rage through the phone as my stomach cramped up, just like it did before I went on the air. He wasn’t finished. “I don’t know how Barry could have produced such a train wreck. I’ll get to him next. We led with the weather, ‘Batten down the hatches, it’s pouring in San Diego’ and ten minutes later there you are, all Polly Perky, ‘Did you enjoy all the sunshine today?’”

“Sir, I am so sorry. I can explain. I had an emergency—”

“I could give a rat’s ass about your emergency. This is the news business, and I’m afraid you are yesterday’s news.”

“I’ll come in on my days off and work.” My mind scrambled. I couldn’t get back there until tomorrow even though I wasn’t scheduled to work until Wednesday. “I’ll do anything. I’ll make it up to you, you’ll see. I am so sorry. I had no idea.”

“Exactly. You never have any idea, do you? We may not have much to talk about in terms of weather in San Diego, but guess what? We all talk about it, all the time. You are no longer credible or believable and a reporter’s reputation is key. I don’t want to see your face back here again. You are terminated. Save yourself some embarrassment and don’t even think about trying for a job at any of the other stations in town, even the cable channels, because it’s not going to happen.”

“Please. Fred, won’t you let me explain?”

“I don’t care if you have a brain tumor or split personality, one that was frolicking in the sunshine yesterday when you did your weather report, there is no excuse. You cannot go on the air and make a mistake like that.”

“Well, now that’s just mean,” I said, sitting up in my bed. “It was an honest mistake, if you’d just listen to me. It’s not like I killed anybody.”

“So now you’re telling me the news business? It is a big deal, young lady.” He took a breath and I could hear his blood pressure rise.

“Listen, I am so sorry. My grandmother was in trouble and needed me. She was in jail and I had to bail her out—”

“Sorry for your troubles, Jaswinder, but I’m afraid it’s not going to work out. You acted unprofessionally and you betrayed your public. You lied to them. In essence, you lied to us. You made the station look bad, you made the network look bad. I’ll have HR send you your final check.” He paused for a split second, and then, as if it killed him to do so, wished me well. “Good luck.” I heard him hang up on me.

“Shit, shit, shit.” I hugged my knees to my chest and rocked back and forth. Tears streaked down my cheeks as I said goodbye to my dream job. I could never quite believe my luck in actually being on the air in San Diego, one of the top television markets.

I worked so hard to try to break into the industry. When I was younger, in the bedroom I shared with my sister, I used to practice broadcasting in the mirror. I used my chartreuse hairbrush as a microphone, its black bristles scraping my lips. “Josephine Park, age 14, died in a tragic bicycle accident today.” I used to pretend I was swiping her blood off the wall as I did my report. “Her much prettier sister, Jaswinder, was nowhere near the scene.” Of course, Josephine would run and tattle on me.

Maybe it was all that practicing, maybe it was blind dumb luck, or maybe just a good guardian angel after all, but after paying my dues interning at a local TV station in Columbus, Ohio, I finally broke into television news as an associate producer. In spite of the main anchorman, Stephen Zaputa, (whom everyone knew was having a secret affair with the morning news girl, Lupita Sanchez, which would have made her Lupita Zaputa should they ever marry) (which they did not) who once screamed at me, “I’ve forgotten more than you’ll ever know,” I persevered.

One day, several years later, it paid off. I got to do the weather on Christmas day, when no one else was available, to an audience of two (my parents). I was awful. I was so nervous it was painful to watch. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before Hyperventilating Weather Girl shows up on the internet.

My news director told me if trying hard was a talent, I would be a superstar. He reluctantly offered me the weekend weather spot because A. I was available, B. Believe it or not, there were worse candidates, and C. But, none who would work so cheaply.

I backwards bowed out of his office before he could change his mind. He barely noticed. “Jaswinder. Jesus.” He threw my resume away.

I fought my nerves, took voice lessons, watched Katie Couric, my idol, and practiced, practiced, practiced, trying to get better. I served my time in the Midwest, before eventually landing in paradise in San Diego. As God is my witness, I’ll never be cold again.

“At least your name sounds like a weather girl,” the west coast managing editor who hired me said. “And you aren’t as hideous as the last chick.” With those glowing recommendations, what was to stop me?

I loved my job, even though it freaked me out. I was always stressed about going on air, live—with no do-overs. Anything can happen, including that time I burped. Then there was the time my nose ran for the last thirty seconds of a live shot on the Mission Beach boardwalk. I thought maybe no one would notice. It was just a clear little slow drip, the totally unexpected instantaneous kind that sends out a glistening welcome mat, “Well, hello, it’s chilly out here today, let me fire up my nasal membranes and get this party started.” A trick of lighting made me look like an orphaned ragamuffin Sarah McLachlan would enjoy singing about.

Live TV was petrifying, but it had always been my dream. Dream Subplot B, buried beneath my future hot husband who would love me more than I loved him, and next to my neck-breaking high-heel collection that would be as comfortable as Havaiana flip-flops, (which I had yet to invent) stuffed me into one of those super-secret Spanx wrap dresses worn by scary anchorwomen. I would totally rock that look, who wouldn’t? What I lost in the ability of being able to sit down I would more than make up for with killer posture and finally having a spine. I knew it was my destiny to become an anchorwoman. I felt it with every fiber of my being. I could taste it, though I didn’t take big bites, what with having to fit into the Spanx dress and all.

My mom supported me the best way she could. “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” I don’t know what renaissance fair she picked that ditty up from, but I wish she would have a little more faith. I believe I could correctly delete the word more.

In addition to doing the weekend weather, the station was beginning to use me for reporting and allowed me to do feature stories—even though I think I probably drove the senior producers and editors crazy, trying to get the stories just right. I really wanted to prove myself but had a tendency for second-guessing, or as my executive producer said, one-hundred-twenty-second-guessing. That apparently was funny because that’s the amount of time they allowed me for my stories, and according to them, it worked as well in mocking the number of times I supposedly changed my script.

How could this be happening? How could I have screwed up so badly that I threw away the one good thing I had going for me?

I rested my head on my knee and peeked through wet eyelashes to see the day begin to break outside of my window. Light streamed through fronds of a big palm tree as birds greeted each other. It sounded like they chirped, “
kokua, kokua
.” Help, help. I sure needed help.

I tried to stop crying and snuggled back under the sheet to call my parents. Of course, they wanted to hear about Halmoni first. “Put Dad on the other extension Mom, you’re not going to believe this.” I explained how I got her out of jail and was surprised they weren’t really surprised.

“Let me get this straight, Dad. Your seventy-something-year-old mom was busted with weed and you don’t bat an eye?”

“Oh, Jaswinder,” my dad said. “It’s hard to explain. Your grandmother has always been a little different. She kind of fancies herself a healer and after my dad died she needed money. I always knew she grew marijuana on Molokai, but after the incident ten years ago, I thought she learned her lesson.”

“What incident?”

“Don’t ask,” my mother interrupted. “She was never charged. Besides, your grandmother is known on the island for all these crazy herbal remedies for everything from sinus problems to cramps. She really sees nothing wrong with marijuana. In fact, half the island doesn’t either.”

“Great. Granny’s a dealer.”

“She’s not a dealer, Jaswinder,” my dad said. “She’s a healer.”

“Potato, Po-tah-to,” I said. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. She’s fine. She showed me her bank statements last night. She still gets grandpa’s social security, she has a nice chunk in the bank, and get this, she has a stock portfolio that looks like it’s doing pretty well.” To say nothing of the wad of cash I found stuffed under the sink.

“Jaswinder,” my dad continued. Uh oh. I knew that voice. Whatever followed I would not like. “Koreans and Hawaiians take care of their own. As foreign as she is to you, she is still
ohana
, our family. And it’s our
kuleana
to make sure she is taken care of.” My dad spoke a little Korean and Hawaiian, at least enough to understand his own mother, and pulled it out once in a blue moon to show off, or lend gravitas to the bull crap he spouted.

“Real nice, dad. I don’t see you out here. I just got fired from my job because of this mess.” I started to cry again and sobbed out the details. “Just because I owe you money and always feel like such a screw up, I felt guilty like I had to come over here and save the day. Look what happened. I’m out of a job and in trouble.”