Moloka'i (31 page)

He activated the apparatus and two large metal wheels began to revolve, reminding Rachel of a gramophone cylinder. The machine whirred and clicked as if chattering away to itself, then a cone of light erupted from a lens in front.

The lantern threw words onto the screen, white letters on a black background declaring
Edison Kinetoscope,
then fading and followed by more words:
Beginning of a Skyscraper.

This title faded as well, replaced by a photograph—in shades of black, white, and gray—of a city all steel and concrete, asphalt roads, windowed buildings tall as a
pali.

Astonishingly, the photograph
moved.

Rachel gaped as burly workmen swung picks and shovels at a construction site, dirt flying around them—and a cart drawn by two horses emerged from a gray cloud of smoke!

The audience, gasping and muttering their amazement, barely had time to take this in before the scene faded and another title appeared:
Horse Loading for Klondike, No. 9.

All at once they were transported to a busy seaport as dock workers marched a parade of horses onto a huge steamer, the SS
Willamette
—which in the next shot then steamed out of port, crowds waving goodbye as the mighty ship backed out of its berth and toward open sea.

The gasps from the audience had given way to delighted laughter and enthusiastic applause.

Now they were on a train racing through the Yukon, the railroad track whizzing beneath them like the blurred spokes of a bicycle in motion. There was a moment’s darkness as they were swallowed up into a long tunnel, and when they burst again into sunlight they found themselves looking down from the dizzying vantage of a railroad trestle high above a vast canyon. Cries of astonishment and even a little fear rose up from the audience as the train seemed to float hundreds of feet above snowy ground.

In the next several minutes the audience was shown the very length and breadth of the world. They saw San Francisco before and after the earthquake of 1906—the gilded ruins of mansions along Nob Hill, the tumbled shanties of Chinatown. They saw the skyline of Manhattan at night, its constellations of electric lights, the glamorous marquees of Broadway. They saw the splendor of the Pan-American Exposition of 1901 and the tragedy of same, President McKinley’s funeral cortege.

And then, changing pace with a change of reels, the delighted audience found themselves laughing at a feature called “The Whole Dam Family and the Dam Dog,” which asked “Do You Know This Family?” then presented short looks at the sneezy Mr. J. B. Dam, his jabbering wife, their daughter U. B. Dam and nicotine-fiend son Jimmy Dam. Rachel would never have imagined that watching someone sneeze or smoke a cigarette could be so entertaining, but along with everyone else she was enthralled. They roared at this and other comedy shorts; and at the conclusion of the presentation the crowd gave Mr. Bonine a long and heartfelt ovation. For he had done something, brought something, which most of them had never dreamed they would ever see again. Tonight, miraculously, the world had come to Kalaupapa; but these gray shadows moving on the screen only whetted, not quenched, Rachel’s thirst to see it all for herself.

Chapter 14

1909–10

O

n September 1, 1909, just before sunset, the Moloka'i Light’s oil vapor lamp was lit for the first time—an incandescent beam blazing from the lantern room like the light of a miniature star. Two hundred feet below an informal delegation of Kalaupapa residents, gathered in a respectful hush outside the fenced square surrounding the tower, burst into cheers; Rachel was among them. The beacon swept across rooftops, grazed the rocky floor of the peninsula, briefly illuminating a slice of the nearly invisible
pali
before sweeping out to sea again—a complete revolution once every twenty seconds. And in its measured, steady arc, Rachel felt an odd and unexpected reassurance.

Within weeks there would be three keepers and their families, all native Hawaiians, living in houses perched on the high ground of Kahi'u Point. Their food supplies were shipped in double-packed containers separate from those of the settlement; in theory the only thing they would share with the leprosarium was its water supply. Interaction with residents of Kalaupapa was strictly
kapu
.

But the keepers understood
aloha
in a way the United States Lighthouse Board never could, and even with the keepers’ families here, Kalaupapa could be a lonely place. The residents knew this and like good neighbors walked or rode over to say hello, to talk story, and to take in the spectacular view from the Point. From here one could see all the way to the Federal Leprosy Station at Kalawao, scheduled to open in a few months. (Dr. Hollmann, soon to be working there, was asking for volunteers from Kalaupapa to be treated and studied at the station.)

Quickly enough keepers and patients came to share other recreational activities as well. One of these, despite official prohibitions on gambling, was the occasional midnight poker or crap game; another, more sanctioned, activity was baseball.

America’s pastime was also Kalaupapa’s, as keepers enthusiastically joined the settlement’s men on the baseball diamond tucked inside the racetrack. Residents crowded into the grandstand to watch, as on a cloudy Sunday when Rachel sat in the stands: third inning, three out of four bases loaded, head keeper James Keanu at bat. Rachel barely noticed as the ball, lobbed by a pitcher with only four of the regulation five fingers on his pitching hand, eluded Keanu’s first swing. Rachel’s attention was on the third baseman, a young assistant keeper named Jake Puehu: a wide smile in a round face, his cap shading bright attentive eyes. Like many players he was wearing only an undershirt with his blue Lighthouse Service trousers, revealing nicely muscled arms and broad tanned shoulders; sweat formed a kind of map on his cotton undershirt, continents Rachel was eager to explore.

She had first noticed Puehu the day he arrived at Kalaupapa (alone, unlike other keepers who came towing wives and children), his radiant smile drawing her attention like a planet to the sun. Her first instinct had been to hurry away, afraid of the feelings that smile ignited in her: Puehu was a keeper, not a patient, just like that boy in Kaunakakai. He was
kapu,
forget him! But as she meditated on the young man’s smile the reservations she had felt about Tom Akamu seemed remote. Was it because Francine had just gotten married and Emily was now living with her boyfriend? Or had she just never encountered a man who stirred her as Jake Puehu did?

Besides—she was almost cured, wasn’t she? One more negative snip and she would be free to marry or make love with anyone she wished. There would be no more
kapus
.

Keeper Keanu’s second swing connected solidly with the ball, now arcing like a comet toward left field where it fell to earth with a bounce. Keanu headed for first, the runner on third went for home, the one on second ran to third. An outfielder snapped up the ball, threw it to Puehu, who tagged out the man running for third and smoothly tossed the ball to first base. But all Rachel cared about was the way the muscles in Puehu’s arm tensed when he caught the ball and the flex of his shoulder as he threw it.

The next day, on the beach with Leilani, Rachel suddenly asked, “How do you get a man to notice you?”

Lani was a bit nonplussed. “Who’s the lucky boy?”

Rachel squirmed in embarrassment. “Jake Puehu.”

Leilani cocked a neatly arched eyebrow at her. “The keeper? You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” Rachel blushed. Lani asked, “You’re sure about this?”

“No.”

“Bully for you! The uncertain affairs are usually the most fun. Well, first: he’ll notice you, he’d be blind not to. The real question is, what kind of man is he? If he’s like most, he thinks with his
ule
and he may try seducing you almost as a reflex. If he’s more of a gentleman, or shy, then you’ll need to give him a sign that you wouldn’t mind if he approached you. A smile usually does it. Nothing tarty, mind you, not one of these . . .” She illustrated with a sidelong, teasing smile. “. . . but like this.” She smiled shyly, then demurely looked away.

Rachel could only stare in unabashed admiration.

“You can also try using a prop,” Leilani added, “to use the theatrical term. A book, a magazine, your surfboard, anything he can comment on to break the ice.”

“And then what?”

“You talk. You flirt.”

“I don’t know how to flirt,” Rachel said, panicky.

“Eye contact is crucial. Look at him as though he’s the only thing in the world. Smile, to let him know you’re enjoying talking to him. If he says something funny, laugh and put your fingertips lightly to his arm, like this. No, wait, against the rules, isn’t it? Well, sit as close as you can and let
him
break the rules.” She looked into Rachel’s eyes and said, “You’re terrified, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Rachel said, terrified.

“Fear is good. In the right degree it prevents us from making fools of ourselves. But in the wrong measure it prevents us from fully living. Fear is our boon companion but never our master.”

At home Rachel practiced her smile in front of a mirror for two withering hours before deciding to go with a prop—the book she was reading, Jack London’s new novel,
Martin Eden
. Early the next morning she slipped into the colorful frock Leilani had made for her, then strolled down to Kahi'u Point. She’d been here before, of course, so she knew that the head keeper’s shift ended at six A.M. and that Jake’s began right after. She sat atop a lava rock close to the Light, just outside the fenced square, and pretended to read. On schedule Jake left his cottage, heading toward Rachel. Her timing was impeccable: when he was just a few steps away she turned the page she wasn’t reading and her eyes just “happened” to drift upwards at his approach. He stood silhouetted against bright sunlight from the east; he saw her; she started to smile, a shy demure little smile that would steal his heart.

She sneezed instead.

It was out before she could even raise a finger to her nose. No! No!

“Gesundheit,” he said, and walked right past her.

The damn sunlight had made her sneeze! It wasn’t fair! She watched disconsolately as Jake vanished into the lighthouse tower. It was all ruined now. His first look, his first impression of her, would forever be the view up her nostrils. She would never be the girl of his dreams, only “the sneezer.” Mortified, she wanted to flee, but she worried that an abrupt exit might seem odd and cause her even greater embarrassment (if that was possible). She decided to do what she’d only been pretending to—read her book. She would skim it for a few minutes and then leave, forget this whole silly business, and go surfing.

But as those minutes passed she became so absorbed in the novel that she forgot to leave—until half an hour later someone asked her, “Good book?”

Annoyed at the interruption, she looked up and saw Jake Puehu on the other side of the fence smiling at her.

Oh my Lord, she thought; what did he say? Was he talking to
me?

“Excuse me?” she said, in something of a squeak.

“I said, is it a good book?” That smile of his could heat the earth with its warmth. “I’ve read Jack London, but not that one yet.”

Rachel somehow managed to form an intelligible thought. “It—it’s all right,” she said, forcing the squeak from her voice. “I like his Alaska stories better though.”

“They’re fine reads,” he agreed. “So who’s your favorite—Buck or White Fang?”

Rachel considered that. “Buck, I think. White Fang didn’t know any other life but the wild, but poor Buck had a safe, comfortable life on the farm and then he’s stolen away to the Klondike and has to struggle to survive.”

“Yes,” Jake said quietly, “I see.”

“I met him. Jack London. When he was at Kalaupapa.”

“You did? What was he like?”

“Friendly. Went to the horse races, talked story with people. He signed one of my books.” She held up
Martin Eden
. “Would you like to read this when I’m finished?”

He hesitated. “I . . . don’t know if that’s allowed.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Then again,” Jake said with a grin, “I’ve won a few dollar bills in crap games and they weren’t allowed either. Let me know when you’re done with it, okay?”

Rachel beamed. “Okay.”

“Well. I’ve got chores to do, and you’ve got a book to finish.” He tipped his cap to her, turned away.

“My name is Rachel,” she blurted to his back. He turned and looked at her with what seemed like amusement.

“Jake Puehu,” he said. “Nice meeting you, Rachel.” He gave her a nod and a smile, then headed into the tower. Later Rachel would have no memory of how exactly she got back to Kalaupapa and to Leilani’s house. Perhaps she levitated there, Jake’s smile lifting her aloft on the air currents; at the very least she ran.

S

he took to reading on the rocks off the Point several times a week and the conversations with Jake continued. Sometimes it was just a few words as he headed into the tower; sometimes he would come out and eat his lunch on the rocks beside her and they would talk about books or baseball or the weather. Once she rode up on her horse and Jake seemed delighted, stroking the stallion’s mane and feeding it sugar that would have gone into his coffee, as he told her about the pony he’d had as a boy growing up on the Big Island. His family had grown taro but he hated farming, left it to his brothers while he worked on the docks of Kona as a stevedore, then applied to the Lighthouse Service. He’d been stationed at one other lighthouse, N
wiliwili on Kaua'i. He was twenty-six.

Sometimes Rachel just sat on the rocks watching him up on the catwalk outside the lantern room, cleaning the salt spray and bird droppings from the windows. His duties were the usual duties of an assistant keeper: polishing the second-order Fresnel lens, dusting the machinery, cleaning the lamp and keeping it filled with kerosene, trimming or replacing the wicks. “Polishing all the brass is Keanu’s bailiwick,” he told her with evident relief.

Eventually he grew bold enough to borrow a mount and go riding with her across the peninsula or into one of the narrow valleys cut into the
pali
. Another day, on the otherwise empty diamond, he taught her to play baseball. With each visit his smile seemed to grow warmer, his laugh easier. She saw unmistakable attraction in his eyes. One day he even touched her: as they straddled a stream, Rachel slipped on a wet rock and nearly fell but for Jake quickly grasping her arm. He let go once she’d regained her balance, but even through the pain of a bruised ankle, Rachel’s skin tingled deliciously where he had touched her.

At home later, rubbing away the ache in her ankle, she noticed what appeared to be a pink patch of skin just above it. She told herself it was just a scrape, an abrasion, from her near-fall. She started to probe the spot with her index finger just to be sure . . . but before her nail touched the skin she drew back, and instead went to the refrigeration plant for some ice to lay against her swelling ankle.

In November head keeper Keanu left on a trip to Honolulu and Jake assumed his duties as well as his shift between sunset and midnight. One evening as dusk fell Rachel was surprised and pleased when Jake asked her if she’d like to see the inside of the lighthouse. “Yes, very much,” she answered without hesitation, and as she crossed the threshold of the tower door she felt as though she were entering a world apart and remote from Kalaupapa. He showed her the watchroom, appropriately named since it looked like the inside of a giant pocket watch: a huge metal clockwork mechanism whose weights and pulleys caused the lens above them to revolve. He led her up the winding staircase, its wrought iron steps clanging with each footfall, and into the lantern room. Rachel gasped on seeing the lens for the first time: it looked like an enormous jewel, tapered like a candle’s flame, with thousands of glittering facets. It was a crystalline teardrop revolving smoothly in a vat of liquid mercury. Jake showed her the lamp at the jewel’s heart, the wick which he would soon ignite. He explained how the light from the oil vapor lamp would be refracted and amplified to a candlepower of 620,000, where its brilliance could be seen twenty-one miles out to sea.