Island Of Sweet Pies And Soldiers. Sara Ackerman
to talk about it, but people needed to know. These men especially, if they were to be sharing meals with them.
The truth was the truth, and the sooner everyone knew it, the better.
“Did it have anything to do with the war?” Tommy asked.
“Unfortunately, we don’t know. There was a search and an investigation, but they turned up nothing.” Violet told them her practiced version of the story while she rubbed Ella’s shoulder, at the same time tasting bile in her throat. Talking about this had that effect. Maybe having the men over hadn’t been such a good idea.
Parker didn’t seem to have a problem talking about it. “Either way, I’m sure that you loved him and he loved you. And that will never go away. Not knowing’s got to be hard.”
She nodded. By now, the whole house smelled like baked coconut and Violet excused herself to check on the pie. “Ella, I could use your help.”
Ella scooted in with her. The pie still had another minute or two before browning. She sat Ella down at the table and looked into her eyes. “Sweetie, we both want your father to still be alive. More than anything. But we’ve been over this before.”
Ella bit her lip like she was holding back tears. “I know, but sometimes it helps me to pretend.”
“Oh, Ella.” Violet hugged her in tight as the burning in her gut intensified.
If only it could be that easy. She could pretend forever that Herman was out getting milk, that he was just around the corner. That she would wake up to him snoring next to her, filling the whole room with his sounds. She had to hold back a laugh at the thought of their first night together, and how she had woken in a panic, certain that a tornado was pulling off the roof. But it had only been his god-awful snoring. She caught herself. This was happening more lately—thinking about him without tears. Where are you, Herman?
Violet sliced up the pie with freshly polished silver, and she and Ella carried out double slices to the soldiers. Living on the farm, especially in her later years, her folks had been so poor, meals were about staying alive, not about pleasure. But since moving to Hawaii, and especially since living with Jean, all that changed. In Hawaii, crops grew year-round and in such abundance, you could pluck the fruit off a tree whenever you pleased. Fruit designed for baking outlandish desserts.
* * *
A late-afternoon shower drizzled down outside, adding steam to an already muggy day and chasing the mosquitoes away. Violet and Ella set plates down in front of each man and you could have heard a pin drop. Then forks began clinking on china.
After taking a whole minute to chew his first bite, Parker was the first to speak. “So, which one of you is responsible for this?”
“Why, that would be Violet,” Jean said.
“Don’t blame me. This is your recipe,” Violet said, not wanting credit, or any marriage proposals.
Tommy put his fork down. “Zach was right. I think I’m going to have to marry you.”
“Me, too,” Zach said.
“Is there a reverse word for polygamy?” Jean asked.
“Polyandry,” Zach said.
Jean looked confused that her brother would know such a thing. “And you know this, how?”
He shrugged. “No idea, but it sounded interesting.”
All this talk of husbands made Violet nervous, but she knew they were teasing. Then Parker said, “The whole war would be worth it if I knew I was coming home to this.” She felt her body go motionless and her heart pick up speed.
He put another piece in his mouth and chewed, all the while staring into her as though she were some kind of conundrum.
She wanted to be clear on one thing—she wasn’t up for grabs. There were more important things to worry about. Not that Parker would ever be interested.
“Well, that is awfully kind of all of you. And, Sergeant Stone, I have no doubt that you will find what you’re looking for. We have no shortage of lovely single women on this island.” Her eyes couldn’t help but flicker to Jean as she said it.
Even then, he didn’t look away. Eventually Violet had to turn to look out the window, at the sun-laced trees and the town below.
“Please call me Parker, ma’am.”
“How about this. I won’t call you Sergeant if you don’t call me ‘ma’am’?” Violet said.
* * *
After dinner, Parker stayed true to his word and inspected Brownie’s wounds. They brought her into the kitchen, and she squawked at first but settled down when he tucked her tightly under one arm. The arm in question had sharply defined biceps and a ropy forearm.
He pointed to where her right wing attached to her body. “This one here looks like it needs some care. You have any kind of healing salve?”
“I have drawing salve,” Violet said.
“First I would use a honey ointment to prevent infection. You got any honey on hand?”
Jean climbed into the conversation and laughed. “Do we have honey?”
Violet explained. “We have more honey than we know what to do with. Mr. Keko’olani keeps bees. He feels sorry for me, so he brings us honey once a week.” The jars were piling up, but he kept coming. Kind of like Mr. Macadangdang with the coconuts. Anyway, Mr. K. kept thirty-eight hives at his place and had another zillion spread out in the woods and nearby farms. Honoka’a was a perfect place for beekeeping. The bees loved the honeydew from a certain grasshopper that fed on the sugarcane, and the forest was abundant with ohia-lehua blossoms.
“I have a few jars of salve back at camp. I can bring some next time, but it’s easy to make, too,” he said.
Herman would have probably just cut the chicken’s head off and asked Violet to stuff it for supper, so this was a surprise. Tommy and Zach lost interest quickly and retreated to the porch.
Darkness was almost here. They needed to leave, but Parker seemed so genuinely concerned for the chicken that she let him continue.
“Olive oil, comfrey, marshmallow root, witch hazel bark and honey,” he said. “You put that on Brownie, she’ll be good to go in no time. Ella, maybe you can help your mother make the salve. It would be good for your cuts and scrapes, too. I use it all the time.” He lifted his forearm to show a long pink scar. “I got in a scuffle with Roscoe. He didn’t mean it, of course.”
If Ella had any doubts about these soldiers, they would be blotted out by now. “Zach said we would meet Roscoe. Where is he?” Violet asked, unsure about meeting anyone who inflicted wounds like that.
“Roscoe is otherwise occupied, but you will. I promise.”
Violet
Back in Badger, Minnesota, Violet’s family had always gone to church, even in the bitter freeze of winter, when it was risky to breathe outside. They would bundle in worn-out blankets and extra layers of wool socks, and trudge to the church in the middle of town. “Acceptance, deliverance, repentance,” the minister had drilled into them. But understanding those words was another matter altogether. As a girl, Violet had thought acceptance meant standing on the stage and getting your award for having the biggest goat or the fattest pig, not making the best of a situation gone wrong. Later she learned it was not an easy thing to master.
Despite the new routine of Japanese school, which seemed to be going well, and the night with the soldiers, Ella still ate less than a squirrel and picked her freckles until they formed angry red mounds. Sometimes Violet wanted to tear her own hair out, unable to protect her daughter from invisible grief, but that pesky word acceptance