Over the Rainbow - Book One - 'The Gathering Place' (27 page)

Alani laughed softly and asked,
“You want to come to church, with
us
?”

“
Uh- yeah. If that's alright I
mean. I- I almost feel like I need to, after all I've been through
the last few days.”

“
Feeling a need to thank your
guardian angels?”

“
Don't you think they deserve
it?”

Alani looked off into the
distance, taking a long pause before responding. And then she said
thoughtfully, “Probably way more than we think.”

Chris sat in silence at the as he poked at the
remains of his breakfast and then looked to his father across the
table. Walter’s face was buried in the Wall Street Journal, his
obligatory laptop and phone curiously absent. The morning was
misty, the haze of nearly horizontal rain that the locals called a
‘blessing’ drifting lazily along the ground as intermittent shafts
of golden light shot through the breaking clouds, a discordant note
of thunder echoing in the distance.

Finally Chris broke the silence, addressing his
father’s hidden face, “Okay, Dad- What's this all about?”

Walter lowered the paper, looking at Chris over
half-moon readers and asking with poorly feigned innocence,
“What?”

“
Oh, come on, you've been
deliberately saying nothing this entire morning. What
gives?”

Walter folded the paper and laid it aside with
careful deliberation. “Isn't a little quiet time with my son
enough?” Stealing a surreptitious glance at his watch, he inquired,
“Are you about done? We've gotta hurry if we want an early tee
time.”

“
Tee time?
What?! Dad, I
hate
golf. You know that.”

Walter scoffed, “Oh, you do not. You just don't-
play that often. You really ought to come out with me son- the
course is very forgiving. It will give us a chance to spend some-
quality time.”

“
Quality time?
On the golf course? With
you?”
Chris stole a glance at the surrounding
landscape. “
Besides, the weather doesn't
look too promising.” Chris hesitated, delaying the inevitable, and
then ventured, “I can't.”

“
You
can't?
Why
not?”

Chris replied defiantly, “Because I promised Alani
and her family I would drive them to church, okay?”

“
You
what?!
Church?! What in
the name of God are you talking about? Since
when
do you go to
church?”

Chris rose abruptly, tossing his napkin down in a
resolute gesture of determination and said, “Dad, I'm sorry, but
I'm going... I'll catch a round with you later, all right? I
promise...” And before a flustered and flabbergasted Walter could
reply, he was gone.

The long, charcoal-gray limo cruised slowly into the
driveway, stopping with a crunch of gravel and squeak of brakes as
it pulled to a stop in front of the Nakamura’s door. Chris stepped
out and held the door as the colorfully-clad bulk of the Nakamura
clan piled in.

As the long, dark car slowly pulled away, Kenji
watched it depart, peeking surreptitiously around a folded Roman
shade. He watched the car disappear down the drive, and then he
sighed in contentment and walked slowly out to the inner courtyard.
Basking in the warmth of the early morning sun, Kenji closed his
eyes, his lips moving in a brief silent prayer, and lit a thin
length of incense as he knelt before the ancient family altar,
waving the aromatic stick reverently over a Derek Jeter Bobble-head
as he continued to mutter his earnest prayers.

Carefully placing the incense in a simple stone
holder in the shape of a baseball, Kenji meandered towards the
house, pausing briefly to toss a handful of morsels from the bridge
to the multi-colored Koi that swam lazily in the pond below, musing
on his reflection in the still, dark waters. He then sauntered
lazily into the house, closed the wide Shoji panels carefully and
settled with a contented sigh into the worn leather armchair before
the giant television; a gloriously-proportioned, 52” flat-screen
that was his sole extravagance in this otherwise austere
household.

Pulling the faded and stained New York Yankees
baseball cap from a pouch in the side of the chair, Kenji placed it
gently on his head, delicately adjusted it just so, and then
clicked a remote that he had fished from another pocket of the
chair. The familiar voice of Joe Buck resonated from the console as
the game flashed to life- and perhaps, not-so-coincidentally… Derek
Jeter was at bat.

Walter stood silently surveying the various and
sundry array of putters ranged along a low rack in the Pro Shop. He
considered one, and immediately discarded it with a mocking scowl,
“Looks like a goddamn microphone…” His gaze slid along the
remaining putters in the group, a frown of disappointment creasing
his face as he continued, “… why can't they make putters that just
look like putters?” Finally spying one that met with his
expectations, he said with satisfaction, “Ah, here we go…” With a
confident grin, he pulled several balls to his feet, and with
smooth precision, casually stroked a half-dozen balls toward a hole
in the distance. All dropped in, dead-center, and he rose with a
satisfied air. “Not bad...” he said, to no one in particular, and
strode with his selection to the counter. “I'll take this one.”

The Pro shop attendant smiled, “Very good, Mr.
Matthews. Shall I put it on your account?”

Walter frowned in reply, “Of course.”

“
Is Mrs. Matthews joining you
today, sir?”

Walter smiled grimly, “No. Just me.”

The attendant replied with matter-of-fact
emotionlessness, “I see…” He continued as his fingers traced a
schedule of tee times, “I have a group of three going out in just a
moment, would you like to join them?”

“
No, just me,” Walter replied with
a note of sarcasm. “Is that all right?”

“
Uh- of course, sir. I can start
you on the back, if you'd like.”

“
Fine… whatever.”

“
Would you like a cart, or a
caddie?”

Walter replied with disdain, “I'll walk, thank
you.”

The man hesitated, and then inquired with a hint of
trepidation as he stole a glance out the window at the low clouds
scudding by in the distance, “Are you certain, sir? You would have
some shelter, if you needed it.”

“
Is this another one of your
stupid club rules? I'll walk. Thank you. Call me, would you?”
Walter gathered up the putter and turned his back to
leave.

“
Sir? Mr. Matthews? Did you want a
caddie?”

Walter stopped with the door half-open and glared at
the man. “Of course I want a caddie. I'm certainly not going to lug
my clubs around the course myself!” And with that he stormed out of
the building, punctuating his exit with a disgruntled,
“Idiots.”

Walter sat on the damp bench
outside the pro shop, carefully tightening the laces on his
‘traditional’ metal-spiked shoes, a worn and faded sign above his
head clearly reminding him- ‘Remember - Kuhuku Point Golf Club is a
'non-metal spike' facility.’ Walter parroted the phrase in a
mocking tone and then continued his rant, muttering to himself,
“Spike-less shoes, golf sandals, mandatory cart rental. Why the
hell can't we just play
golf
?”

A moment later, the phone rang in the noisy caddy
shack, the assembled group of rag-tag individuals laughing and
chiding each other over a vigorous game of poker.

Andrew answered it with a single syllable, “Ya?”

Holding the phone to one ear as he scanned down a
list on the computer, he called over the din, “Hey! Who wants this
one?”

The group assembled around the table looked up as
one, and then all shook their heads individually, muttering and
going back to their game. Andrew repeated, insistent, “Hey! Don'
all jump up at once! Who wants this?” Several members of the group
cast a glance out the window, their attention drawn by the distant
flash of lightning, a rumbling peal of thunder following close
behind. Andrew followed their line-of-sight, frowning in sympathy
as he leaned on the counter and said plaintively, “C'mon you guys,
someone's gotta take this, who's it gonna be? Hey! Manuel, you go,
it's your turn.”

The individual identified as ‘Manuel’ sniffed in
disgust, raising his head but not looking back at Andrew, throwing
his cards on the table in resignation and said, “Hey! I ain't goin'
out in dis stuff. Tell da stupid Haole to carry his own clubs, or
take a cart! I ain't gonna get struck by lightning carryin' clubs
for a stupid tourist who should be stayin' inside himself...”

Andrew whined in desperation, “Dammit you guys,
someone's gotta -!” His words were immediately truncated by a
blinding flash of light and the accompanying crash of thunder that
rocked the tiny building.

In the echoing silence that followed, the door
slowly creaked open and a short, squat individual quietly walked
in. The room went eerily silent as they all turned as one to see
their sudden and unexpected visitor.

He was an anachronistic vision of old Hawaii- the
ancient, leathery features and out-of-date clothing of the stout,
gray haired man contrasting sharply with the pop-collared Polo
shirts and slicked-back hair of the assembled group of caddies.
Ragged flip-flops, knee-length Bermuda shorts and a faded ‘Aloha’
shirt graced his short, compact form, his powerful barrel chest
sporting several curly gray hairs that protruded from its’ open
top. Around his neck, a large, stylized Hawaiian fishhook dangled
from a leather lanyard, partially concealing a tiny crucifix
attached to a delicate gold chain.

A single golden tear, a strange and anomalous tattoo
from another time and place, graced the outer corner of his left
eye, perched and oddly glowing on his cheek in the dim, fractured
light of the caddy shack.

Without so much as a word to the silent and
stock-still group of men frozen in silence at the table, the man
took a card from a rack on the wall and uttered two simple words.
“I go.” And with that he disappeared through the door, a dull,
ominous rumble of thunder underscoring his departure.