Then his father had arrived, and Hully hopped up from the sand and joined the old man on the court. The tantalizing aroma of the nearby roasting pig offered a distraction almost as bad as Pearl in her pink bathing suit, and Hully again lost to his old man, two sets to one.
As he and his dad headed back to the bungalow for cool showers-the Niumalu's accommodations lacked water heaters, typical here in this land of perfect temperatures-Hully told his father that he'd put them in for the luau.
They were moving past hedges of hibiscus and morning glory flowering beneath poinciana and jaca-randa trees.
"I'd rather go to the wrestling match," O. B. grumbled, "and eat hot dogs."
Hully knew his dad wasn't kidding: they frequently attended the professional wrestling bouts at several local arenas, particularly when the champ, Prince Ali Hassan, was competing, as he was tonight; O. B. found the sport "hilariously exciting," relishing what he termed the "sweaty theatricality" and "hokey sadism."
"You know a lot of your Navy and Army pals will be here," Hully said, opening the bungalow door for his dad. Nearby, orchids bloomed in coconut shells hanging from a monkey pod. "The brass always turns out for these Niumalu luaus."
"I'm sure there'll be the usual quota of admirals and colonels," O. B. said, stepping inside. "These admirals are so plentiful they get between your feet and in your hair. I have to comb 'em out every time I come home."
"What hair?" Hully asked, good-naturedly. "Anyway, you love those Navy guys."
"Compared to the Army brass, sure," the old boy said, flopping on the couch. "Our Navy is great, but that Army of ours is undermanned and underequipped, if you ask me."
"I don't remember asking, Pop," Hully said, sitting next to him. "Anyway, Fred said for us, the luau's on the house, as usual."
"Because I'm a celebrity. You know notoriety gives me a royal pain."
Hully also knew his father had once loved publicity-it was the adverse publicity surrounding the Burroughs divorce and remarriage that led to this new-found phobia.
"Anyway, I'm unquestionably the world's poorest conversationalist," O. B. said, folding his arms. "I'm as bad a listener as these idiots are lousy talkers-average man or woman has little or nothing worth saying, and spend much of their waking lives saying it. They exercise their vocal organs while their brains atrophy."
Hully was used to such rants. Calmly he said, "I'm not going to the wrestling match, Pop. Anyway, you're a great conversationalist, and some very interesting people are bound to be there. You're just not used to socializing sober."
Burroughs gave his son a blank, almost stunned look; then the old man burst into laughter.
"You got me," he said. 'Take your damn shower-you smell worse than I do."
Hully took his shower.
He was amused by his father's cantankerousness, and delighted by how the old man's despondency had faded over the last month or so. Frankly amazed by his father's new lease on life, Hully had marveled the other day when, walking back to the hotel along a fence line-, his father had jumped up, swung a leg over and dropped down nimbly on the other side. The younger Burroughs had stood there flabbergasted: the fence was chest-high, and Hully knew he couldn't have vaulted the thing.
Perhaps it was time to get back home, to his mother, in the house in Bel Air. He was well aware she suffered from chronic alcoholism-he'd witnessed her incessant drinking since his childhood. Her periods of sobriety were now very short-a week or two-followed by ten days to two weeks of a bender resulting in delirium tremens and, ultimately, a doctor's care. Hully knew the affliction would follow his mother to the grave-if it didn't send her there, first.
Nothing remained but to try to make her life as happy and as free of worry as possible, and to keep her from injuring herself. Shortly before he left, he'd fired a maid and driver who were aiding and abetting his mother's bingeing, and taking advantage of her financially.
Truth was, he was enjoying himself here in Hawaii, and dreaded going back home-he loved spending time with his father, adored Waikiki with its gentle, flower-scented breezes, and had enjoyed several brief romances here … even if Pearl Harada hadn't been one of them.
A hundred guests had descended upon the Niumalu by sundown, far more than the relatively few residents of the thirty cottages scattered about the tropical grounds. The tables in the dining room had been rearranged, fit together picnic-style, but Hully and his father-and another forty patrons, inclined toward a more authentic, traditional presentation-sat like Indians on the lawn on lau hala mats, gathered around a long narrow spread of food exhibiting great variety and color, including the exotic likes of lomi-lomi (salmon rubbed and raw, mixed with shaved ice, onions and tomatoes); ti-wrapped breadfruit, yams, bananas and beef; opii (raw limpets); pipikaula (Hawaiian jerked beef); limu (dried seaweed); laulau, parcels of pork with salted butterfish; and two kinds of poi, one made from breadfruit, the other of taro. And chicken and mahimahi and, of course, the delicious shredded pork from the imu. Eventually noupio (coconut pudding) was served, but it took a long while, and a lot of serious eating, to get there….
Hully and his father both capitulated to having wine with their meals, passing on the stronger stuff-oke, short for okolehao, ginlike booze derived from ti root and, according to O. B., "every bit as good as horse liniment." Free-flowing oke and wine made the evening even more festive, and casual, and it was plenty casual, with even some of the admirals and colonels wearing the currently popular, colorful silk "aloha" shirts, the women in loose-fitting, equally colorful muumuus, or the occasional kimono-Japanese fashion and culture were much admired locally, despite the threat of war.
In fact, the top brass themselves were here tonight-Admiral Husband E. Kimmel, commander of the Pacific Fleet, and Lieutenant General Walter C. Short, commander of the U.S. Army ground and-air forces. Kimmel wore a white suit with a light gray tie that vaguely invoked his Naval dress whites, while Short was in a red-and-yellow aloha shirt.
Hully's father knew both men. Kimmel and Short sat almost directly across from O. B.-the two most powerful military men on the island had arrived together, with petite, attractive Mrs. Short (it was well-known that Kimmel had left his wife on the mainland, so as not to be distracted in his Hawaiian duty… even if his name was Husband).
As usual, Kimmel-whose strong voice was touched with a Kentucky bluegrass twang-seemed uncomfortable in a casual setting, his broad brow troubled. The admiral was in his late fifties, five feet ten inches of compact muscle and bone, his dark blond hair graying at the temples, with clear, direct blue eyes, a slightly hooked nose, and a sternly set mouth and chin.
Short, on the other hand, was affable and easygoing, and the close friendship between the admiral and the general puzzled many, as they would seem personal and professional opposites. A slim, wiry five feet ten, in his early sixties, Short had a thin, delicately boned, sensitive face with deep-set eyes under frequently lifted brows, with a high-bridged nose and a thin upper Up and sensuous lower one.
"Ed," Short was saying, helping himself to two fingers of poi (no utensils allowed at a luau), "how did a fellow with a military background like you wind up an artiste!"
"Nobody's ever accused me of being an artist before, General," Burroughs said, nibbling a chunk of banana. "Biggest disappointment of my life was when Teddy Roosevelt turned me down for the Rough Riders."