Sixteen miles away, on the lush island of Kauai, Aylmer Robinson had fallen asleep in his library. A half-empty glass of milk rested on the floor by his crossed ankles, a Bible was open on his lap. Every so often his head jerked to one side and his breathing seemed to stop, but he continued to sleep. A servant tiptoed in and put a pillow behind his head. Upstairs someone swept a wooden floor. Somewhere a door clicked shut.
Suddenly there was a loud shout; Robinson rose awkwardly from his chair, fumbling, still half in his dream about riding a horse. His milk glass went sideways and shattered; one hand shot reflexively to his graying hair and sent the pillow skimming across the stone floor. There was another shout and Robinson turned to the open window. Through it he could see the foreman running toward the lanai, yelling a blue streak, waving his arms. Robinson knew immediately by the brilliant red of his cheeks that Mr. Shanagan hadn’t gone to church as expected, but to the local saloon. Still, all this hysterical ranting, this was something different. Robinson threw open the window, his pique of righteous fury kept in check only by his strict Calvinist training, and opened his mouth to speak sternly to his man, since it was Sunday after all, a day of humble contemplation and rest in service of the Lord, not drunken tantrums. But Shanagan kept running toward him, oblivious to the fact that he hadn’t cleaned up for his employer as he usually did (cramming mints into his mouth and pushing his red hair flat with his hands), and oddly undaunted by the sight of his boss leaning out the bay window with the harshest look he had. Shanagan ran with his arms forward and his chest heaving, a man drowning in an invisible sea.
-Pearl Harbor! he yelled. The Japs have gone and bombed Pearl Harbor!
It was Sunday, a day that Robinson devoted exclusively to the Lord. Usually he didn’t pick up a phone, read a book other than the Bible, or get into a car. Listening to the radio was a special sin. But today he knew that the good Lord would forgive him as he knelt next to the Philco and turned it on. A sneak attack, he heard through the rush of blood from his face, the real McCoy. The words thundered on, unimaginable, impossible. Nineteen battleships destroyed…thousands of our boys dead, that’s what they’re saying…the cries of the wounded…Awaiting word…
When Robinson finally pushed away from the radio and rose stiffly to his feet, he called for his horse. His house staff and his ranch hands and all the sugar workers were to be rounded up and informed of what had happened, with orders to wait for his return from town. Shanagan, cold water dripping from his face and a cup of coffee in his hands, stood at the kitchen sink, panting. By the kitchen door the old cook Kaanapapa shifted from one foot to the other, his arms stiff against his sides. They turned to stare at Robinson as he entered.
-And Niihau? said Shanagan. Will you be setting off t’a there?
Aylmer looked at him dazedly.
-I’m not so worried about Niihau, he finally said. That’s the safest place to be right now. The devil’s on Oahu and coming this way. It’s this island I’m worried about.
Kaanapapa and Shanagan nodded. The island of Niihau, owned by the Robinson family for almost a century, was an isolated land spit of dust and scrub. On a clear day it could be seen from the shores of Kauai, but otherwise it was a secret place. Even these two men had never been there, though it was just a half-day boat ride across the channel. They knew only a few things: that Niihau was another working ranch, the arid land just suitable to graze cattle and sheep; that almost all its inhabitants were native Hawaiians; that there were no modern conveniences like electricity or telephones or automobiles; that it seemed a sacred place for their boss, purposefully kept away from the world. It was the “mystery island,” a secluded place that Robinson talked about often but rarely brought anyone to visit. Yes, Niihau was not a place to worry about now. No one there would have any idea of what had happened today at Pearl Harbor.
-Lead the families of Makeweli Ranch in prayer, Kaanapapa. Robinson pushed a hat slowly onto his thinning hair. I’m needed in town more than on Niihau.
-Anything I can do, sir? asked Shanagan.
-Clean up, replied Robinson, eyeing his foreman with rebuke. And pray.
He turned, his thin frame slouched in the manner of a man too tall for the doorways around him, and walked toward the large hall. His two employees watched his familiar gait, how each foot hung in the air just a moment longer than necessary, how his narrow chin stuck forward, how the mud on the cuffs of his pants clung unnoticed, how the sprigs of hair in his ears went untrimmed. Most days they thought of how sad it was he had never taken a wife, had never had children. But today they only noticed how he looked so much older than his fifty-two years. He disappeared around the corner and Shanagan coughed and put his cup down with a clatter.
-God help us all, he said.