“You should sit.”
I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
“What did my grandfather do?”
Leilani looked toward the photograph.
Then she told me.
In 1941, the hotel hadn’t really been a hotel.
Not the way it was now.
It was a boarding house owned by Malia’s parents.
They rented rooms to workers, sailors, military personnel, and anyone else who needed an inexpensive place to sleep.
Henry had stayed there briefly before being transferred to barracks closer to his assignment.
He became friendly with the family.
He fixed a broken porch step.
Helped carry deliveries.
Played cards with Malia’s father.
And whenever little Ruth—Leilani’s mother—saw him, she apparently followed him everywhere.
“He gave her candy,” Leilani said.
I smiled.
“That sounds like him.”
Then came December 7, 1941.
Pearl Harbor.
Leilani didn’t dramatize it.
She didn’t need to.
The first explosions were heard from miles away.
