The Ohana (17 page)

“’Ey, Han, let’s go already.” Tommy, his Hawaiian-Chinese shipmate, spoke from behind him. “I no like trouble with the
haoles
. They not going let us local boys in. We the wrong color.”

George took a swig from his tenth bottle of beer. Beer made him mean and courageous. “You yellow or what, Tommy?” George continued to stare down the street. Pointing to his chest he said, “See our uniforms? We’re on the same side.” He gestured to the lighted building where music blared. “We have the right to go to USO dances. We’re servicemen, just like the
haoles
. Us local boys are dying in the fields too.”

“C’mon, Han,” Tommy grabbed his arm. “You know what I mean.”

The merry sounds of the band blasting popular songs enraged George. He shook off Tommy’s hand. “Why shouldn’t we go in there?”

“Because we going get our
okoles
kicked.”

“Let's take ‘em all on.” George straightened up.

“’Ey brudda, no be crazy.” Tommy put his palms up. “Must be five hundred of the buggas in there. We in Frisco now, not Hawaii. Nobody going come help us. They going call you a Jap and me a nigger.”

“
Haole
trash. We fight on the same side and they tell us to get off the sidewalk and walk in the gutter. They think they own the world.”

“But there’s two of us against all of them. Not good.”

“I’m going in.” George took another swig of courage and threw the bottle against the wall. It shattered into a hundred pieces. Drops of beer landed on George.

Tommy grabbed his sleeve.

George threw off Tommy’s hand. “Do what you like. I’m going up there. My father was a
Hwarang
warrior. He taught me how to fight.”

“What kind of warrior?”

George crossed the street to where a couple of MP’s and other servicemen lolled about the entrance. As George climbed up the steps, they nudged one another and laughed.

One of the MP’s, a square, stocky man with dirty blond hair and the face of a bulldog blocked the entrance. “No Japs allowed!”

George glared and pointed to the dance hall. “This a USO dance?”

“That’s right, it’s a USO dance.” The dirty blond MP grinned and turned to his companions. “Hey, fellas, the Jap can read English!”

George pointed to his uniform. “U.S. Navy.”

“No Jap spies allowed,” the MP scowled.

George drew himself up proudly. “I’m not Japanese, I’m Korean.”

The MP lifted him bodily by his shirtfront. “No yellow Jap chinks allowed. This is for white Americans. See?” As casually as if he were nothing but a trash bag, he tossed George down the stairs.

George tasted the blood streaming out of his nose. He touched his upper lip and looked at the blood on his fingers. His head was spinning. Rage took over.

Tommy rushed to help him up. “Let’s go, George.”

 “No!” he roared. “I’m an American! I’m in the navy! I have the right!” The men at the top of the stairs looked down at him. George shook his fists at them. “I'm just as much an American as they are!” With effort, he stood and climbed the stairs. He felt his face hot with alcohol, rage, and blood.

He pointed to the entrance. “I’m going in.” A small group of men were now gathered at the door watching the spectacle.

One man snarled and pushed his finger hard against George’s chest. “No, you’re not.”

“Hey, nigger!” one of the soldiers yelled at Tommy. “Take your Jap friend away!”

A chorus of voices sang out, “Break his face in! Dirty Jap spy!”

The biggest MP came forward. “Best you go home, boy.”

George shook his fist. “I’m an American, I’m in the Navy. I have a right to go to USO dances!”

“Smash the bastard!”

The MP who called him a Jap slugged George in the jaw, sending him sprawling down the stairs again.

George got up awkwardly, pain shooting up his right ankle, blood spurting from his mouth. He held on to the banister and leaned all his weight onto his left side. He staggered up the stairs, his ears ringing, the salty taste of blood mingled with sweat in his swollen mouth. The acrid taste of beer came up his throat and lodged there. He was conscious of the crowd and the musky smell of sweaty bodies intoxicated with booze and cheap perfume. He heard Benny Goodman’s music. The stairs swayed, he felt like retching and his feet felt like lead. But he could think of nothing else but his desire to be treated with respect.

He reached the landing and looked into the sympathetic face of the big MP.

“Hey, buddy, don’t make me do this,” he said. “Give up. It’s no use. Why make it hard on yourself?”

George grabbed the MP’s uniform front and spat in his face. Then he yelled, “Kiss my yellow ass!”

He saw the big MP’s look of surprise and heard a roar of anger from the stocky MP before he was pitched back into oblivion. All he could think of in that split second was his father would be proud of him for standing up to the
haoles
.

George woke with a vigorous shake on the shoulder. He groaned, opened his eyes and was instantly alert when he caught sight of his surroundings. He had never been in the brig but he knew he was in it now. He already felt claustrophobic. His cell was so small he could hardly move around. The loud din of complaining men made him wonder how he had slept through getting there.

He heard a shuffle and looked toward the door made of crossing metal. He saw a shore policeman. Keys jangled in his hand. “Hey, buddy,” the SP said. “You’ve been bailed out.”

“What?” George tried to shake the heaviness from his head.

“Your buddies got you out.” The door creaked as it opened.

“What buddies?” George attempted to sit up. His head spun and he fell back against the rough blanket on the cot.

The SP shrugged. “Some guys in your crew.”

George pressed his hands to the side of his head. “Why am I here?”

 “Boy, you must have been really drunk if you don’t know.” The SP held out his hand and ticked off his offenses one finger at a time. “Disorderly conduct, assault and battery.”

George managed this time to sit up. “Who did I supposedly beat up?”

“Way I hear it, an MP. Apparently, there were a lot of witnesses.”

“And you guys believed them?”

“No one else saw different.” The SP raised his eyebrows. “No one, that is, except your buddy. But it was him against all of them.”

“That’s a lie. It’s because I’m Oriental.”

The SP shifted his feet. “Well, you can thank you shipmates. Your buddy from Hawaii told your shipmates what happened, and they pressured the captain to help you. The charges have been dropped. Now are you gonna sit there all day or are you coming?”

George stood. He hated those lying
haoles
who accepted his blood but not his company in a war that had nothing to do with him. He discounted the gesture of his
haole
shipmates who got him out. It was guilt money. He didn’t owe them anything.

Honolulu: January, 1945

Sitting on the warm sand, Sean watched the waves break on the reef before rolling gently down to lap the sandy shore. The sun felt good on his bare skin. He could almost forget the pain in his leg and the ugly, raised scars across his body. The doctors said he’d always walk with a slight limp.

It was a small price to pay to return home alive.

When he returned to the islands he bought a modest white clapboard cottage on Kahala beach. After settling in, he returned to the little gift shop to find Mary. He’d thought about her often during his convalescence in the hospital. Wondered why she never wrote back. During his half-asleep moments, he envisioned every gesture, every curve, the velvet softness of her skin, and her dark eyes infused with desire. Her fierce passion had surprised and aroused him. He wanted to see her again, but she was no longer at the shop and now he couldn’t find her.

Every morning, and sometimes in the afternoon, he swam in the ocean. The water healed and comforted him. It was ironic that he’d become a hero after he gave up his personal ambitions. Three months after he moved into his beach cottage, he found his spontaneous act of courage not only brought him a medal, it brought him what he wanted most in life.

It happened soon after he moved in. He was sitting on the beach just before sunset watching the surfers beyond the reef when Meg’s voice, soft as the morning drizzle, broke the silence. “I was drunk the last time I saw you. Please forgive me.”

He looked up. Meg stood next to him, a faint blush on her porcelain skin. He rose on his elbows as she kneeled on the sand facing him. Her fingers touched his lips. “Don’t say anything. I know I was quite dreadful.”

“Meg.” Not wanting to break the spell, he didn’t move.

She smiled and brushed blond tendrils from his forehead. Her touch electrified him. Taking her frail hand in his, he pressed it to his lips.

“I’d love to see your home,” she said.

They rose together; she slipped her hand into his.

His wounded leg faltered in the sand.

Her eyes went to his leg. “You’re wounded.”

“That’s why I’m home.”

That evening they lay together under the cool sheets, listening to the faint roar of the ocean and the insistent crickets. Sean stroked the curve of her waist and hip. Goose pimples rose on her satiny skin. He buried his lips in her soft, blond hair. “You’re incredible.”

Tears shone in her eyes. “It’s wonderful to feel alive again.”

“I’ve always loved you.”

Sean felt Meg’s body stiffen. Then she relaxed, her fingers tracing the bridge of his nose and eyebrows. “Don’t talk about love. There's only today, nothing else.”

“I want all of your tomorrows. If I could have yesterday, I would take them too.”

Meg stroked his cheek. “We have today. And today is all we need.”

Sean wrapped his arms around her tightly, not wanting the moment to ever end.

Mary pushed Jackie in a stroller on the sidewalk along Hotel Street in downtown Honolulu. She was trying to fit in as many errands as she could in two hours. It seemed like her life was always busy these days.

A newspaper boy shoved a paper in front of her. “Want to see how the war is doing?’

On the front page, Sean’s face smiled back at her. She decided to spend the five cents she couldn’t afford to buy the newspaper. She read it as she walked back to her apartment.

After two years, Sean was back in Honolulu, it said. Holding the paper tight against her breast, she blinked back tears. She wanted to find him and tell him he had a daughter. Would he take responsibility? Should she demand help? Mary knelt in front of Jackie and held his picture next to her. Jackie smiled his smile and grabbed her finger. Mary kissed her cheek. She couldn’t do it. She was alone when she gave birth and would raise her daughter alone. Sean would never know he had a
hapa
haole
daughter. Besides, she doubted it would matter to him. The time they’d had was, to him, just a soldier’s last night.

Sighing, she cut his picture out of the paper and put it away.

The whorehouse on Hotel Street was packed. Downstairs, Joe’s bar was doing brisk business due to a new ship was in town. In the basement Mary held her baby close to her breast, rocking her gently to sleep. Although she couldn’t seem to get used to the noise it surely didn’t bother Jackie who always slept through the racket. Mary placed her daughter down on the bed they shared and tucked the blanket around her.

Picking up a basket full of soiled laundry, Mary walked up the short flight of stairs to the laundry. The work wasn’t so bad. The prostitutes were kind and gave her baby gifts. Some of them chipped in for the new stroller that crowded her dark room. Where else could she live with a decent salary and still keep her baby with her at all times? Besides, anyone of Japanese descent was barred from all the good government and utility company jobs for “security reasons.” At least here no one looked down their noses at her.

Still, she was ashamed.

As she scrubbed clothes on the laundry board, then hung it to dry, the noise from the second floor suddenly became unusually loud. She looked up at the stairway above her. It sounded like fighting. Whistles blew. Two half-dressed men tumbled down the stairs, jumped up and ran. She paid no attention, continued to collect the dry laundry before looking around. Seeing no one, she started back down the stairs. Just then, a wild-eyed youth bolted down the stairs and looked around the alley. Seeing her, he yelped, "I know you!”

Mary stared at him for a second before it clicked. “You’re a Han, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” His eyes darted around. “Mark Han.”

“Come down here,” she said with a motion. “You’ll be okay.”

Mark dove down the stairs after her. She put a finger to her lips and pointed to the laundry basket. Mark sat down on the last stair and mopped his brow, looking at her uncertainly.

Mary smiled. “You can talk as long as you don’t get too loud.”

Mark leaned back against the stair behind him. “It’s my first time here. I came with a friend. We just wanted to check it out. You live down here?”

She lit a gas lamp, sat down, and began folding the laundry. “Being underground has its benefits. I never have problems with blackouts.” Jackie murmured. Mary walked over to her and gently rubbed her back. When Jackie quieted down, Mary returned to her seat.

Mark’s eyes were on Jackie.

“She’s mine. I’m not married,” Mary said.

“None of my business.” He rubbed his hands together. “You’re from Kohala.”

“I know your brother, George. He was two years ahead of me in school. I saw him the day before he went overseas. Is he doing all right?” Ashamed of her Hotel Street address, she hadn’t written the letters she’d promised him.

Mark shrugged. “He's still in Cali. We only hear from him when he’s broke.”

“What happened up there?” Mary continued folding laundry.

“Some GI went into a room and got the surprise of his life.” Mark paused and shook his head. “The whore he paid for was his kid sister. He started beating her up, she’s screams, and the bouncers rush in with the madam. His buddies jumped in. Noses get broken, teeth knocked out, and the MPs show up.”

Mary wondered who the unfortunate girl was. It could have been Gloria, the alcoholic, sad-eyed Candy, Myra whose husband had forced her into prostitution to support him, or Lily, whose father raped her at eleven. It could have been any one of them.

“I wonder who it was. How awful she must feel,” she said.

“It’s quiet now.” He got up. “Gotta go.” He dug into his pocket and removed some crumpled bills. “I got lucky gambling tonight. Take this for the baby.” He handed her the money.

Mary saw a twenty and two fives. “You don’t have to do that.”

Mark shook his head and tossed the money on the table. “Bail would have cost me more than that. If you give money to a baby, its good luck to the giver.” He grinned and bounded up the stairs. “See you,” he called back.

As Mary watched him go she realized what she feared the most, being seen by someone from the past,  just happened. She was grateful to Mark for not making a big deal out of it.

Kazuko watched the army jeep turn down the rutted country road heading toward her farmhouse. The vehicle stopped and a soldier in uniform jumped out of the car bearing a telegram and a shiny medal in his hand. The soldier tried to gesture and talk to her but she couldn’t speak or read English. Finally, he saluted her after placing the telegram and medal in her hands.

Kazuko sat cross-legged on a
zabuton
, chain-smoking and staring stone-faced out the window all day. The telegram sat unopened, along with the bronze medal, on her lap. Once in a while, she rubbed the medal between her fingers. Her silence filled the house.

By the time she allowed her daughter Haruko to translate the contents of the telegram, the moon was a pale crescent slung low in the gray blue sky. Haruko was overcome with tears as she read. Jiro and the others stepped into the room and stood stoically around their mother, their heads bowed.

After Haruko finished reading the missal, Kazuko rose from her near-stupor and walked through the banana patch behind their farmhouse, then climbed up the hill overlooking the property. By the time she reached the top of the hill, she was panting.

She tore at her hair pinned in a bun at the nape of her neck. Thin, gray and black strands fell in tangled heaps about her face and shoulders as pins flew everywhere. She beat her breasts and pulled at the apron hanging loosely around her waist. Screaming like a wild animal, she beat the ground until she bruised her fists.

“What more do you want from me?” she yelled to
kami-sama
.

After her tears dried, she composed herself as best she could, put on her
samurai
mask, and shuffled down to her family. “We must prepare for Takeo’s homecoming. His ashes will rest with Father’s.”

Mary folded the laundry on her bed while keeping an eye on Jackie as she crawled around the tiny room. She was a beautiful baby with dark brown curls and sparkling black eyes. Mary thanked God for her.

There was a knock on the door.

Louise, the Portuguese cook, peeked in. “Mary, there’s some guy here to see you.”

Mary rarely had visitors. But during the last two months, Mark had become a frequent guest, bringing toys for Jackie, a pound of rice, butter, and a silly gift for her. She smiled at the memory of the red and gold scarf painted with hula girls and palm trees.

“Mary?”

“Be right there, Louise.” She scooped Jackie into her arms and walked up the stairs.

A scrawny Chinese man in his thirties stared at her through thick glasses. “Miss Matsubara?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Cyrus Chang, attorney-at-law. I was retained by your brother Takeo before he left for Europe.” He drew a card from his pocket and gave it to her.

Mary took the card and slipped it into her apron pocket without looking at it. “The last time I heard from my brother he was in Guadalcanal complaining the Japanese officers he interviewed were calling him a traitor to Japan.” She smiled at the memory.

The lawyer stared at Jackie’s brown hair and fair skin. Mary clutched her daughter closer to her.

“He died in Guadalcanal,” the attorney finally said.

Mary stepped back and almost fell.

Louise, who had been listening just outside the door, stepped in and snapped at the lawyer. “Whassamatta you?” Taking Jackie from Mary, she said, “Let me take the baby. You two betta talk.” Louise stared daggers at the lawyer as she left the room.

“I’m sorry,” Cyrus apologized. “I’m not good at this.”

Mary stared at him. Tears sprung to her eyes.

“Your brother left a letter and made you the beneficiary of an insurance policy in case anything should happen to him.” Cyrus drew an envelope from the briefcase he carried and handed it to Mary. “He died a hero.”

Mary tore the envelope open. Takeo had saved a hundred dollars and wanted her to have it along with a five hundred dollar insurance policy. Her tears stained the papers. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Chang.”

She walked out of the room remembering her brother’s last words to her. “You have to learn to make life work for you, not against you.”

Right then and there, to honor Takeo, she needed to honor her life as a gift not to be squandered.

When Mark Han asked her to marry him she was grateful and relieved, but not surprised. She had known for some time now he loved her. And he was good to Jackie.

However, it bothered her Mark was unemployed. The war had ended for him while walking in the Pearl Harbor shipyard. A piece of concrete flew into his head and shattered a portion of his skull. It took the Tripler Army Hospital surgeons hours to pick the pieces of bone out of his head. Because of the war there was a metal shortage and the doctors were unable to put a metal cap where his skull should have been. As a result, Mark was discharged from the Navy and now made a good living as a pool shark, a hustler, and a numbers man running cockfights in Waiminalo on Sundays. But it was illegal money. She wasn’t sure she could stand being married to someone who lived that kind of life.

Money wasn’t everything. It couldn’t buy honor.

She knew being kamikaze, she was lucky to find a husband. Besides, Mark was a good man, she reasoned. She wondered if her mother would ever get beyond his being
Yobo
.

Mark loved her.  He promised to get a real job.

Mary found the music box the night before her wedding as she packed her belongings at the whore house. Winding it up, she listened to the haunting melody. As the figures swirled around on the miniature dance floor, she closed her eyes and was transported to the magical night when passion was all that existed. Would she ever again feel like nothing else mattered except two people drowning in a sea of desire?

Sleeping in her narrow bed for the last time, she could still hear the melody. Jackie purred in her sleep. Mary turned on her side and stared at the moon glimmering amidst the stars outside her window.

The next day, on October 12, 1945, Mark and Mary were married at Kapahulu Methodist Church, a tiny white chapel in the midst of neat little bungalows on postage stamp lots surrounded by plumeria and mango trees, as well as tiare gardenia bushes. Mary chose the church because she’d always hoped to marry in a Christian church. It made her feel more American. Mark's family didn't mind because they didn't follow Buddhist traditions. And in any case, during the war anything that hinted of Japan became unpopular.

Mary wore a pillbox hat with netting over her eyes, an eggshell linen suit with padded shoulders, and a scalloped edged skirt. A white orchid corsage was pinned to her breast. Her hands shook as she removed her white gloves so Mark could slide the ring on her finger. Mark’s sister held Jackie. His parents, other sisters, and closest friends were also there.

George didn't show up.

On Mary’s side, only Louise, and one of her sisters, Haruko, or Helen as she was now called, attended.

Mark squeezed her hand as the preacher said, “Do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?”

Mary never envisioned getting married in an empty church. Where were all the people and the wedding gown with the train and veil she dreamed of?

Like everything else so far in her life, her dreams were nothing but fairytales. Her eyes misted over and she whispered, “I do.”