The Ohana (4 page)

Perhaps he had gotten a bit too smug. Maybe that was why God loosed Jeff White on him. Jeff’s wife, Lucille, was a distant relative of the Ritchies who fluttered about in a perpetual state of anxiety. Her husband, on the other hand, was the kind of man who couldn’t look you in the eye. In Patrick’s experience, a man who did that was hiding something.

“The Irish are fey,” his mammy used to say. “Trust what you feel, not what you see. And always remember, son. Eyes are the window of a man’s soul.”

Patrick caught a glimpse of Jeff White’s soul when his gleaming eyes surveyed the plantation manager’s home. A cold hand was placed on Patrick’s heart. But what could he do? Jeff’s wife was a Ritchie, no matter how far removed, and the only available position suitable for her unskilled, uneducated husband was head
luna
.

Jeff’s arrival changed the atmosphere around the plantation. Now when Patrick rode through the fields on his beautiful chestnut gelding, once friendly field workers averted their eyes. He wasn’t surprised when he came upon Jeff beating a sick field hand while dragging him from his cot into the fields. He sent a letter of complaint to the Ritchies. There was no answer.

Patrick began patrolling the fields which once rang with the sound of men talking, laughing, joking, and even singing. He knew many of the old-timers by name and they often greeted him, calling him “boss-man.” Now an uneasy silence shrouded the fields.

One hot afternoon six months after Jeff’s arrival, while roaming the plantation on his gelding, Patrick decided to cool off his horse in a nearby stream. Unexpectedly, he saw Jeff hiding in the bushes watching some of the camp children as they swam in the water. Patrick knew the camp children had no inhibitions about nudity and often swam without clothes. He heard families sometimes even bathed together. To Patrick’s disgust, he caught Jeff pleasuring himself.

“What vile thing is it you’re doing?” Patrick snarled.

Jeff jumped, his pants gaped open, showing his disgrace.

“Cover yourself and don’t ever let me catch you doing this again.”

Holding the front of his pants together with one hand, Jeff stumbled off.

Patrick wrote another letter that was ignored.

Ichiro Yamamoto came to Chaul Roong’s home at eight o’clock one hot summer night, “My daughter Tomiko has not yet returned from school. Please excuse, but I have looked for her everywhere and must humbly ask for help.”

Chaul Roong's hatred of the Japanese abated a little out of necessity. He couldn't afford to despise the people he worked with. Besides, all the field workers not only shared the same dream, they shared the same job and the same miserable plantation life.  Because he spoke Japanese as well as Korean and had picked up a working knowledge of English as well as a smattering of several Filipino dialects, the work camps looked to him as a leader and turned to him for help. He organized a search party for the Yamamoto girl. The volunteers spread out through miles of closely planted cane ten feet high. She was only ten years old—she could be anywhere.

As the news spread throughout the camps, people came together to search the cane fields, the camps, and the wooded areas behind the cabins where some of the men kept their pigs penned.

At eleven that night, Chaul Roong, accompanied by soft-spoken Tetsuo Matsubara, found Tomiko. She was like a broken, bleeding doll with glazed eyes and limbs askew. His eyes filled with tears as he attempted to cover her nakedness. He took the plaid, long-sleeved shirt he wore over a white T-shirt and covered her.

Tetsuo dropped his chin and averted his face until the girl was covered. Then he knelt beside Chaul Roong, his eyes fraught with pain, unusual in Japanese men who considered showing their emotions shameful. Tetsuo blinked back tears as he gently encircled the girl's wrist and felt for her pulse. Something was clenched in her fist, he pried it out of her hands.

The two men stared at each other. Chaul Roong trembled as he took the scarf from Tetsuo. They both recognized the torn, bloodied blue and yellow checkered scarf.
Luna
White had one just like it.

"Say nothing," Chaul Roong warned. "Bad things could happen. I must talk to the boss."

Tetsuo nodded. "Put her on my back. I'll take her to her family."

Chaul Roong wordlessly handed over the bloodied scarf to Patrick. When Patrick finally looked up, he said, “Tell me.”

Briefly, Chaul Roong told him about Tomiko. Patrick slumped against the door. For a moment Chaul felt pity; Patrick O’Malley was a good man.

“Many women work maid, this thing happen. No like lose job, everybody be quiet, no say nothing. This different,” Han shook his head. “I think you make this
haole
go or plenty trouble.”

“The sheriff,” Patrick began.

Chaul Roong cut him off and spat out, “You think they believe one
haole
or one Japanese like Yamamoto san? You keep him here one more night, he die, for sure. Maybe no good I tell you, but I no like trouble here. The men think you tell sheriff, maybe he believe you. But I no think so. I think this no good
haole
going get away with it. Get him off this island,” Chaul Roong sliced the air with his hand. “We be
pau
with him for good.”

Chaul Roong knew he was right. The big bosses in Honolulu wouldn’t let
luna
White be disgraced. The Yamamoto’s daughter’s life was ruined. Everyone hated
luna
White, it was possible someone would take matters into their own hands. The
haole
owners would get mad and take it out on everyone in Kohala.

“Han, you go to
Luna
White’s house, tell him boss man said come now.”

Han moved back a step and shook his head.

Patrick put his hand on Han’s narrow shoulder. “Please.”

Han knew it took a lot for Patrick to say please the way he did. In fact, it was unheard of for a
haole
to do anything but order their Asian employees around. Han shrugged. Patrick was a different kind of
haole
. It was the least he could do to help him. “Okay, I go call.”

Jeff reeked of whiskey when he opened his door to Chaul Roong. Jeff peered into the inky darkness behind him with a baseball bat in his hand, his guilt on full display. There would be no reason for him to be defensive if he hadn’t done anything.

Chaul Roong did the basics. He stood directly in front of his attacker and moved his body constantly forward and backward, to the left and the right. Knowing evasion was superior to blocking, he shifted in the way of the warrior. “Big Boss say you come now to big house.”

Jeff’s eye twitched when he attempted to laugh. Suddenly, a timid voice behind him asked, “What do you suppose Mr. O’Malley wants at this late hour?”

Jeff swung around and swore at his wife.

Lucille stepped backwards and her head slunk between her hunched shoulders.

“Shut up!” The tendons in Jeff’s neck stood out in sharply as he began babbling drunkenly. “It’s your fault everything happened. You and your fat, ugly body disgust me.”

Lucille’s mouth went slack, and her eyes widened as she curled over with her hands shielding her belly. “Hit me in the face, but please don’t hurt the baby.”

Jeff raised his fist. Lucille dropped to her knees on the floor.

Chaul Roong grabbed Jeff’s arm. “Boss man says now.”

Jeff shouted. “Let me go, you dirty chink.”

He let him go. Jeff swung the bat wildly at him but Chaul Roong avoided the hard wood. Breathing hard with spittle drooling down his mouth, Jeff screamed, “Stand still!”

Chaul Roong almost laughed as he deftly knocked the bat out of Jeff's hands.

Enraged, Jeff charged with his head down, plowing into a side table. He moaned as Chaul Roong danced away. Jeff’s face turned purple and he charged again. With a swift kick to Jeff’s face, Chaul Roong sent him sprawling on the floor.

As Chaul Roong turned to help Lucille up from the floor, he felt energy bearing down on him from behind. With a smooth backward kick, he knocked Jeff down again. Jeff doubled over, clutching his belly. Chaul Roong stared down at him. “Okay, now we go.”

Patrick’s thick, black eyebrows lowered over his slate blue eyes as Jeff and Chaul Roong walked in the door. He stroked his jutting, lantern jaw. One look at Jeff’s panicked face told Patrick everything he needed to know. “You be knowing why you’re here, I’m sure.”

Jeff shifted from foot to foot and his eyes darted around the room before landing on Patrick’s desktop where the bloodied scarf found on Tomiko lay in a crumpled heap. Jeff’s hand flew to his throat. But just as quickly, he moved his hand to his ear, as if to scratch it.

“I don’t know why I’m here.” Jeff’s mouth twitched and his hands shook.

Patrick held up the bloodied scarf. “The little girl was holding onto this.”

Jeff stepped back. “She’s just a stinking Jap, no better than a nigger!”

Patrick narrowed his eyes. “Sure and it’s the likes of you who make me sick. But because I pity your poor little wife, I’ll be giving you until dawn to pack up and leave. If not for her, I’d be kicking you out now myself.”

“You can’t do that!” Jeff protested. “You didn’t hire me, you can’t fire me. The Ritchies are my wife’s cousins.”

“And what of them?” Patrick roared. “They be living lives more bound by rules than the likes of you and me. They won’t be taking kindly to what happened here. Especially since what you did could affect performance and production. We could have open rebellion on our hands.”

Jeff’s fingers fumbled with the back of the chair as he leaned heavily against it. “What am I to do?”

“Go away. Leave my island. Better yet, leave the islands and go back to where you came from. We don’t need your kind.”

Jeff’s face turned red. “You can’t drive me away.”

Patrick leaned over the desk, his knuckles down. “And if it’s not leaving you are, it’s for sure they will kill you. Mark my words.”

Sweat beaded Jeff’s upper lip and brow.

“If you think the men here will be forgetting, you be wrong. They’ll wait. When the time seems good, they’ll kill you just as surely as the sun goes down every evening.” The look of fear he got brought a dark smile to the Irishman’s face. “To my way of thinking, it wouldn’t be any great loss.”

“Then why tell me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. If it were just you, I would say, do what you will with him. I’m helping you because of your sweet wife and unborn babe. But maybe they would be better off without the likes of you. Make your decision fast, before I change my mind. I be thinking I’m crazy to show you any mercy at all. If you be stubborn, I’ll go to your cousins and the sheriff with this.” Patrick pointed to the bloodied scarf. “Make up your mind now.”

Jeff was silent.

Patrick knew he was trying to figure out what to do. “If you be thinking of leaving and telling tales of Kohala,” He paused to lean over and grab the bloodied scarf. “I’ll be holding on to this filthy keepsake. All of Kohala will testify who owns this.” Patrick shook the scarf. “So you best leave now while I be the only one knowing the truth among the
haoles
. It’s a dirty matter; I want none of it. But if you force my hand…”

Jeff shuddered. “So, you’ve won.”

“I haven’t won anything. But you have surely lost.”

Patrick rode the fields on his chestnut gelding, idly flicking the flies from his horse while he watched great black clouds of smoke swirl into the crisp sky. The men were burning cane and the smell made his horse skittish.

He needed a new head
luna
. The applicants were discouraging. There was a German whose grim visage matched his reputation as a hard taskmaster. Then there was a Scotsman who looked down his nose at him. The last applicant, an American, had a reputation with the ladies that made Patrick uneasy. Frankly, he was tired of head
luna
s whose main qualification was their color.

His mind began picking out individuals in the field. Maruyama. Takahashi. Dela Cruz. Han. He knew only a few of them by their surnames as their names were difficult to remember.

What about Han? God bless the Virgin Mary, why not?
The man’s timetables were always neat, precise, and accurate. There were no complaints about him; he was a fair and loyal worker. Better yet, he spoke Japanese, Korean, a little Filipino and Chinese.