Bomb (9780547537641) (6 page)

But Abram insisted on a loincloth. He said he'd been wearing foreigner clothes all the time he was away. He laughed. "My privates should be comfortable, day and night."

Then he scanned the tops of the nearby palms, eyes alight, and said, "There is not a single coconut left on Eniwetok. The bombs and shells blew them off. I haven't climbed a tree or had a drink of the water in years."

Sorry watched as Abram dropped his trousers and sprinted to a swayback palm—the easiest to climb—and went up, shouting over his shoulder, "My feet have grown soft!"

Twisting a nut off, he dropped it to the sand, then backed down, making fun of his soft soles. "The first thing I have to do is make them tough again," he shouted. Soft feet always had trouble with palm bark and coral.

All over the groves, sharpened hardwood sticks stood upright in the sand. A coconut was peeled by shoving its husk down on the stick, then twisting to pry off the outer shell. Abram did this, then punched an eye out of the nut and drank deeply. The juice ran down his chin and throat.

There was a feast that night, to celebrate the safe homecoming of Abram Makaoliej. He was clad in his new loincloth. The women giggled when he swooped in front of them playfully, flirting with them, laughing. Tara Malolo watched him with amusement. He played white men's songs on his guitar. He could speak English.

Sorry couldn't take his eyes off the stranger. He'd actually been to
ailīnkan,
he'd been there! There was a large, ragged scar on Abram's right side, starting above the ribs and going down to his stomach. In time, Sorry would ask him how he got it.

Everyone ate and sang and danced most of the torch-lit night. Feet stomped steadily on coral sand to the clicking of hardwood sticks and Abram's slap of cupped hands on his bare chest and thighs. His grin was like a torch, Sorry thought. Following tradition, the men danced with men, the women with women.

Abram Makaoliej was home at last.

 

At Trinity Flats, New Mexico, a place Spanish conquistadores had called
Jornada del Muerto,
the Journey of Death, the first full-scale test of an atomic bomb was conducted at 5:30
A.M.
, July 16, 1945. Witnesses were speechless at the force and size of the explosion. Acres of the alkali sands were melted into glass.

Abram slept late on his mat, weary from his long voyage and the celebrating. When he awakened and ran down to the beach, diving into the lagoon, Sorry followed him to the water's edge.

Naked as an eel, laughing, Abram kicked and bobbed up and down, shaking sparkling droplets from his head. He'd forgotten that only girls and women could bathe in the lagoon; men had to bathe on the ocean side, in barrier-reef pools. The missionaries had seen to that. Sorry was hesitant to remind him. Perhaps someone else would.

When Abram finally stood up in the shallow water, he made a joke. "The water feels the same."

How did it feel fifteen years ago? Sorry was almost afraid to talk to Abram, show his ignorance. He had nothing to talk about. Compared to Abram and Tara, Sorry believed, he knew absolutely nothing.

Abram nodded up toward the village. "Same, same," he said.

In the midmorning shade of the palms, the women were going about their usual work of preparing food, weaving mats, sweeping around the dwellings. They took care of the coral pebble paths and street. Some of the men were out on the lagoon trolling for yellowfin tuna or wahoo: meals for tomorrow. Sorry would join them in the afternoon.

Other men were repairing nets or working on the outriggers in the canoe shed. The islanders were seldom idle, except at midday and on Sundays.

"Same, same," Abram said again, nodding. "I think we hunt for a shark tomorrow."

Sorry couldn't believe what he'd just heard. Home less than two days, Abram wasn't satisfied with lagoon fishing.

"All right," Sorry said, already excited. "I know where a big mako lives."

"The one I have in mind is bigger," Abram said. "Meanwhile, I want to walk around the island by myself. I have many memories."

Sorry nodded, and off went Abram and his memories.

He watched as his uncle stopped by the nearest fire pit, one belonging to the Ijjirik clan, and dug around in the hot coral stones with a stick. Abram pulled up baked taro.

Then he walked slowly north, eating, deep in thought. He was a little bowlegged, Sorry saw. The muscles bulged in his legs and buttocks, visible on either side of the loincloth. His uncle Abram must have worked very hard on those merchant ships.

Yes, Abram could easily have killed all of those Japanese soldiers, easily strangled them, Sorry thought.

***

Back at the family dwelling, two hundred-odd feet up the beach slope and across the street, Sorry said, "We're going shark fishing in the morning."

"Who is 'we'?" his mother asked.

She was plaiting a mat with a needle, the long wing bone of a tattler—all needles were made from bird bones. The young pandanus leaves were dried near the cooking fire, then plaited. He'd seen her plaiting hundreds of times, usually sitting with other women in one or another of the houses. Sometimes they sang hymns. Tara and his near-silent grandmother were there now, plaiting, too.

"Uncle Abram and myself."

"Let him go alone," his mother advised.

Yolo nodded her head. Tara studied Sorry's mother.

Alarmed, Sorry protested. "No, no..."

"Did he tell you why he's going shark fishing so soon?"

Sorry shook his head.

Mother Rinamu stopped making the mat. "About fifteen years ago Abram was fishing off the Rojkora barrier reef and speared a tiger shark. Somehow, Abram got the harpoon line around his ankle and was dragged overboard. The shark took him toward the bottom. If he'd lost his knife he wouldn't be here today. He cut the line, and then the shark came back on him, jaws open. That scar that he has on his right side was put there by the tiger. Abram almost died. He said he'd get that shark someday."

"He's been waiting all this time?"

"I think so. That's Abram."

"And he thinks the tiger is still there?" Perhaps fate had brought Uncle Abram home? Perhaps he could avenge the death of Badina Rinamu?

His mother shrugged and laughed. "Maybe it is. Abram will find out."

"I will go with him," Sorry said.

His mother nodded. "I guess you'll be safe with any man who can sail here from Eniwetok by himself."

Tara smiled, nodding, too. "Probably," she said.

Sorry had gone fishing thousands of times. Hand line, trolling, spearing, netting—starting when he could barely walk. But nobody fished for the tiger. They attacked canoes. Yet Uncle Abram wasn't afraid.

***

This week, Tara was again staying with the Rinamu family.

Sorry said, "I saw you looking at my uncle last night."

"I think everyone looked at him."

"But you looked at him in a special way ..."

She just laughed and shook her head.

"You did!"

"He's a handsome man and has a wonderful smile."

Her own smile said as much as her words.

 

In July 1945, the cruiser USS
Indianapolis
sailed from San Francisco, carrying elements of an atomic bomb named Little Boy. She delivered her top-secret cargo to the island of Tinian, in the Marianas group, a long-range bomber base.

Sorry and Abram pulled the Eniwetok outrigger from the canoe shed and slid it down to the water, setting sail to go south past Bokantuak and Eomalan, then around Rojkora, leaving the lagoon to head along the barrier reef and look for the tiger over the steep underwater cliff that dropped almost straight into dark ocean depths.

The wind was light but steady a few minutes past sunrise, and the double-end canoe, under the lateen sail, cut a path through the water. Abram sharpened the steel harpoon head with a stone as they glided along. The
zisst, zisst, zisst
made a pleasing sound, adding to the song of the water and the low hum of the wind on the sail.

"Mother told me about the tiger shark."

Abram lifted his eyes from the gleaming tip of Sorry's father's favorite harpoon. "Someone might have sent him to fish heaven by now. But I doubt it. Not that one. Tigers are as bad as the great white shark of colder water. Both are killers."

Sorry nodded. Jonjen had seen a tiger slice a man in half off Lokwor. "How big was he when he bit you?"

"Seven feet, perhaps. A young one," Abram said thoughtfully. Then he added, with a laugh, "He wouldn't let me measure him."

"If he's alive, how big is he now?"

"Eleven or twelve feet, I'd guess. Maybe more."

Sorry had seen them seven or eight feet long. The young ones had dark stripes, but as they became older the stripes faded to a mottled gray. Their bellies were stark white. Their noses were not as sharp as the makos', and their mouths stretched from one side of their blunt heads to the other. They had spike teeth. Just the sight of them sent a hot stab of fear into swimmers or men in outriggers.

"Do they stay near home?"

"I think they do," Abram said. "Why?"

"I've always believed a tiger killed my father. There was no trace of him along the reef."

"That's the mark of a tiger, all right."

Sorry was thoughtful for a moment. "And if you spear the same one again?"

Abram chuckled. "I won't let the line get around my feet, you may be sure. I won't make that mistake twice. And I want you to stay in the stern, feet up, if I do hit him."

The line was coiled at the bow. It was strong, new line taken from the Japanese barracks.

"I hope we find him," Sorry said.

Abram nodded and ran a thumb over the harpoon head, testing its sharpness. A razor-thin line of blood came up. It was ready.

"Uncle Abram, have you killed any men in the war?"

"Me? No. I've only been on merchant ships, not fighting ships. We had guns to fire at submarines. They were manned by gun crews."

"Did submarines shoot at you?"

"Yes, at two ships that I was on."

"Did they hit you?"

"One did, with torpedoes."

"Were men killed?"

"Yes, most of our crew. Twenty-two of them. I was lucky, Sorry." Abram seemed to want to end the conversation, but he continued. "War is a terrible thing, and one of the reasons I left my last ship in Eniwetok is that I didn't want to be in war anymore. I was sick of it. What I did is wrong, but I did it anyway. I thought about how much time I might have on earth, then I decided to leave." His face was cloudy.

After a few minutes of silence, broken only by the swish of the canoe through the water, the sigh of the sail, and the slight groan of the boom yoke, Sorry asked a question that had been on his mind for a long time. "What's the other world like?"

Abram looked out across the sparkling sea for a while, then said, "It's good and bad, Sorry. I saw the big cities but didn't like them. Too many people pushing and shoving, rushing around. Too much noise. Cities are dirty. They smell of automobiles and factories. You wouldn't like them."

"What are factories?" Sorry asked.

"Big buildings with smokestacks where people make things."

Sorry had seen the pictures in the Japanese magazine. "But I have to go out there someday, Uncle Abram. To the other world."

"Yes, you should," he agreed. "But then you'll come back here, as I have. Now I'll live my life away on this island. Die here, be buried here. I've seen other islands, in waters they call the Caribbean and Indian Oceans. None are as beautiful as this one..."

"You mean that?"

"I do. I've seen all I want of the other world. The people are greedy. They work too hard doing stupid things. They hurt each other. They do not share. Their comb is their comb. They would never think of sharing their comb. Their hat is their hat. They would never think of sharing their hat."

That was difficult to understand. If Sorry found a beautiful shell and Lokileni admired it, he would give it to her instantly.

Sorry said, "The American navy men share." By seaplane and ship they'd come back a dozen times, with clothing, food, and candy. They traded cigarettes for pandanus mats and baskets and shell necklaces. They sent a dentist, to pull teeth, and an eye doctor, they brought books in Marshallese. They brought medical supplies.

Abram said, "They should. They control all the atolls now and may never give them back. Their flag may always fly over Bikini."

"You don't like them?"

Uncle Abram shrugged. "We must be careful. The Germans and the Japanese didn't do us any favors. The Americans can give us candy and cigarettes but take away the land. Juda must tell them we can't be bought."

Sorry had never heard anyone talk the confident way his uncle did, but Abram had spent a lot of time in the
ailīnkan
and was a self-educated man, wise like Jonjen. He knew things. The island was lucky to have Uncle Abram, Tara Malolo, and Jonjen.

***

As soon as they reached the deep waters of the Rojkora barrier reef, Abram positioned himself in the bow, holding the harpoon. Sorry steered with the sweep oar under his right armpit and held a string of coconut shells against the side of the canoe, just above the waterline. The bottom shell rested at the surface of the sea; the others rattled hollowly against the side of the boat. The sounds invited sharks to come up and investigate. How proud he was to be steering and handling the rattles for Abram!

They tacked back and forth. The sea outside the lagoon was almost as calm as the waters inside, with long, smooth, glistening rollers passing under them. The
clunk
of the coconut shells, the slight slap of the sail, and the muffled drum of the rollers as they hit the reef were pleasant sounds.

Abram stared intently down at the blue-green surface.

Sorry watched him, thinking how his life had changed in just two days. Abram had promised to teach him how to speak English as well as write it, play white people's games, play the guitar. Up to yesterday he hadn't quite believed all the stories about Abram Makaoliej. Now he did.