That was exactly what attracted her to it.
Mama laughed and leaned into the memory it reawakened, quietly sneaking out of the house those early mornings while her family slept. It was still dark as the moon lit her way along the same road she’d been walking down since she first married. The sun wouldn’t rise for another hour or more, and Mama loved this time just before dawn when night slowly lightened into day and secrets were revealed. During her early morning foraging, the air was still cool and moist. Mama swung her hips and moved down the road with the same urgent sway of the trees to the incessant music of pomfret, pomfret from the coqui frogs and the steady chorus of cicadas.
Mama loved the freedom of venturing out without the girls, who always wanted to tag along and help her collect what she needed for the leis. For Leia and Noelani, along with little Nori, who was always waiting to join them, it was all fun and games, a scavenger hunt. They gathered mounds of flowers, kukui nuts, and ti leaves before going down to the beach and running into and out of the waves, collecting whatever they thought was pretty, whether Mama could use them for her leis or not—seaweed, stones, pieces of driftwood, fallen leaves, broken pieces of glass.
“Yes, no, no, yes,” Mama said, pointing to their hands filled with their sandy, damp treasures, which were just as quickly discarded.
She smiled at the memory.
Without the girls pulling her in every direction, Mama took her time collecting only the best shells and flowers for stringing her special orders. Even when it rained, the beach was always her first stop. She walked out toward the water and stepped onto the damp, cool sand as the cold rush of waves dashed in and out, erasing her footprints and washing over her bare feet. Mama crouched down and began collecting shells that had been half buried in the wet sand. The sharp ping of the first shells dropping into the pail always brought her such joy. It wasn’t until she walked back up from the water toward the trees that she heard the raised voices.
The words were spit out harsh and angry, making Mama slow down and stop, surprised to recognize Koji Sanada’s voice. She wasn’t sure who the other man was at first, though he sounded familiar.
“You’ll never have them!”
“You abandoned them years ago.”
“They’re still my family!”
“Do you even know what the word ‘family’ means?”
The voices escalated above the waves, roaring and crashing into each other. Mama stayed hidden among the trees, conscious even then that something bad was about to happen. It didn’t take long for her to recognize that the other man’s voice belonged to Franklin Abe.
* * *
Mama opened her eyes when she heard the screen door spring open and clap shut. A clinking of glasses and Leia’s humming led her right back home again. Mama’s gaze wandered back to the monkey pod tree, where she saw Nestor leaning against its thick trunk, a sudden spark of energy making her sit up straight.
She blinked and he was gone.
27
Sugarcane
Daniel hadn’t been to Puli Plantation in years. He drove up the mountain on the paved blacktop, which soon gave way to rutted, dirt roads. He slowed as the truck bounced over the uneven tracks, past dense foliage surrounded by ohi’a, hau, and hala trees, cooler and darker, until he reached the summit and turned onto a wide dirt road bordered by eucalyptus trees that soon opened up to acres and acres of sugarcane fields as far as he could see. It was late afternoon and Daniel hoped Uncle Koji had returned from his last sugar train run and was back at his cottage by now. He felt guilty not having seen his uncle since the community meeting at the market two weeks ago when the lava began pooling. He was chasing after Maile before he even had a chance to say a real hello.
Daniel drove through the gates of Puli Plantation toward a cluster of long wooden buildings less than a quarter mile away—flat-roofed, two-storied structures resembling army barracks arranged in a U shape, a far cry from the small, run-down buildings he visited as a boy. The plantation structures had not only grown in size, but also had expanded in acreage since he’d been away on the mainland. According to the sign, the offices and plantation store were in the building to the left, the school and community center were in the middle building, and the hospital and dispensary were in the building to the right. Daniel was both surprised and delighted to see a hospital and dispensary. At least the cane workers no longer had to be taken all the way down to Hilo whenever there was a medical emergency. He couldn’t imagine the number of accidents, the suffering and deaths caused by the rough two-hour journey by horse and wagon in the past. Koji’s father had lost his hand because of the lack of medical care back then. By the looks of the growing plantation, it was obvious that sugar remained the reigning king on the island. Even amid hard times and the eruption, Puli appeared abuzz with activity, workers still toiling in the fields as the harvest continued in full swing.
Daniel stopped at the plantation store to buy some beer. The new store was larger, but no less crowded with goods and customers as the small store Koji had taken him to when he’d visited as a boy. Twenty years ago. He remembered the day was hot and still. His uncle had given him a tour of the train barn and sugar mill, introduced him to other workers whose leathery, rough hands had swallowed up his own in their handshakes. When he asked to see where Koji lived, his uncle walked him through a cane field instead, rows of tall stalks shadowing him on both sides, taller than grown men were. Uncle Koji had stopped. “Stand back, yeah. Don’t want you to get hurt,” he’d said. He squatted down beside a stalk, grabbed it higher up with one hand and swung his big cane knife with his other, severing the stalk clean through near the ground, dirt and dust rising into the warm air. “That’s how we cut the cane, yeah, all the way down the row. Always pay attention, or you might cut more than you want, eh,” Koji warned, and winked.
Daniel nodded. He could barely hold the knife straight with two hands, and was thrilled to see Koji cut cane, even if he couldn’t imagine working in the hot field all day, sweaty and parched as he already felt in just the short time he stood watching his uncle. Afterward Koji had taken him to the plantation store run by a Chinese couple. “Go ahead, but don’t break the bank, eh,” Koji had teased.
Daniel had been relieved to step into the cool, dark, crowded store, away from the hot and humid heat. The store smelled sweet and vinegary. The counter was cluttered with jars filled with hard candy, licorice, gumballs, and a big jar of what looked like cabbage fermenting in something murky and potent. He wrinkled his nose at the smell. Against one wall were wooden crates with sweet potatoes, Chinese cabbage, turnips, long beans, bananas, and lychee. On the other side were large barrels of rice and flour and sugar, and toward the back of the store stood a big icebox that held soda pop, beer, eggs, and rice balls. Daniel hesitated, walking slowly around the crowded store to the back, where he finally opened the door to the icebox and reached for a grape soda pop.
* * *
Daniel put the bottles of beer he bought on the passenger seat and sat in the truck watching the slow march of the tired, dusty men and women walking along the dirt road back to their villages after work. They carried tin pails and burlap bags, shedding layers of clothes. He wondered how many of them ever left the plantation, which was a world in itself, a map of crisscrossing dirt roads leading from their villages to the fields to these buildings, which provided everything they needed and were all Puli Plantation owned and run. Just over the hill on the far side of the fields, the plantation manager and his family lived in a big, sprawling house, surrounded by smaller houses where all the haole supervisors, lunas, and staff lived, adequately separated by several miles from all the cane workers.
A few years after his first visit, Daniel learned that what little wages the cane workers earned every week was spent at the small plantation store. “Most on the plantation have no choice, yeah, but to sign their lives away,” Uncle Koji said. “Their credit keeps on growing until the owners have the families collared and tied from one ge
neration to the next. Always been like that, yeah.”
“Why?” he had asked.
“They have to feed their families.”
“Why can’t they pay the workers more?”
“Good question,” Uncle Koji huffed, without giving him an answer.
Daniel thought of all the Sundays Koji came down to visit them after his father left, usually to help his mother fix things around the house. His uncle always seemed happiest when they sat down for dinner together. He looked at the home-cooked meal in front of him as if surprised at his good fortune. “Lucky, yeah,” he said to Daniel on more than one occasion. Daniel had simply nodded, not quite understanding what it all meant back then.
“Do you have to sign for credit too?” he had asked.
Uncle Koji shook his head. “Easier for me, yeah,” he’d said. “I don’t have a big family to feed. Most of the families have their own small gardens and grow their own vegetables, taro, beans, sweet potatoes, and carrots to help keep costs down.”
“We’ll take care of you,” Daniel said. It came from him spontaneously, serious and matter-of-fact.
It was the first time ten-year-old Daniel realized that working at Puli, even running the sugar train, was not the charmed life he had imagined it to be. Uncle Koji had turned away from him. Had he said something wrong? They could take care of him; his mother was the best seamstress in town. Lots of the locals wanted his mother to sew and mend their clothing. He stood there, waiting. When his uncle turned back to him, his eyes were watery.
Later, when Daniel was a teenager and no longer wanted to visit Koji at Puli, his mother had reminded him of how generous Koji had been. “If it wasn’t for your uncle, where would we be now?” she asked him. He didn’t know what made him feel worse, that she was disappointed in him, or that he’d so easily forgotten how much Koji had done for them.
* * *
Daniel started the truck and followed the dirt road that led past the train barn and mill up to Uncle Koji’s cottage, perched at the top of the hill. He never did see where his uncle used to live with his family. Daniel pulled into the driveway of the small cottage as the truck’s brakes squeaked to a stop.
28
A Visitor
Koji sat down on his front porch, lit a cigarette, and poured himself a glass of whiskey. A sudden fit of coughing racked through his chest, leaving him helpless but to see it through, eased along with the quick burn of whiskey. He’d just gotten comfortable when the dull crunch of tires along the dirt road made him stop and squint through the screen to see a truck driving up toward his cottage, kicking up a cloud of dust. There were very few visitors who came up to Puli this late in the afternoon, and even fewer who came to see him. Koji wondered if it was one of the Puli managers and stood to get a better look. He didn’t recognize the green truck at first, not until it drove up the slope and he could see OKAWA FISH MARKET in black block letters on the side door just as it turned into his driveway. He was even more surprised to see that it was Daniel driving.
Koji stood by the screen door watching Daniel get out of the truck and was reminded of the first time eight-year-old Daniel had asked him if he could visit the plantation to see where he and Uncle Razor worked. Between watching the sugar train being unloaded at the station and discovering Koji’s cane knife one day in the back of his truck, young Daniel had become fascinated with everything about the sugar plantation. Koji hesitated and cleared his throat, suddenly fearful. He tried to keep his two worlds separate: one was work, the other family. The real truth was a constant thorn pricking at him; he was embarrassed by and unsure of what Daniel would think of him when he saw the crowded, run-down cottage where he lived, the hard, dirty, grueling work he and Razor did in the fields that made up their daily lives.
“It’s not a place for little boys,” Koji had explained.
“Why?” Daniel asked.
“It’s just fields and workers doing hard work with sharp knives, yeah.”
“But it’s where sugar comes from,” he insisted. “I’ll be careful, I will.”
Koji looked to Mariko, who had smiled at him and nodded. If she didn’t mind, how could he? It warmed him to be reminded that she never saw him as just a cane cutter.
* * *
Koji pushed open the screen door and watched Daniel walk toward the house.
“What brings you all the way up here?” he asked. “Everything okay?”
“You bring me all the way here,” Daniel said, lifting the bag in his hand. “Everything’s fine. Everyone’s still waiting for Pele to make up her mind which way she’s going to flow, so I thought it was about time we sat down and had a beer together.”
Koji smiled, happy to see him. “Come in.” He led him through the porch and into the house.
“I see nothing’s changed,” Daniel said, stopping at the doorway and looking around his spare living room.
Mariko and Daniel had visited a few times after he moved to the sugar train cottage in 1919. By then Daniel was twelve and no longer captivated by plantation life. The cottage was still small and spare, but it was all his and meant more than he could say.
“I do have a radio now,” Koji said. “Thought it about time to step into the modern world, eh.”
Daniel laughed and handed him the bag. Koji walked to the kitchen, opened the bottles, and returned.
“Let’s go sit on the porch where it’s cooler,” Koji said, handing him an opened beer. When they settled, he continued, “How’s Maile? I caught a glimpse of her at the meeting before you shot out after her.”
“She’s fine,” he said.
“Is she back for good?”
Daniel nodded and smiled.
“Good for you.”
“Very good.” Daniel sipped his beer in thought before he finally said, “She had a bad relationship in Honolulu. Still getting over it. We’re going to take it slow and get to know each other again.”
“That’s part of the fun, yeah,” Koji said. “Just don’t mess it up this time.”
“I’ll try not to,” he said, and laughed.
“I hear you’re also taking good care of Mama Natua,” he said. “How she doing?”
Daniel sat back in his chair. “Other than her senility, her health appears stable. She still needs to take a few tests to see how everything else is faring.”
Koji sighed. “Fancy name for old age, yeah?”
“Afraid so,” he said. “We will all walk down that road one day; some of us just lose more along the way.”
“No need to tell me.” Koji swallowed a mouthful of beer.
“Mama doesn’t remember much of what’s happening in the present. Her memories of people and events are from the past, but they’ve also become confused, mixed up. Time takes on a life of its own.” Daniel paused and took another swig of beer. “Actually, it’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you.”
“Why is that?”
“While I was examining her, Mama mistook me for my father. She talked about seeing you and him together,” Daniel said, his eyes on Koji. “It sounded like she might have seen you and my father after he’d left us.” He smiled. “I’m not sure if it’s just another one of her confused memories, but I’ve wanted to ask you about it ever since. Do you have any idea what she’s talking about?” He paused to take another drink from his bottle. “Did my father ever return to Hilo after he left us?”
Koji breathed in slowly, sat back, and ran his hand over his head. He heard a scratching on the screen door and knew it was Hula, the feral cat who always came by in the late afternoon for dinner. “Just a minute,” Koji said. He stood to let the cat in, watching her dart straight for the kitchen. Some things were simple: all Hula wanted was to be fed and she was happy. Koji returned to the conversation he’d been holding at arm’s length.
“So, Mama said that?” Koji said, sitting back down. He drank some beer. It’s time, he heard Mariko telling him. “She thought you were Franklin, eh?”
Daniel nodded. “I guess the r
esemblance between us brought up something she remembered from the past. She also could have been confusing an event that happened when you were young.”
Daniel had always been methodical, weighing one thing against the other. Koji put down his bottle of beer and picked up his glass of whiskey before leaning forward. “She wasn’t confused,” he said.
A brief look of surprise crossed Daniel’s face before it clicked and settled. “My father did return?”
This time Koji didn’t hesitate to answer.
“Yes.”
“When?”
Koji was sweating now, his shirt sticking to his back. “Almost five years after he left.”
Daniel sat silent for a moment. The look of surprise on his face shifted to a darker, angrier gaze as he rubbed his cheek. Koji could see the questions percolating in his mind, just like when he was a boy waiting for him at the train station.
“Did my mother see him?” he asked.
Koji shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“He surprised me one night leaving your house.”
“Did she know?”
“Yes.”
Daniel coughed to clear his throat and asked, “Why didn’t either of you ever tell me?”
“You were young and we didn’t want to disturb your life,” he said. “Your mother didn’t know right away.”
“Why? Was it because . . .” Daniel didn’t finish his sentence.
Koji felt the blood rushing to his head. “You were settled and happy, and he was here and gone so quickly, yeah, it would only have upset you and your mother to see him.” And then he added, “He wasn’t here to stay.”
The Color of Air Page 13