Mrs. Watanabe blinked. “Did I say some wrong thing?”
“No, no,” Sister Louisa said quickly. She bent down to meet Ruth’s eyes. “It’s all right, Ruth. It’s not like before. Do you want to go with them?”
Afraid to put the thought into words, Ruth merely nodded. But the longing in her eyes was unambiguous.
Mrs. Watanabe smiled. “Good. That makes us very happy.”
Her husband stood, businesslike, and said to Sister Praxedes, “We will fill out necessary papers now?”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Praxedes said. “I’ll take you to see Sister Helena. She’ll have you fill out a petition for adoption, which will then be submitted to the family court here in Honolulu. If all goes smoothly, you should be able to take Ruth home with you within the week.”
Louisa accompanied a jubilant Ruth back to her dormitory, which was empty this time of day. “I told you, didn’t I,” Louisa said, “that someday you’d have a home and a mama and a papa all your own?”
“And a cat,” Ruth added wonderingly.
“Yes, mustn’t forget the cat.” Louisa looked at Ruth, seeing the memory of the year-old infant being carried in Sister Catherine’s arms, and smiled. “I’m going to miss you, Ruth. But I’m very, very happy for you.”
Ruth hugged her legs. “I’ll miss you too, Sister Lu. Every day.”
“Oh, you’ll be much too happy and busy to miss me,” Louisa said, even as she blinked back tears.
* * *
Louisa returned to the dining hall to share the good news with Sister Bonaventure—but the older sister’s response was troubling, a look of concern wrinkling her usually impassive face.
“This is … odd,” she said gravely.
“What do you mean? What’s odd about it?”
“You’ve only been in Hawai'i a few years, Sister, but … to the Japanese, there is nothing more important than the family name. There is nothing worse than to dishonor it. There’s a book called the Yakuba, a sort of neighborhood family history … a black mark in this book shames the family, disgraces their ancestors. They would do anything to avoid that.”
“But what on earth does this have to do with Ruth?” Louisa asked.
“Leprosy,” the older sister said, “is considered the blackest of black marks on a family’s lineage—one that can never be expunged. The stigma is so great, the family is shunned; no one will marry into it. I’ve known lepers at Kalaupapa whose families had completely disowned them.”
Louisa was at a loss to comprehend this. “But Ruth isn’t a leper! She’s as healthy as you or I.”
“Even so. To the Japanese, a family adopting her would be stigmatized for all time. Why would any Japanese couple knowingly risk that?”
Louisa considered a moment, then suggested, “Do you … suppose they just don’t know?”
“Everyone in Hawai'i knows that our girls are the children of lepers.” She frowned. “But if by some chance they don’t know, they should be made aware of the implications of their actions. The possibility that they could be ostracized—forced to move away, as so many families of lepers have had to—”
“Sister, no!” Louisa was startled by her own vehemence. Sister Bonaventure, taken aback by the outburst, broke off in midsentence.
“Forgive me for shouting, Sister,” Louisa said. “But you know as well as I do … there are girls at this Home who have been here all their lives. Girls who will never be adopted. Who may never leave here. Would you deny Ruth a chance at a normal, happy life and a family who loves her?”
Sister Bonaventure nodded slowly.
“Yes. Of course, you’re right, Sister,” she said. “It’s not for us to judge. The Lord sent these people here; we should leave this matter to Him.” Then, soberly: “But you must prepare yourself, Sister, for the possibility that all may not turn out as you hope. And if so, this may not be the last we see of Ruth.”
Louisa nodded as calmly as she could. But her hands were trembling.
* * *
Three days later the Watanabes’ petition was presented to Judge John DeBolt of the First Circuit Court of Honolulu, a Texas-born haole in his early sixties who seemed at ease with Japanese people and asked some routine questions—about their financial status, religious background, and family health history—before granting their petition. Ruth was then issued a new birth certificate, legally rechristening her “Ruth Dai Watanabe.”
On the following Monday—when the Watanabes arrived in a taxicab to take Ruth home with them—Louisa squatted down and hugged Ruth, feeling as if she were losing a piece of herself. Fighting back tears she told her, “You are a lucky little girl, Ruth. And I’ve been very lucky to have known you.”
“I love you, Sister Lu,” Ruth said, holding her friend tight.
“I love you too, Ruth. But you have such an exciting life ahead of you! A new home, three brothers—and a cat.”
“Yeah!” Ruth was happier than Louisa had ever seen her. “Will you come visit and see my cat?”
Louisa glanced at Etsuko Watanabe, who smiled and said, “You are always welcome in our house, Sister.”
Louisa forced herself to let go of Ruth. “I will, then. So this isn’t goodbye, it’s just … be seeing you.”
Ruth smiled and, as her new mother helped her into the car, she waved at Louisa. Even as the cab wound its way downhill, Ruth continued to wave. Louisa prayed that the road ahead of her would be a happy one.
Chapter 3
Chinatown in 1921 was a microcosm of what Hawai'i was becoming and a reflection of the multiethnic culture that the plantation owners had unwittingly fostered. As sugar boomed and the Native Hawaiian population declined due to Western diseases, the plantations began importing immigrant labor—first Chinese kulis, then Portuguese and Japanese laborers. But when after a decade the Japanese became the largest minority population in the islands, the sugar barons—determined not to let any one ethnic group dominate and wield too much bargaining power—turned to Koreans, Puerto Ricans, Spaniards, and Filipinos. Hawaiian “pidgin,” the lingua franca that allowed the different ethnicities to communicate on the plantation, united the tens of thousands of immigrants who left the plantations when their contracts expired and then opened up shops or found better-paying jobs in Honolulu. And most of them lived in Chinatown—an island within an island. These were working-class people—carpenters, plumbers, stevedores, bartenders, fishermen, salesmen, butchers, shoemakers, teachers—living and working in a motley bramble of wooden tenements, pool rooms, restaurants, tailor shops, bakeries, and general stores.
Kukui Street was the beating heart of Chinatown, and as the Watanabes’ taxicab made its way down this main artery, Ruth sat with her face pressed up against the side window, taking in the life’s blood of the street: old men peddling steaming saimin from pushcarts; Chinese and Japanese housewives culling the best eggplant, bitter melon, bok choy, and lotus root from grocers’ bins; laughing keiki wielding softballs and bats, headed for a game in the grassy triangle of A'ala Park. Commingled with the traffic noise was the babble of multiple languages—the higher-pitched tones of Asian tongues and the raucous baritone of Western voices.
But rather than being frightened by it all, Etsuko observed, Ruth seemed to be enjoying it … even as Etsuko herself enjoyed it. After fourteen years in Chinatown, she had come to appreciate the boisterous vitality of these streets, where commerce and congress transcended race and poverty. Despite its chaotic surface, it embodied to her the Japanese principle of wa—harmony—in a most American way. For all their many differences, the people of Chinatown lived and worked together in an unlikely sort of wa.
“You have never been here before?” Etsuko asked Ruth.
Ruth shook her head.
“So many people…” she said wonderingly. “Is this where you live?”
“This is where we live,” Etsuko corrected her.
Ruth smiled, her face glowing with pleasure.
Finally the cab stopped in front of a two-sto
ry business whose front window announced: T. WATANABE—GENERAL CONTRACTOR & BUILDER—CARPENTRY & CONTRUCTION SERVICE OF ALL KIND.
“Here we are. We’re home,” Etsuko said.
She helped Ruth out of the cab as Taizo paid the fare, then unlocked the store. Inside was a wooden counter like the ones Ruth had seen in candy and ice cream shops, but there were no packets of crackseed or funnels of shave ice here, just big pieces of lumber—planks, posts, beams—and instead of sweet sugary smells, the scent of freshly cut pine pleasantly tickled her nose. Behind the counter she recognized hammers, saws, and screwdrivers but only later would she learn to name tools like the lathe, drill press, and planer.
One thing began to alarm her, however.
“We live in here?” she asked, searching in vain for something like a bed.
Etsuko laughed. “No no, this is your father’s workshop. We live upstairs.” They rounded a tall room divider; in the rear of the shop there was a staircase against one wall, and along the other, a stove, icebox, sink, and countertop. “This is our kitchen, Dai. Perhaps you can help me make—”
“Otōsan?” “Okāsan?” Boyish voices erupted from the top of the staircase, followed quickly by actual boys galloping down the steps in their bare feet, eager to meet this mysterious new thing called a “sister.” The two youngest—Satoshi, twelve, and Ryuu, seven—collided at the bottom of the stairs. The oldest boy, Haruo—a strapping and worldly fourteen—paused a few steps up, watching his two younger brothers with amusement.
Etsuko said, “Dai, these are your brothers—Haruo, Satoshi, and Ryuu. Boys, this is your new sister, Dai. She speaks no Japanese, so you have our permission to speak English at home until she learns.”
Satoshi, thin and gangly, stepped forward, gave a small, formal bow of greeting to Ruth, and said, “Konnichiwa, Dai.”
“English, Satoshi,” Etsuko reminded him.
Haruo bowed and said warmly, “Hello, Dai. Welcome to our family.”
Ruth felt a surge of joy at that word: family.
Ryuu, small but brash, stepped up, bowed, then shook her hand. “Hi, Sis. Don’t worry, I’ll show you the ropes around here.”
“Upstairs now,” Taizo said in a tone that indicated he was used to being obeyed. “Dai, please remove shoes. Leave here at foot of stairs.”
“We Japanese don’t wear shoes inside our homes,” Etsuko explained.
Ruth was delighted. “The sisters made us wear shoes everywhere!”
“Here. Put these on when you reach the top of the stairs.” Ruth was handed a pair of blue slippers. They felt as soft as a cow’s tummy.
Etsuko watched as Ruth entered her new home. As with most apartments above storefronts, it was essentially one large room—not unlike the average home back in Japan. But because this was Hawai'i, the home reflected a mix of two cultures. In one corner stood a kyodai, a Japanese bureau, and in another, a Western-style dresser made of koa wood. Red, yellow, and green tatami mats covered the floor of the main living area. The walls were adorned with Buddhist icons as well as athletic awards Haruo had won at school. Japanese folding screens discreetly partitioned off sleeping areas. The front windows afforded a glimpse of the green hills behind Honolulu and the extinct cinder cone of Mount Tantalus.
Ruth was fascinated by the wooden dining table, which was far lower than she was used to—and, strangely, had no chairs around it, only bright green pillows decorated with a cascading waterfall design. She pointed to them with her index finger. “Ooh, those are pretty, what are they?”
“Don’t point with that finger, Dai, it’s considered impolite,” Etsuko said. “And those are zabuton. We sit on them when dining.”
“We do? Can I sit on one?”
“That is what they are for.”
Ruth ran over and sank into one of the plush green cushions. “It’s like sitting on a marshmallow! And we get to eat on the floor? Really?”
The boys laughed, and Etsuko showed Ruth the proper way for a girl to sit on a zabuton, folding her legs under her body.
“Come, let me show you where you will be sleeping,” Etsuko said, leading Ruth behind a folding screen, where a big green-and-white mat lay directly on the floor. “This is where your otōsan—your father—and I sleep. This thick mattress is called a futon, but you have your choice of sleeping on a futon or a bed, which the boys use.”
Ruth lowered herself onto the futon. It was as comfortable as a bed—but it was on the floor! Everything here was on the floor. This was fun!
“I like this!”
“We will take one out tonight and you can sleep here with us.”
Another voice unexpectedly entered the conversation with a querulous “Miaow?”
Ruth quickly sat up. A beautiful cat, black as a starless night, sat by the folding screen, its slitted green gaze on this new, alien presence in its home.
“And here is the last member of the family,” Etsuko said. “Mayonaka.”
“Can I pet her?” Ruth asked excitedly.
“That is up to her, not me,” Etsuko said with a smile.
Ruth crawled on her knees toward the cat, moving slowly so as not to frighten her. “Mayonaka, Mayonaka, you’re so pretty,” she cooed.
“Miaow,” Mayonaka agreed.
Ruth held out her hand to the cat, who sniffed it judiciously. Ruth slowly raised her hand and gently stroked the top of the animal’s head.
Mayonaka abruptly hissed, hackles raised, then jumped away.
Ruth looked so dejected that Etsuko patted her on the arm. “She just needs to get used to you, that’s all. Give her time.”
Once Ruth’s belongings were put away in the sleeping area and she had seen all there was to see of her new home, Father and Haruo went downstairs to the woodshop to work, Etsuko left for the kitchen to prepare supper, and Ryuu offered to teach Ruth how to play Sun-and-Moon ball. This toy consisted of a wooden spike with two round cups on both sides and a red ball attached to it by a string. “The whole idea,” he explained, “is to get the Sun into one of the half-moons, or cups. Here, watch.” With a flick of his wrist the ball went swinging upward, and then he deftly caught it in one of the cups.
“Ohhh!” Ruth said, watching him do it again before he handed it to her and said, “Here, now you try.” She took it eagerly, but her first try missed by a foot and her second nearly clobbered her brother in the nose. “Uh, maybe a little less spin on the ball, okay?” he suggested. Ruth continued to go at it, giggling and laughing, until she finally caught the Sun in the Moon.
From downstairs came the grinding of saws and the pounding of hammers, as well as unfamiliar but delicious aromas wafting up from the kitchen. Soon Etsuko was setting soup bowls, rice bowls, and plates of sizzling beef sukiyaki in a pleasing arrangement on the dining table. As the family gathered for dinner, Ruth realized how hungry she was. With everyone settled, all but Ruth said in unison, “Itadakimasu.”
Etsuko told her, “That means ‘I humbly receive.’ Can you say that? Itadakimasu.”
“Ita … da … ki … masu?” Ruth repeated slowly, all her emphases wrong.
“Close enough for your first meal,” Etsuko said.
She filled Taizo’s rice bowl with rice and his soup bowl with miso soup, then offered the plate of sukiyaki to him. Ruth was puzzled that he had no dinner plate, and even more so when he picked up a pair of wooden sticks and began eating pieces of beef, mushroom, and bamboo shoots directly from the serving plate. When he was done, Etsuko served Haruo, then Satoshi, Ryuu, Ruth, and finally Etsuko herself. Ruth couldn’t help but notice that Father received the largest and choicest cut of meat, and the most rice and vegetables as well. Her brothers got the next largest portions, then Ruth, with Mama serving the smallest and poorest portions to herself. Ruth almost asked why, but she was too preoccupied trying to figure out how to use the chopsticks she had been given.
“Here,” Ryuu offered, “watch me.”
Ruth did her best to imitate what she saw, but it took five tries before she
was able to pick up anything—and then it slipped, like a noodle off a knife, before it was halfway to her mouth. The combination of frustration and hunger on her face would have elicited laughter back at Kapi'olani Home, but though her brothers smiled in amusement, no one laughed at her.
Instead, Etsuko merely unfolded a napkin to reveal a metal fork, which she now handed to Ruth. “If you starve to death,” she said wryly, “you will never learn how to use chopsticks.”
Gratefully Ruth took the fork and attacked her dinner.
Later, when they each took turns bathing in the very hot waters of a wooden tub in the alleyway out back—the furo—Ruth noticed it was in the same order: her father, her brothers, Ruth, her mother. Etsuko dried Ruth off next to a fragrant plumeria plant growing by the rear entrance. By the time her mother stepped into the bath, its waters were only tepid.
Later, Ruth asked Ryuu quietly why this should be so.
“It’s like a train,” he answered cheerfully. “The engineer—Otōsan—is up front. He drives the train, makes all the big decisions. Behind him, in the next car, is the oldest son, who takes over if anything happens to the engineer. Behind him is second oldest, then me, you, and Okāsan is kind of the caboose.”
“Mama is the caboose?” Ruth repeated.
“Aw, not really. It’s just tradition. Like when we’re inside the house and I say something to my brothers, I can’t call them by their first names but only as niisan—‘older brother.’ That’s what you have to call me too, when you’re at home. But outside you can call me Ryuu or Ralph.”
Ruth was thoroughly confused. “Why do we have two first names?”
“We have Japanese names and we have English names that the haole teachers gave us because they can’t pronounce Japanese: Haruo is Horace, Satoshi is Stanley. At home you’re Dai, but at school you’ll still be Ruth.”
Ruth was feeling a little overwhelmed by so many new things to learn, but Ryuu assured her, “You’ll get the hang of it.” And she was pleased to hear that she would get to keep her old name, at least for part of the time.
Daughter of Moloka'i Page 4