The Ohana

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because many young men come in here to buy gifts for their sweethearts to remember them by before they leave. Music boxes are sentimental favorites of both men and women.”

  “Then you have found me out. I’m off to join the war effort.”

  Mary felt his eyes on her as she walked to the register. “I hope whoever you’re giving this box to saves the last waltz for you.”

  “I hope so too, Mary.”

  Mary turned and looked into his blue eyes bright with hope and desire. For one brief, irrational moment, she envied the woman who was able to do that to him.

  Sean stood before the massive front door of Meg’s home. As it swung open, he wondered if she would see him.

  The Japanese maid who opened the door stared, “Who you?”

  “Please tell Mrs. Brandon Sean Duffy is calling.”

  “I tell.” the maid, closed the door. After a few minutes, she returned and muttered, “Missus say she see you in library.”

  Sean followed Meg’s housekeeper to a dark sitting room. Meg was standing behind a Koa Wood rocker, one hand crossed over her breast, massaging her shoulder. Her eyes were frosty lights, and her hair was wild, as if it hadn’t been brushed for days. The muumuu she wore was slightly disheveled.

  When she saw him she blanched and grabbed the back of the rocker as if it were a life raft. “Why are you here?”

  Meg reeked of alcohol.

  “To say goodbye.”

  “Why? Did you join the army?”

  “It’s my patriotic duty.”

  “Is that what you call it?” Meg snorted. “Tell me, please, why would you risk dying? For our government? Our money? Our system? Or is it guilt?” She giggled.

  Her drunken words rang true. He needed to atone. How could she have guessed that? “Does it matter? Isn’t it enough I’m going?”

  Meg wobbled, “There are too many whys we must answer before it’s too late.”

  Sean took her hands in his and sat her down in a rocking chair. He knelt in front of her, still holding onto her hands. “I need you to try to understand.”

  “Don’t waste your time. Can’t you see I’m drunk?” She pulled her hands away. “Disgusting, isn’t it?”

  “All I see is a desperately unhappy woman,” Sean touched the hem of her sleeve. “I would give anything to make you happy.”

  Meg chortled. “All men are full of cheap lines and false promises.”

  “Let me help you.” Sean took her hand in his and kissed its palm.

  “No. It’s too late.” She pushed him away.

  “I bought something for you.” He handed her the present he brought. But when she refused to take it, he unwrapped it, and wound it up. The dancers spun on the tabletop. When the music stopped, he looked at her.

  Meg stood. She began to shake and sway. “You don’t understand. It’s too late. There’s nothing left.”

  Sean stood and faced her. “I don’t believe that.”

  “Believe it. I’m sorry,” Meg shrank from him. “There’s no hope for me. I’m dead inside. Please forget me.”

  “I could never forget you.” Sean put out his hand.

  Meg backed away.

  “Will you at least keep this as a token from me?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Just leave…now.”

  Sean wasn’t in the habit of forcing gifts on anyone. He picked up the music box and left.

  Mary was locking up the store when Sean arrived with the music box in his hand. “Your lady friend didn’t like the music box?” she asked.

  “She wouldn’t take it.” Sean handed Mary the unwrapped parcel. “Here,” he said. “For you.”

  Mary looked down at the music box, then up at him. She knew how it felt to be rejected. She didn’t know why but she wanted to help make his pain go away. Embarrassed, she looked down at the music box, then placed it on the counter between them. “It seems you’re always giving me something.”

  He took her hands in his. “Forgive me for being forward, but would you have dinner with me?” he took her hands in his.

  “I don’t know.” She pulled her hands away.

  “Please. I ship out tomorrow. I don’t have anyone to see before I leave.”

  Mary looked into the earnest blue eyes that had captivated her earlier. “Actually, I was just on my way home from work.” What was she doing? He was haole! She couldn’t let her roommates see him. It would ruin her reputation. But then she found herself saying, “But if we can go now …”

  He looked relieved. “Great. Chinese? American? What’s your pleasure?”

  “American,” she laughed. “Definitely American.”

  Mary had a wonderful time. They laughed and talked about Kohala, Uncle Patrick, and how they expected Hawaii to change after the war. After dinner, they danced on the restaurant’s dance floor. When Sean put his arm around her waist and took her hand in his, something magical happened. She forgot their differences. They were just two people who’d grown up in Kohala saying aloha to the world they knew.

  Mary closed her eyes and rested her head against his chest. Forgetting all the heartache that had swirled around her since her father’s death, she embraced the music and the moment. She felt Sean’s fingers stroke the small of her back and was comforted by the intimacy.

  After the dance, they sat across the table from each other. He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. His eyes met hers and she looked away, afraid of her own need to be loved and cherished. She was tired of being alone and tired of being a samurai woman who never showed her true feelings.

  On the way home, Mary’s heel caught in a crack in the sidewalk. But as she fell Sean grabbed her around the waist. She looked up into his eyes and was stunned by his intensity. With his arm still around her waist, he tilted her chin and kissed her under a golden shower tree. The gentle kiss grew more passionate by the second. She wondered if the goose bumps on her arm were because of the trade winds or something else.

  Mary heard the screams of a peacock mixed with the soft patter of rain outside Sean’s bedroom. The rain cooled the evening but she was only aware of the heat of her flesh against Sean. She felt his rippling muscles and marveled at his strength. As they fell passionately into each other, time was suspended, and no one else existed for Mary.

  Need turned into an act of love. Strangely enough she felt no guilt, just a sense of relief she was capable of passion and desire even in the final act. For just one night, she could pretend she belonged to someone who loved her. Life wasn’t a gigantic dead end after all. There could be moments of happiness, like stars twinkling on the dark and moonless landscape of her lonely life.

  Sean was a bright light entering her universe, weaving a curious spell. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  “I’ll write to you,” Sean promised as he kissed her fingers.

  Mary put a finger to his lips. “Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep.”

  “I intend to keep my promise. Last night was special.” He put his arms around her and drew her close to him.

  “A soldier’s last night.” Mary spoke into his neck, afraid to look into his eyes.

  “It was much more than that.” Sean stroked her gently. “Last night will take me through the war. Will you write to me as well?”

  Mary put her head on his chest. “If you write to me, I’ll write you back.” She looked up at him again. “If you don’t, I’ll know it was just a soldier’s last night.”

  And then he kissed her.

  The first person Sean wrote to from his barracks was Mary. He wanted her to know she had given him a night of such happiness, he forgot everything else. He wanted to see her again when he returned. To do so would mean they would have to break the unwritten rules separating the races in Hawaii. If she didn’t write back, he would understand there were some things in life too much to ask of anyone.

  With that in mind, he mailed the letter.

  For a month, Mary
asked her landlord daily if there were any letters for her from overseas. As time passed with no letter, Mary became angry at herself for not only getting lost in the moment but for the hope he had given her. Despite her anger, she caught herself thinking of him during vagrant moments. Sometimes, she would take out the music box and watch the dancers swirl around on the tiny dance floor. Playing the box reconnected her to that time when she felt as if she had always known him. She had even fooled herself into thinking there was something special between them, that he actually cared.

  Perhaps someday there would be a conclusion to the matter. Perhaps he would always hold a special place in her heart. At least he released her from thinking there could never be anyone else in her life but Mitsuo.

  Funny, she had never made love to Mitsuo because she was afraid her first experience would pollute something which should have been beautiful. Yet she had allowed this almost-stranger to cross the line. Even she didn’t understand why. All she knew was Sean freed from the ugliness of being a rape victim. She didn’t have to stay stuck in that place anymore. He made her realize making love could be a wonderful and fulfilling act. The passion she felt for that one moment was real. Her world of feelings hadn’t died after all. She was alive and on the road to healing her broken heart.

  Sean brought her a gift. She needed to be content and not look to the universe for anything more. Or so she told herself.

  Chapter Twenty

  George Han sat in a barber’s chair. The woman cutting his hair swung him in a slow, fluid motion until the chair faced the outside windows.

  George raised his chin. His line of vision provided him with a clear view of the telephone pole and the man who slouched against it. Even before he saw the bulge under the man’s brightly colored aloha shirt, George Han knew the man was bad news.

  He turned to the lady barber, “Got a back door?”

  She cocked her head toward the rear of the shop. “The alley stay behind the screen.”

  “You nevah see me, okay, sista?” George lapsed into Pidgin English as he always did when speaking to locals.

  The woman nodded. “I no even know you.”

  George slipped a ten into the pocket of her apron. She smiled and said, “Mahalo, thanks brudda. No worry, I take care. I turn my back, wash combs like that, and you when disappear.” She winked.

  George looked out the window; the man was reading a newspaper. “Thanks.” He handed her another dollar for the haircut.

  “He look plenty mean,” she warned. “No fool around.”

  “Try not to.” George slipped out the back door. Once outside, he put his hands in his pockets and walked down the narrow alley.

  Two hands grabbed him from behind and slammed his back against the wall.

  “Moki, what I tell you?” the man pinning him to the wall said. “I said he was going try go behind.”

  “Okay, so you was right, big deal,” the surly Chinese-Hawaiian kanaka said. Then, turning to George, he said, “My brudda here when figure you go this way. Which goes to show you, no try fool around with us guys. We going find you, no matta what.” Grinning, he took a knife out and caressed George’s face with the point. “Hey, brah. My brudda here, he like make sure you no can walk. He crazy about his work, know what I mean? He like push your face in, broke your arm, even kill you. But I one nice guy. I say this guy Han, he no mean to not pay back the money to Chong. But it when slip his mind. I say, how ‘bout we give him one mo’ chance?”

  “I was going pay the money back, honest.” George felt sweat pour from his brow; he smelled cigar tobacco emanating from the burly man. “I just need time. It’s a lot of money.”

  “I know.” Moki hit the side of George’s head with the heel of his hand. “You should have thought about it before you when lose your okole. You lost the money, you pay. And no give me crap. I know your father when buy land all over town. He one rich guy. Get the money from him.”

  “I promise, Moki” George said, “I’ll have it in two weeks.”

  “One week,” Moki snapped. “See? I one nice guy.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “No try. Just do. Or I let Da Silva here do what he like. Understand?”

  George looked at Da Silva. He was an infamous animal who had a reputation for enjoying people’s pain. “Next week,” George agreed.

  “Okay, let him go,” Moki said.

  George let out a sigh as the strong hands released him. Without warning, Da Silva grabbed his right hand. He heard a loud, cracking sound; excruciating pain shot through him. He looked down at his two limp fingers and grimaced.

  “’Sorry, brah,” Moki patted his back. “Da Silva don’ believe in letting anyone go for nothing. So he when show you what he can do. He when do that with his left hand. Pretty good, ‘ey?” Moki bit down on a cigar and grinned. “See you around, brah.”

  George wondered what to tell his father now.

  George broke the news at home while his father ate his favorite meal of kahl bi and pi bim kook soo with the family.

  “Aboji,” he said in Korean. “I’ve joined the navy.”

  Thin white rice noodles spluttered out of Chaul Roong’s mouth. “The navy?”

  “What?” Dok Ja's mouth was full of food; she was forced to clamp her lips together.

  “That’s terrific,” Mark slapped him on the back.

  His sisters looked at George, then at their father, then back to George.

  “I’m leaving in forty-eight hours. I’m going to see the world.” Now that he said it, he was pleased with himself. Everyone at the table smiled, except his father.

  “Stupid!” Chaul Roong banged his fist on the table and jumped up.

  “Why stupid?” Mark asked.

  Chaul Roong’s eyes blazed. “It’s the haole’s war! Let them fight.”

  “But you hate the Japanese. I’ll be fighting your sworn enemies. I’ll be a warrior, like you always wanted me to be."

  “What I feel about the Japanese has nothing to do with this war,” Chaul Roong spat out. “The Japanese will lose with or without you. Why should I send one of my sons to be killed in an American war?”

  George shook his head. “Would it make a difference to you if I fought the Japanese wearing a Korean uniform?”

  “Of course!”

  “That is stupid!”

  Chaul Roong jumped to grab George, but Mark was quicker. He restrained the frail old man. “You dare call me, your father, stupid?”

  “You’re not stupid, but what you said is stupid. What difference does it make what uniform I wear? Anyway, I’m not Korean. I’m American.”

  “Not Korean!” Chaul Roong’s face turned red as he twisted out of Mark’s arms. “Do you think the haoles believe you’re American like them? Do you think President Roosevelt in the White House thinks we’re American like him? To them, we’re just the hired help. Hired help, but we’re good enough to die for them.”

  “If you feel that way, why don’t you go back to Korea?” George flung the same sentiment back to his father every time the subject of Korea versus the United States came up. His father had a sentimental fixation on his home country his children didn’t share. Couldn’t share.

  “You waste my time, you no-good gambler.” Chaul Roong poked George in the chest with his finger. “Go to war. Die for the haoles, for all I care.”

  “My son, die?” Dok Ja voice cracked.

  His older sister Janet grabbed their mother’s arm. “Omoni,” she said. “No one’s going to die.”

  Dok Ja shook the hand away. “Girls rubbish. Only sons good.”

  Janet shrugged at her sister. The family was used to hearing Dok Ja say the words. It was an Asian thing. In Dok Ja’s mind, only sons counted in the family. They were the kings and their sisters were told to wait on them.

  George glared at his father. “Someday the world will be different.”

  “I think what you’re doing is terrific,” Mark said.

  “Forget this haole war,” Chaul Roong wav
ed his hand in dismissal and returned to his seat. “Let somebody else’s son be a hero.”

  George drew back his chair from the table and looked around at his family. “I leave in two days. Doesn’t anyone want to wish me well?”

  No one said a word; George knew they didn’t want to enrage their father further.

  Dok Ja stomped toward the door. “No good boy,” she said. “No good boy.”

  George had never waited in line for food rations, but because he was leaving the next day he shocked his sisters by offering to go for his mother. After he picked up his family’s share of food he spied a woman in front of him. She was pregnant and kneeling on the ground trying to gather the rice that had broken through her paper bag onto the ground. Feeling somehow chivalrous, he stooped to assist her. “Let me help,” he said.

  The woman looked up. When their eyes met, she blushed.

  “Mariko!”

  Mariko’s lashes fluttered down. George felt the old schoolboy giddiness return. She looked so vulnerable, he wanted to hold her in his arms and stroke her thick, curly hair. Instead, he scooped up the rice alongside her in silence. When it was safely wrapped in her cotton kerchief, she stood and said, “Thank you.”

  George noticed the violet shadows beneath her eyes and hollow cheeks. Other than her bulging stomach, she was so much thinner than before. “Are you all right?” he asked her.

  “I know I look terrible. But I’m okay. You should have seen me four months ago. I was a skeleton,” she tried to laugh. “But, the worse is over.”

  “I should talk to your husband,” he joked. “Tell him to take better care of you.”

  Mary cast her eyes down. “I’m not married.” She took a deep breath. “I’m kamikaze.”

  So she carried a haole’s baby. Japanese women were dubbed kamikaze after the Japanese pilots who destroyed American ships by flying into them thereby committing suicide for the emperor. In Hawaii, no decent Japanese man would date a girl who dated haoles. Any woman who did committed social suicide. “Mariko.” George took one of her hands in both of his.