“Lord have mercy on us all.”
I felt the dampness leaking onto my shirt and spreading through my whole body. At some point, I started crying and tears and snot plastered to my face.
Papa came back with another group, including Setsuko and her family. He led them over to the last remaining spot near Mama and me. Everyone sat on wooden planks or burlap bags thrown over the rock floor. I could hear other kids crying and felt better that I wasn’t the only one. Papa kissed the top of my head, sat down next to me and held my hand. The smell of sweat and mildew and Coca-Cola floated off him. We sat there for a while, and I felt some of the fear leaking out. He had that effect.
After several hours of sitting in the dark and listening to each other breathe, us kids began to get restless. Someone had thought to bring cards, and games of War and Go Fish sprang up. You could hardly see and no one’s heart was in it, but we played anyway.
Papa left us again and was gone for at least a few hours. When he came back, he said that people could return to their homes, although nothing was for certain. When we got back, we turned on the radio right off the bat. “Plane down off of Diamond Head! Bomb dropped in Manoa, civilians hit! Dogfight over Waikiki!” Web, the man in the radio, also told us to fill bathtubs and containers with water in case the water supply was cut off, or worse—poisoned.
He said that invasion now seemed not only possible but likely, and if the Japanese had attacked Oahu, which was well armed, what would stop them from hitting the other islands?
“Honey, should we let Ella hear this?” Mama whispered to Papa.
“No point in hiding anything.”
“But it’s just going to scare her.”
“She’ll be more scared if we keep her in the dark.”
Papa was always my ally. A word I hear a lot nowadays.
Later in the afternoon, the sheriff called again. He said that the bombing had stopped but no one could predict what might happen next. There was worry about another raid, coastlines being shelled by submarines, and Japanese paratroopers landing. A total blackout was being ordered, and a curfew would be enforced. I had no idea what a curfew was then, but I didn’t like the sound of it. It turned out it just meant that no one was to be out after dark. Papa got busy organizing the men to watch for parachutes and setting up volunteers to enforce the blackout.
I was proud to be his daughter.
Mama and I hung blankets over the windows and made forts out of mattresses to sleep under. As though that might somehow protect us from a bomb slicing through the house. When we finally went to bed that night, under the mattresses, I laid my head on Papa’s chest and heard the thumping of his heart with one ear and the retelling of the day’s events on the radio with the other. You could almost smell the black smoke from the three burning ships.
“The navy had made no statement as of yet, but the army ordered everyone off of the streets. Lives had been lost, planes were shot down and antiaircraft gunnery was heavy. Bombs were dropped in front of the governor’s house and in front of the Honolulu Advertiser, nearly hitting their mark. It was difficult to believe that these were Japanese planes, until the red meatball insignia was seen on the wing. Three hundred and fifty men killed at Hickam!”
On one hand I wanted to keep listening, but I didn’t want to hear what I was hearing. I don’t know who had been right: Mama about me not listening or Papa about letting me in on it.
Either way, the war kept on happening.
* * *
When the soldiers showed up at our house with Roscoe, I was pretty sure I had died and gone to heaven. Parker also brought me my own special chicken ointment for Brownie. She has a new tuft of feathers growing in, but the other hens still peck at her. Then she goes tearing around the yard like an old lady who’s lost her bloomers. My one concern with Roscoe is that he might want to eat our chickens for dinner. But you never know. Animals can get used to each other. Even ones that aren’t supposed to get along. People should be the same.
Mr. Macadangdang has a big blue dog—at least, he says it’s blue, but it looks gray—that nursed a baby mongoose. I swear on a stack of grenades. The mongoose was orphaned and one morning he said he woke to find its tiny mouth attached to her udder with the other four puppies. He still has the mongoose, which he calls Dog, and it rides around on his neck when he brings over the coconuts.
Anyway, last night was one of the best nights we’ve had lately. No one knew, but I sneaked out of my room and watched them dancing last night. My poor mama. She was the worst of the bunch, but she still looked pretty. Even though she thinks Jean is so glamorous with her blond hair and nice figure, Mama is the one that people stare at. Her eyes are shiny, with yellow speckles in the middle of a splash of dark blue. And no one I know has skin like her. When she smiles at you, watch out. It’s like she knows the secret to life, and if you’re lucky, she might share it with you. So what if her hair is prone to static electricity? All the pieces of her come together so nicely, they overrule the hair.
All I can think about is when I’m going to see Roscoe again. I know we’ll be going to Waimea town next Saturday for our first day at pie selling. Mama asked Setsuko if she wanted to be a part of our operation, since Takeo is gone and they are short on money. It was a big deal to include someone else because we need the extra income, but friends come before money, Mama said, and I’d best remember it.
Chapter Fifteen
Violet
november 1 rolled around, and just like she did on the first of every month, Violet visited the sheriff’s office. It was one of those occasions she dreaded, yet who else was going to remind Souza that Herman was still considered a missing person? Presumed dead was not good enough.
The tiny office was one block off of Mamane Street, the main drag of Honoka’a. Not much of a police station, it was sandwiched between a barber and the music shop in a red-painted building. After spending so much time there, Violet came to understand that the secretary, a Miss Iris Watanabe, ran the whole affair. The office was in such order that no pen or particle of dust was out of place. Souza called her Admiral Watanabe, or just Admiral, but with such affection that on more than one occasion she wondered at the nature of their relationship.
Violet pushed the door open. “Hello, Iris.”
Without turning her back from the filing cabinet, Iris said, “Have a seat, Violet. The sheriff will be back in two minutes.”
Exactly two minutes and ten seconds later, Souza strode in. He took off his cowboy hat and threw it on the coat hanger. “Violet, always a pleasure.”
“Sheriff, how are things in town?”
“Run-of-the-mill. Missing goats, drunken soldiers.”
Even after this long, they still continued with niceties. For months after the disappearance, once the investigation dried up, Violet went door-to-door in town and out of town, asking people if they had seen or heard anything. She made her rounds at the plantation, at the dairy, and even in the neighboring camps. No one could give her any answers that led very far. And as much as Violet hated to put Ella under pressure, she’d had Souza ask her about that afternoon and what had upset her so badly. Or had she been merely sick? Ella held firm. She stayed mute as a stone on the matter.
One man at the plantation seemed sure that Bernard Lalamilo, the old man in Waipio Valley who made the Hawaiian moonshine, had something to do with it because he had a reputation as a trigger-happy drunk who hated haole people. And Herman had been down there on more than one occasion. Violet thought the two had been on good terms. But what if Herman had mentioned his dumb idea about making his own? She pressed the sheriff to investigate him fully, but after questioning the old man, Souza said you can’t arrest a man based on hearsay.
Souza had handled her taking matters into her own hands graciously, even going with her when crime was slow.
“Anything turn up on Herman?”
“Now
, you know I would be at your house in a heartbeat if I had anything,” he said, leaning forward in his chair and glancing at Iris, who had stopped filing.
Before the last few visits, Jean had suggested that maybe it was time to stop. The look on Souza’s face said the same thing. Violet clung to her seat, feeling faint and prickly.
Iris rolled over in her chair. “The case is cold. Everyone has done what they could. Time to move on.”
The words were a shock to her system, as though someone just hit her in the gut with a sledgehammer. No one had ever been this blunt. She stammered, “Why...why... I’m trying.”
“There are times in life when you just have to let go,” Iris continued.
Souza looked at the wall. The phone rang and rang, but no one moved to answer it.
“In order to move on, let go, whatever, I need to know what happened,” Violet said, ordering herself not to cry.
Iris stared through her, to that wounded place in the center of her chest. “You may never know what happened.”
Without another word, Violet stood up and walked out. The words reverberated through her skull. “You may never know.” Could she survive the rest of her life wondering? At some point, maybe a choice would need to be made. To wait without living, or to live without knowing.
Throughout the next week, the radio was abuzz with news on the ongoing battle at Saipan. The Allied forces had destroyed three Japanese aircraft carriers and hundreds of planes in the battle of the Philippine Sea, which meant that there was little hope for the Japanese garrison defending Saipan. Without reinforcement, they were toast. But in typical Japanese nature, all would continue fighting to the last man.
Violet and Jean listened with horror as the radio announcer described Hell’s Pocket or Purple Heart Ridge. The Japanese were being wiped out by the thousands, but it sounded like American casualties were also mounting.
Jean looked ready to weep. “I hate to think of Bud in the middle of that. He’s just the type to get himself blown up.”
“Hush! That’s an awful thing to say.”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it? He was always the one breaking things and wounding body parts. You saw how he was,” Jean said.
It was the truth. In a few short months, Violet had learned that Bud was more bull than cowboy. Why, he’d even broken the handle right off of the icebox. Right now, any kind of consolation seemed phony. “Instead of dreaming up worst-case scenarios, let’s see if Zach and the boys can find out anything,” Violet said.
* * *
Violet had called a meeting that afternoon with Jean and Setsuko to prepare for their pie-selling debut on Saturday, only two days away. As promised, the stand was gleaming white and perfect. Fashioned with two-by-fours and shipping pallets, it came apart in several pieces. The stand would be easy to transport in the school flatbed, which Mr. Nakata had generously lent them.
As soon as Setsuko arrived, Umi and Hiro joined Ella in the living room. Ella was supposed to be practicing her letters, but Violet would return only to find drawings of lions and chickens strewn across the floor. Together, with the chicken perched on some part of the lion. Top of the head, shoulders, nose.
“Ella, we made something for Brownie!” Umi said, holding up an empty rice sack.
Ella looked up.
“Close your eyes,” Umi said.
“Violet, can you fetch Brownie?” Setsuko asked.
A minute later, she set Brownie on the wooden bench on the lanai. Umi led Ella out to meet them, while Setsuko pulled out a small knitted item from her bag. On first glance, Violet thought it was a bright yellow sock. But the bottom belled out.
“Hold her for me, will you?”
Violet held Brownie firmly while Setsuko slipped the knitted piece over Brownie’s head. There were two holes on each side for her wings. Brownie gave them a nervous look, then promptly started squawking. Luckily, Setsuko was sure-handed and swift.
“Open your eyes,” Umi said.
Ella’s eyes shot open. When she saw the sun-colored chicken sweater, her whole face lit up. Brownie ruffled her remaining feathers under the sweater and clucked a few more times before dropping down to a low crouch.
“Do you think she likes it?” Ella asked.
Violet was pretty sure Brownie hated it, but animals were adaptable and seemed to be able to keep right on living, even with missing feathers or limbs. “It fits her perfectly. I have no doubt she will love it.”
“It’ll keep her warm at night,” Setsuko said.
Umi glowed with pride. “We took her measurements before we made it.”
“Now there’s a business idea for you,” Jean said from the doorway, shaking her head.
* * *
Enterprising folks from around the Big Island had taken up peddling their goods to the soldiers. Just beyond the barbed-wire borders of Camp Tarawa, the marines could find hamburger stands, newspaper kiosks, manapua, chop suey, you name it. The Magnolia and The Chuckwagon had become permanent vendors. Anything was better than the slop served in the camp mess hall.
It had taken Violet some finagling with the ration board to get a coveted B sticker for their gas rations, but she won out in the end. It hadn’t hurt that Herman used to play cards with one of the board members. That allowed them an extra four gallons a week, which they would need to get to Waimea and back.
The women congregated in the kitchen and Violet began. “Let’s revisit the name, Honoka’a Pies. Do we want something more interesting?”
“It’s simple and straightforward,” Setsuko said.
“Jean says it’s too boring. So does Ella,” Violet said.
Anyone knew that three women in one kitchen were too many, but here they were, elbow to elbow. Jean rolled up her sleeves and wiped the sheen from her forehead. Herman always said the houses were built out of paper and that’s why the sun heated them up like furnaces. She didn’t doubt it.
“We need something catchier,” Jean said.
“What about Mama’s Pies?” Violet said.
Jean rolled her eyes. “Please, something that will lure the soldiers in like bees on honey.”
“You try, then, if I’m so terrible at it,” Violet said.
She was stacking ingredients into a mountain on the table. Their plan was to make two varieties of pies each week, depending on available ingredients. Again, they’d traded alcohol ration tickets for some items. Coffee beans, cream, flour, cocoa, to name a few. Violet found she was happiest in the kitchen. The outside world fell away and the war turned off. Nothing else mattered.
“How about Sweetie Pies?” Jean said, sneaking a chunk of coconut.
“Too sugary-sounding,” Violet said. “Setsuko, what do you think?”
Setsuko had been staying out of it. “I like all of your choices so far. Keep it simple. Honoka’a is as good as any.”
“But no one can pronounce it,” Jean protested.
Oh, how she sometimes wanted to wring Jean’s neck. “Instead of Honoka’a, why don’t we use their name? Honey Cow Pies.”
For a moment, silence. Then all three erupted in laughter—the kind that folds you in half and makes your insides burn. Every time Violet looked at Jean, her laughter started back up again. When the peals finally tapered off, Jean managed to speak. “Now if that isn’t a play on words, I don’t know what is. But it’s perfect!”
“We wouldn’t dare,” Violet said.
“Oh, we would, and we will. The boys are going to love us!”
* * *
The following afternoon, Violet couldn’t wait for the bell to ring so she could get home and finish off the pies. Crusts were formed and dusted with egg whites, and the sweet potato and coconut all chopped and prepared. In well-orchestrated time, the moment her foot hit the bottom step of the house, the first raindrop landed on her cheek. For days now, the air had been as still as
the surrounding mountains. You could almost taste the storm hovering just beyond sight, but the black curtain of sky to the east now looked to be moving toward them. Please, let tomorrow be dry and clear in Waimea.
They were going to need all the eggs they could round up. “Ella, darling, can you please grab me some hen-fruit for the pies? And take the umbrella.”
Ella had a knack for picking up war slang, and hen-fruit was her new favorite way of saying eggs.
With her apron fastened tight, Violet set out the mixing bowls and dragged the radio closer to the kitchen, leaving the door open so she could hear the music. Cooking before dark with doors and windows open was the only way to go; otherwise everything steamed up and they’d be standing in puddles of sweat.
Jean and Setsuko both showed up within a quarter of an hour. Jean disappeared and walked into the kitchen wearing her red-and-white-checkered apron and only her underwear, a beige ruffly affair. “I’m ready.”
Setsuko’s eyebrows lifted, but Violet wasn’t surprised. Jean opted for fewer clothes when at all possible. “Put some clothes on, for heaven’s sake. We have kids nearby,” Violet said.
“My apron covers anything of interest. And I can’t take any more of this heat. It’s causing me to break out in hives all over.”
Violet crossed her arms. “The rain should temper it, but suit yourself. I’ll go ask the children to stay out of the kitchen if they don’t want a big scare.”
Jean stuck her tongue out, then turned to Setsuko. “I hope I’m not offending you?”
“Underwear in the kitchen is nothing.” Her words were flat. Violet knew how she felt. When you’ve lost a big chunk of your heart, the top layer of life stops mattering. Only those big things—love, survival, hope—have any effect on you.
When Violet returned from speaking with the kids, Jean stood at the wall chalkboard, writing Chocolate Honeycomb & Coconut Sweet Potato Pies. “These names all right for tomorrow? I brought home a small chalkboard from school to lean up in front of our stand.”
“Perfect,” Violet said.
Earlier in the week, Jean had insisted on the chocolate honeycomb pie. “This one will land us husbands for sure,” she had said.
Island of Sweet Pies and Soldiers Page 10