The Ohana Part 4

Kohala: 1922 Chaul Roong watched Dok Ja from the top of a hill adjacent to the sugar mill as she waited with a group of women for the carts carrying kookai ko, the sugar cane wastes from the mills, to appear. She was seven months pregnant and moved slowly.

Dok Ja was nineteen when Chaul Roong ran away. By the time she joined him, she was thirty-six and he was forty-one. The years hadn't been kind to Dok Ja. Her once firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s sagged and her belly was flabby. Wrinkles of disappointment sprouted around her eyes and mouth. It was his fault her youth had been wasted. He wished he could love her the way he loved Tae Ja. He owed her that much.

The carts began to dump the kookai ko in dark heaps. Dok Ja darted forward to collect the damp, warm mud presses. Unaware of Chaul Roong's eyes on her, she set them down in her designated row. Chaul Roong sighed. Although she was a good wife, she was definitely not an obedient one. Time and time again he asked her not to embarra.s.s him by gathering kookai ko with the rest of the plantation women. She refused to listen and sneaked back here to turn the presses over to dry. But she couldn't hide her red fingers, the result of centipedes nesting in the presses crawling out and biting her fingers. Seeing her fingers enraged him and they always ended up arguing. She insisted it was foolish to pay ten cents a press for the kookai ko she used as fuel to warm the neck-deep tubs of water in her bathhouses.

"You don't have to work so hard," he told her. "I am boss luna. We have enough money."

Dok Ja snapped, "One never has enough money."

She continued to run the bathhouses for the bachelors. Next to the hot tubs were cold steeping tubs. The men paid fifty cents per month, deducted from the pay envelopes, for use of the public baths, or jjimjilbang, often referred to as the easier to p.r.o.nounce j.a.panese word-furos. They washed on the bare boards of the slightly raised floor before soaking their sore muscles in first the hot tub, then the cold.

Dok Ja brought in a good income to the family. Besides her bath houses, she kept boarders and fed them and the other bachelors in the camp. She raised chickens. She hatched their eggs on the warm ashes of her oven and insulated the chicks with cotton to keep them alive. Chaul Roong knew she missed their daughter's help but he had insisted Soon-yi go to school in Honolulu to learn English. Dok Ja thought girls going to school was a stupid waste of time and money.

Chaul Roong watched as she ma.s.saged her lower back with her fist. She was hunched over from the exertion. He wondered if she were satisfied with their life together. When he made love to her, he pretended it was Tae Ja.

Life was about duty, not happiness.

As Chaul Roong turned his horse away to return to the cane fields, he decided Dok Ja needed to get used to taking orders from a husband again and he had to find a way to forget Tae Ja.

Han Chaul Roong strolled up to the plantation manager's house one Sunday afternoon. Vanda orchids were in full bloom, turning one section of the yard into a lush riot of delicate violet flowers growing wild among the hau posts. On the ocean side were exotic birds of paradise, their orange wings rising triumphantly through thick, waxy green leaves. Rarer still were the giant white birds off to the distance, rising in heights of six feet or more. Closer in, hapu ferns spread their lacy fronds beneath a giant monkey-pod tree that dominated the front yard and kept the hapu in constant shade.

Chaul Roong spied Patrick O'Malley sitting in his favorite koa rocker, his legs thrown up against the gingerbread railing of the lanai, surveying his gardens, as he sipped iced tea brandished with pineapple.

As Chaul Roong approached the house on the hill, he could smell roast leg of lamb mingled with the scent of gardenias, crocuses, and fresh-cut gra.s.s. Patrick's German shepherd ran to greet him. He rubbed his fingers on the dog's head affectionately.

"Is it Han I see?" Patrick called out. "Have a seat. How goes the okelehao business these days?" Patrick gestured to a pitcher of tea and an empty gla.s.s on a table beside an empty chair. "Have some iced tea."

Chaul Roong sat down and poured himself iced tea. All the haoles called him "Han" because it was easier. At least they didn't butcher his name or make him change it. But he liked Mr. O'Malley. He was a different kind of haole, one who treated him with respect. "Okelehao no hurt n.o.body. Men like drink, stupid law."

Patrick roared with laughter, his eyes twinkling. "You're not having to tell the likes of me, a drinking Irishman, that! It's sorry I am our country took it into their heads to listen to a few mealy-mouthed Prohibitionists. It's too bad okelehao tastes so bad. It's hard to get good Irish whiskey out here. Hear a few boys got caught, eh?"

"Nah. Everybody know okelehao in pork barrels in cane fields. Make it hard to find. Police go into houses and say, 'Ey, brudda, you when go sell okelehao?' They find few bottles in houses where people sell by the cup. Police say, 'Okay, you fine two dolla.' Pay police, then give police some to drink. Everybody friends. Got to pay fines sometimes. Stupid law."

"You getting rich over this stupid law?" Patrick asked.

"I only drink stuff. Wife, she like sell-had to pay fine last week. I tell her, I no like her make okelehao, but she do what she like." Han shrugged.

"And how would your wife be, Han?"

"Wife plenty big. Have one more baby soon."

"Well," Patrick chuckled. "You don't waste time, eh? Is it a boy you're wanting?"

"Boys, mo' betta." Han nodded his head and sipped his iced tea. "I like ask something."

"Sure."

"Filipino men like c.o.c.kfights on day off. If okay with you, I make Sunday c.o.c.kfights."

Patrick raised his eyebrows. "I heard it's a b.l.o.o.d.y sport."

"c.o.c.kfights all the time in Philippines. Men happy, work betta."

"Gambling?"

"Where there is c.o.c.kfights, there is gambling." Han replied.

"And where there is gambling, there is fighting."

"No worry. Han take care everything, make sure no fighting."

Patrick smiled. "If you promise me no trouble, you can have your c.o.c.kfights. But," Patrick leaned forward and pointed a finger at Han, "first time fight, no more c.o.c.kfights. Okay?"

"Okay, boss," Han nodded. "You going see. Me make c.o.c.kfights, n.o.body fight."

"Han, I've been meaning to tell you. There's going to be some changes around here in the big house."

"Boss man get married?"

Patrick slapped his thigh and roared with laughter. "Me? Marry? Mother of G.o.d! I'm too set in my ways to take on a woman and too lazy to change. No, it's not a wife but a nephew."

Patrick's eyes turned to the sea. "My sister says he's bright and much too good to be buried in the dirty factories back East." He sipped his pineapple tea. "His father's dead and my sister sees him going the way of his older brother, joining the gangs." He sighed, "His brother's in jail. My sister wants him to come live with me. I can't say no."

Han smiled, but he couldn't imagine his boss with a child.

Dok Ja gave him their first son.

One night after the children were in bed, she prevailed upon her husband to buy a house.

"Why?" his eyes never left the newspaper he was reading. "We have a fine company house."

"There's good farm land available near the fields. We can build our own home."

"It's a waste of money," Chaul Roong turned a page.

She made a wide, sweeping gesture and let her hand fall into her lap. "But this does not belong to us. I want our own land, our own house. Something no one can take away from us. Land is everything."

Chaul Roong looked up at her with added respect. She made sense. But he hated to see his money disappear; it made him feel secure. But then he would have land like the haoles, something he could pa.s.s on to his sons. He thought of Bong Sik, and a familiar pain stabbed through his heart. His eyes returned to the newspaper. "I'll think about it."

"But someone else might buy it!" Dok Ja jumped up.

"I said I would think about it." Chaul Roong turned another page.

"What did you do with your money all these years? Did you throw it away on a woman?" Dok Ja's voice sounded shrill. "The women say you had a woman and a child here. Did you give all your money to the wh.o.r.e?"

Chaul Roong jumped up, crushed the paper in his hands and threw it across the room. Then he slapped her. "You must learn, old woman, to shut up when I say so." He stalked out of the house.

The setting sun turned the normally placid sky into a violent battleground of raging color. Like a fiery inferno arrested at the peak of its fury, the glowing orb froze onto an eerily beautiful backdrop.

Sunset was Chaul Roong's favorite time of day. It was a time to think. Sometimes of nothing more than how beautiful the sunset was, or how refres.h.i.+ng the trade winds rus.h.i.+ng through the trees felt, or of the endless rows of cane waiting to be cut.

He now needed the strong taste of okelehao to soften the hard edges of his monotonous existence. Okelehao numbed him to life's bitterness and made him indifferent. The years unraveled like a skein of thread slowly unwinding, each length of thread looking like the foot before it and the foot after.

Chaul Roong could not fully understand himself. He should be satisfied now he had a fine strong son to carry on his name. Instead, he pined for the son without his name and the woman he would love forever. The years had not diminished the pain of yearning for her and he waited patiently for her return, as unlikely as that might be.

As he greedily drank the okelehao, he wondered how rich he had to be to feel no pain. Tae Ja's face floated at the edge of his consciousness and he reached out to touch her.

"Tae Ja," he called, but she disappeared. Once again, he was left empty. He drank some more, then whispered her name once more before pa.s.sing out on the uncut gra.s.s.

Chapter Six.

Boston to Kohala: 1923 "I'm glad you're here," Katy hugged and kissed Patrick in the living room of her snug, scrupulously clean home. "My children are starting to think you're a figment of my imagination."

"Katy, it does me heart good to see you again, as pretty as ever, you are." Patrick put his hands around her waist and winked. "A few pounds adds to your charm."

Katy slapped him affectionately. "Oh, go on."

"As good as you look, why aren't you married again?" Patrick asked.

Katy laughed. "With five kids, who would want me?"

"A smart man, that's who."

"I had the best man in the world. He was a good man. The best," she paused and motioned for him to sit down.

Patrick looked around. The house was as warm and friendly as Katy. He knew with Timmy gone she had no extra money to spare and yet her place was prettier than most houses he had been in. Katy had a knack, a sense of style and beauty despite her circ.u.mstances.

"And how are all them sons and daughters your good husband left behind for you to raise? G.o.d rest his soul, we know he dinna want it that way," Patrick shook his head.

"I won't be lying to you. It's a trial for sure raising especially the boys without a Da," Katy rubbed her hands together. "It's Sean I wrote you about. I won't be having my Sean in kiddy jail like his brother Jerel."

"Katy, I'm here to help you anyway I can."

Katy's eyes filled with tears. "Jerel thought his old mum knew nothing. He wanted to be a fancy man like that devil Donnelley who preys on his own people. I asked him whose bones he was going to walk on. Well, now he's locked up for a.s.sault and I'll not have it for my baby Sean. I want him to grow up to be an educated gentleman."

"Then come to Hawaii and take care of your old brother," Patrick offered.

"No, Patrick," Katy replied. "I'll be staying in Boston with the rest of my brood. I have too many grandbabies. I can't be leaving all of them. The islands are too far away. Just send Sean home now and then so he doesn't forget us. " Katy's eyes twinkled. "Besides, you're set in your ways. And I'm a bossy shrew who's been widowed too long."

And so nine-year-old street urchin Sean Duffy went to Hawaii to live with his Uncle Patrick.

Sean's eyes widened when he stepped out of the car in front of the big house on the hill. He turned to his uncle Patrick who smiled and waved him through the ma.s.sive doors. The Kohala plantation home looked like a mansion. He imagined there were many rooms to explore filled with interesting objects. Running inside, Sean went to the huge paned bay windows to look at the carefully manicured grounds rolling seamlessly into the divide where the sugar fields began before dropping down into the ocean far below. It didn't smell a bit like Boston. The smells were elusive and exotic.

Over time, the maids, cooks, and hous.e.m.e.n pampered Sean. Nothing was required of him except going to school every weekday morning in the plantation car. It caused quite a stir among all the brown-faced, black-haired children who stared at Patrick and his nephew.

However, Sean felt isolated. Only Karl Hoffman, a handsome, congenial young boy the same age as Sean, befriended him. Karl's brown hair was streaked with blond, and his dark eyes glittered from his golden skin. He was ehu, a hapa haole with mixed parentage.

As exciting as his new life was, Sean missed his family. When Patrick told Sean his brother Jerel had been stabbed to death in jail, Sean was inconsolable. He cried for a week and refused to go to school. Sean lay in bed, curled in a fetal position, crying and barely eating the food the maids brought. Finally, his uncle Patrick walked into Sean's room and sat on the bed next to him.

"Sean me boy," Sean stroked the boy's hair. "Life is for the living."

"It's not fair!" Sean sobbed. "Why didn't you bring Jerel here? I'm living the life he wanted to live! Why didn't you give him the same chance you gave me?"

Patrick held a shaking Sean in his arms. "It's all right boy-o," he said. "Cry it all out."

Sean had been with his Uncle Patrick for over a year when Patrick decided to take him to Honolulu. "It's a grand town." Patrick said, "Unlike anything you've ever seen. Sure and I've sailed around the world and seen many different places. But Honolulu is special." Patrick chewed on his pipe. "Honolulu is like a little hapa haole gal itching to lift her skirts and bob her hair like an American flapper. But I'm an old man. I'll be sticking to the lazy, maiden Aunty Kohala, who grows old but refuses to change her ways. Honolulu wants to grow up too fast."

"Why are we going there?" Sean asked.

"It be time for my annual report to the Ritchies." Patrick looked out the bay windows behind his nephew's head at the sun-yellowed tips of the areca palms outside. "The real lords of Kohala and many other plantations just like this one." He smiled, grinding his teeth on the pipe stem.

"They must be very rich," Sean leaned forward on his chair, gripping the arms.

Patrick nodded. "The Ritchies are as rich as kings, make no mistake."

The circular driveway was hidden from the main road by a grove of giant monkey-pod trees that shaded the gently sloping grounds with a delicate lacy pattern. The driver pulled the car into the porte cochere. In the back seat, Patrick turned to Sean, who had a strange look on his face.

"Are you all right, lad?" Patrick raised his eyebrows.

Sean squirmed. "I've never worn a suit before."

"Aye. Wearing a suit in this weather 'tis inhuman! All them kamaainas want things just so. They put on such airs. They think they're royalty." Patrick shook his head and ambled toward the ma.s.sive double doors. "Come on, boy." He gestured toward the entrance. "It's not the lion's den, I promise you."

Sean followed Patrick past the lily pond down the flagstone path to the ornate carved doors. Patrick lifted the heavy bra.s.s knocker clenched in the jaws of a bra.s.s lion and let it fall against the heavy door. It resonated hollowly. A few minutes later a little j.a.panese lady opened one of the doors and bowed.

"Mr. O'Malley to see Mr. Ritchie," Patrick announced.

"Yes, yes." She bowed. "Meesta Ritchie dis way." Opening the door wider she let them into a marble-floored foyer leading to a great room lined on two sides with enormous paned-gla.s.s windows next to polished Koa-wood paneling. The windows on the right looked out onto a lily pond surrounded by lush gardens.

It was Sean's first look at what real wealth looked like. He never forgot it. In later years, he could still conjure up the Ritchie mansion in great detail. As an adult, he was able to name all the beautiful things that now surrounded an awe-struck child.

Beyond the sweeping lawn, Sean saw framed in the window, a dramatic mountain that seemed to rise from the sea. Patrick pointed to windows on the left. "That be Diamond Head," he said.

The room itself was coldly elegant. Cla.s.sically designed rose, gold, and blue Aubusson rugs lay in rich repose atop warm, golden Ohia floors s.h.i.+ning with evidence of constant care. The room was eclectic -- decorated with rare French marble-topped tables, silk covered Bergere chairs, brocaded Victorian sofas, Oriental lacquered tables, and intricately designed black and gold coromandel screens. The drapes were heavy-textured silk next to paneled walls, and the coffered high ceilings were elaborately carved. The room was as impressive as it was forbidding. Patrick had often told Sean he considered the kamaainas pompous.

Patrick and Sean followed the housekeeper up three wide stairs to a large hall with a magnificent staircase in the middle with rooms on either side. She entered an informal room lined with bookshelves and big, overstuffed chairs set around a claw-foot round table. Two men were seated and deep in conversation. The younger of the two rose when Patrick stepped into the room. He was in his mid to late thirties, slim, angular, and austere. His bony face was expressionless.