The Ohana Part 7

Kimi looked at her mother. "Now that he's gone, what will Papa's spoiled pet do now?"

Mariko ignored her but Kazuko narrowed her eyes. "Kimi, you shame me." But Kimi had already walked away with her friends.

Mariko began rocking again. Tears rolled down her cheek.

Her older brother Takeo walked up to her with swollen eyes. "Don't cry Mari. Father's spirit's still wandering. The forty-eight hours are not up yet. He might see you and be too sad to go to the next world."

"I don't want him to leave."

"A spirit left to wander is never happy," Kazuko knelt before her daughter.

"But I don't want him to be dead!" Mariko stopped rocking.

Kazuko held Mariko's face in her hands. "You must accept it. I'm sorry your father and you children had to suffer my bachi."

"Kazuko san."

She stood up slowly, like an old woman, and turned to the small, bowing gentleman behind her. It was the undertaker.

"About the arrangements for the cremation tomorrow, there is the matter of the urn."

"Yes." Kazuko squeezed Mariko's shoulder before leading the undertaker to a quiet back room. She felt the weight of the world on her shoulders.

That night, Kazuko lay on her futon and tried to sleep. As usual, memories of j.a.pan swirled around her. With her eyes closed, she saw Tetsuo in her father's garden. She could almost feel the smooth pale blue silk of her favorite kimono, emblazoned with flowers from the hem to just below her obi. She remembered watching Tetsuo through a crack in the shoji doors. "Tetsuo, I love you," she whispered.

He turned, his dark eyes sparkling.

Kazuko opened her eyes to stop the memory. Because the entire family slept in the same room on futons, she could hear Mariko's quiet sobbing. Turning her head to the window, she spied a full moon behind the mango trees in the yard and whispered to it, "Forgive me, Tetsuo for making you leave the life you were fated to live in j.a.pan. If I did not do so, you would still be alive."

THE SECOND GENERATION.

1935-1960.

The Kamaainas "To be born too beautiful is a curse."

Old j.a.panese Proverb

Chapter Ten.

"I can't help being born poor, but I refuse to die poor," Sean told his uncle Patrick.

Patrick puffed on his pipe and studied his nephew before speaking. "Just don't make it your G.o.d or forget you're from good Irish stock."

Sean shrugged. Patrick's advice wasn't important to him.

His uncle sent him to the most exclusive and prestigious high school in Honolulu, Oahu College. Situated in a beautiful tract of land known as Ka Punahou, it was given to the first Christian missionary to Hawaii, Rev. Hiram Bingham by Governor Boki and his wife, Liliha. Tucked in Manoa Valley, the school grounds and main buildings had the same look of quiet elegance and substance of the nearby Makiki Heights mansions. It was considered the "only" school to attend by the kamaaina haoles. What his uncle couldn't have foreseen was that the sons of Hawaii's upper cla.s.s would teach Sean his "place." He was an outsider. He didn't have their bloodlines or their breeding. Yet Sean never doubted someday he would shove their arrogance in their faces.

"Your uncle is a manager from Kohala?" One of the spoiled kids had snickered in the boy's locker room.

"He still talks funny. And is that manure I smell?" Brendan Chambers, scion of the pineapple king of Hawaii, laughed.

All the boys gathered around Sean laughing and holding their noses. "Irish tras.h.!.+ He smells like cow dung! He smells like cow dung!"

Sean stood silent, his face hot. Life was a bowl of cherries in Kohala, but at Oahu College, he learned to spit out the pits.

Before graduation, Sean met the dean of students, Mr. McInerny, in his office. Even though Sean was third in his cla.s.s, the dean ignored his accomplishments. Peering through his thick spectacles, he leaned back in his chair and eyed Sean like he didn't think much of him. Then Mr. McInerny put his elbows on his desk and remarked, "It's nice to see you've managed to improve your wardrobe over the last three years." That was the last thing he said to Sean after four years of exceptional grades at Oahu College.

He never told his uncle. Instead, he kept Uncle Patrick entertained with humorous tales and gossip.

Four years ago, Sean entered Stanford where he graduated with honors. He had wanted to attend Harvard but Harvard was too close to Boston. He wanted to be as far away from Boston as possible.

Now Sean stood just outside the entrance to the living room watching his uncle nod off in his beloved rocking chair in front of the lava-rock fireplace. Sean thought of how funny it was things and people got smaller the older he got. When he first arrived in Kohala, he thought this house was as big as a castle. Uncle Patrick seemed enormous. Now Sean was twenty-one, things had slipped into perspective. The years had been hard on Patrick; they had left him shrunken and small.

"It's all that hard drinking and hard living," Patrick told him before he left for California. "But I lived me life the way I wanted, so I guess I'll be having no complaints now that I be near the grave."

Sean now approached his uncle slowly. "Uncle?"

Patrick turned slowly and grinned. "Sean, me boy, come and give the old man some company. It's missing you I am, all them years at Oahu College, I guess they call it Punahou now, and away at school on the mainland. Tell the old man more stories. Aye, it warms me old heart, it does, to have you here."

Sean sat across from Patrick in an overstuffed paisley chair. Through the years, Sean had learned to mimic the elegant manners and speech patterns of the born-rich. Despite his impeccable imitation, he was told by the women he charmed that he still had his roguish Irish charisma and a feral way about him. No matter, he simply enjoyed the fact women flocked to him.

"And what would you be doing with your life now you're twenty-one and a man?" Patrick asked. "Is it joining me you are, seeing I'm old and ready to retire?"

Sean cleared his throat. "You've given me more than I ever dreamed of. You opened my eyes to another world and its incredible possibilities."

Patrick tapped the side of his nose. "Aye, but the world has not changed much. Names and places are different, but feelings remain the same. Don't reach too high, me boy, and risk disappointment. 'Tis a miracle I have what I has. 'Tis a better life than a poor Irish boy like me could ever have hoped for. Do not scoff at the gift of such a life."

Sean spread his hands, wondering how he could ask for more than what Patrick had already generously provided for him. "I know. I'm not ungrateful. You've given me so much."

"Is it the grand mansion in Makiki Heights with a girl like Meg you be wanting?" Patrick said. "I saw it in your eyes. Dreams are fine things, me boy. But they are only dreams, nothing more. The Megs of the world belong to the gentry, not to the likes of us." Patrick leaned toward him. "You're like my own boy, so I'm telling you true. I don't want your dreams to destroy you."

Sean clasped and unclasped his hands. It was true he had never forgotten Meg or the house in Makiki Heights. Although he had only seen her once, her image remained stamped in his mind. She symbolized everything he wanted. "Uncle Patrick, did you ever imagine yourself to be living such a fine life as this when you were a lad in Ireland?"

Patrick shook his head, his mouth chewing on the tip of his pipe, "Never thought it possible."

"You achieved the impossible. So then why not me? This is America, after all."

"Aye, it is, but you be wrong if you're thinking America is so different. There are no t.i.tled lords and ladies, to be sure. But the cla.s.ses are divided just the same. And I be warning you, it's reaching too high, you are. I don't want to see you hurt. Our sweet Jesus said, 'tis harder for a rich man to get to heaven than for a camel to go through a needle's eye. The rich have their own pain. 'Tis the price they pay." Patrick told him.

"If that's true, I want to discover it for myself." Sean stood up, walked to the fireplace and leaned against it.

"Many people would say we're rich enough."

Sean turned to look at Patrick. "Sometimes I wish I never knew what I know today. The boy from Boston would still be in awe of this." Sean looked around the room. "It's like a hunger gnawing at me. It refuses to go away until I do what I must do."

"Will it go away if you succeed? Or will the need be greater along with the pain?"

"I don't know, but I have to find out. Sometimes I feel there's something or someone greater directing me, compelling me to do what I have to do. Do you understand?"

"Maybe 'tis G.o.d. I've been thinking of Him more these days." Patrick leaned his head back against the rocking chair. "I suppose a man must do what he must, even if he knows the outcome is uncertain." Outside the crickets chirped so loudly they seemed to be inside the walls. Patrick lifted his head. "And how is it you plan to storm the castle, me boy?"

"I'm thinking of going to law school, or maybe get a job with one of the big kamaaina firms." Sean returned to his chair.

Patrick nodded. "If it's a gent you are to be, then a true gent you should become, with the proper background, the right friends, and the proper schooling."

"It will be expensive."

Patrick batted the air with his hand. "When I took you from your dear mother, you became my own. I have more money than I need. Now that I'm old and useless I want you to go to the kind of sn.o.bby schools all them kamaaina boys go to. I want you to show them what good Irish blood can do."

Sean stood. "Do you mean it?" His uncle was handing him a great gift. His contribution would be hard work. He knew he would succeed, he wouldn't settle for anything less.

"I'll only be asking that whatever you do, you do your best. Anything else is a waste of time." Patrick pulled at his ear lobe and smiled. "You're the first O'Malley to finish college, now you'll be the first O'Malley esquire. For sure, it's a thing for the family to be proud of. Do a good job. 'Tis only a short time before you'll be facing the real world."

"Thank you, uncle. I a.s.sure you, nothing is going to stop me now."

Sean thought about his brother Jerel who dreamed of living in a mansion and wearing fancy clothes. He used to say one had to be tough to get by in this world. Unless, that is, you had a lot of money.

Sean was already strong. Now it was time to be rich as well.

Chapter Eleven.

Kohala, 1935 Thirteen-year-old George Han wanted his father's respect and his mother's love. He didn't get either.

One night he quit trying to please Chaul Roong.

For years he tried his best at Tae Kyon. But watching Mark spar in the tournament convinced him he could never compete with his brother. Mark and his opponent moved with such expressive elegance and concentration, they appeared to be dancing. The elements of the dance, the empty hand, the linear kicks, and the imaginary sword were powerful enough to destroy a stack of bricks.

The Han family watched from the sidelines. Father stood with his arms crossed. He watched every move with intense concentration. Sometimes he squatted with his hands on his thighs. His focus was almost unsettling to George. When the crowd of immigrants cheered for Mark, his father smiled with satisfaction.

George shoved his hand in his pocket and drew out a cigarette he'd rolled earlier in the day. His father frowned. George put the cigarette back in his pocket. Chaul Roong turned back in time to watch as Mark, his favorite son, won the tournament.

Later that night, Chaul Roong announced to his family, "Chun Kim couldn't have done better."

Their mother stopped fussing over Mark for a second to ask, "Who is Chun Kim?"

"The most famous warrior of the Chungs.h.i.+n Hwarang." Father put his hand on Mark's shoulder and squeezed it.

Their sister Janet rolled her eyes at George. "Mark may have won, but he's not exactly a Son-bi."

A champion warrior. George was secretly glad she said that. He knew Janet considered Mark a spoiled brat.

"Only because there are no warriors." Their father turned and faced Janet.

George rose from his chair and walked to the door.

His mother turned to him. "Where are you going?"

"Out." George looked at his father as removed the nearly forgotten cigarette from his pocket. With his eyes locked on Chaul Roong, he stuck it in his mouth.

His mother shook her fist at him. "Pilau boy, always going out with your no good friends."

George slammed the door behind him and thought about how unfair it was the whole world revolved around his precious younger brother. His father, whom George idolized, reminded him many times, "When you were a year old, we put an orange, a pencil, and money on the table. You chose the pencil; Mark chose the money. You will work with your mind for a living but Mark will be rich."

George wanted to protest how unfair it was to determine one's fate at the age of one because of a silly Korean tradition. But out of respect for his father, George had always swallowed his anger.

In elementary school, George's father forced him to attend j.a.panese language school. George despised it; the j.a.panese kids shunned him called him and "Yobo."

After less than a week at j.a.panese school, a group of j.a.panese children gathered around him during their lunch break in English school and demanded, "Let's see what the Yobo's mother gave him to eat."

One of the boys grabbed his lunch pail from him and started jeering, "Stinky, stinky kim chee" when they saw the spicy pickled vegetables.

The teasing continued wherever George went. On the bus, they shoved him aside and said, "You stand, Yobo. We'll sit. j.a.pan conquered Korea, so we're better than you. We are your masters."

George mentally banked every insult and his resentment grew.

Years ago, when they were still children, George suffered one of his greatest humiliations. Mark ran into George being hara.s.sed and bullied by some of j.a.panese boys. In no time at all, Mark had all five of them on the ground. The next day, one of the boys brought his older brother who had a black belt in karate. It didn't take Mark long before he had the karate expert on the ground. From then on, no one messed with George. But it made George angrier.

When they were alone, he shoved his brother. "You're always showing off." He shoved him again. "Why do you always have to interfere?"

Mark scratched his head. "I thought I was helping."

"Go help someone else." George turned and walked away.

George had been in a hurry that day. He didn't want to miss seeing Mariko. After leaving Mark, he waited for her under the giant banyan tree that spread its majestic arms over the edge of the schoolyard, providing shade year after year where the children gathered and played. Sitting on a protruding root, George clutched his books to his thin chest to try and stop his heart from fluttering. He spied a gnarly tree root in front of him and kicked it.