Shimura Trouble

12

I WAS AS good as my word, and got up before six the next morning. I even skipped my run in order to cook. Spinach was washed three times, shaken and tied up in kitchen towels to dry. I put together a trifle from ladyfingers, rum, the whipped soymilk and the remaining fruit we had-ripe mango and banana. When the rest of the family came in, I gave them a breakfast of pineapple, low-sodium miso soup, rice, and a bit of pickled daikon radish and then persuaded everyone to make a part of dinner. For my father, it was mincing scallions to use as a garnish and in multiple dishes; for Tom, it was chopping long green beans for me to stir-fry later with a ginger sesame glaze. Uncle Hiroshi seemed too shell-shocked to do anything but set the table, for which I complimented him lavishly.

Everyone was having fun by the end, and my father had to remind me it was time for my appointment with Uncle Yosh. I arrived at his door five minutes from the time I left Kainani.

Braden answered the door, looking sullen in just a pair of yellow and orange shorts. He rubbed his eyes; it was nine o’clock, apparently quite early. “Jii-chan!” he hollered, and stalked off.

Uncle Yosh emerged, dressed in a faded but clean T-shirt and wrinkled pants. He looked surprised to see the van, and kicked its tire. “This thing safe to travel?”

“So far, so good.”

“Where we going?”

“You mentioned a fishmonger on North King Street in Honolulu. I hope that’s not too far…”

“No, no, it be worth it. But tell me the truth-your fadduh gonna let you drive this wreck all the way to Honolulu?”

“Yes, of course. I drove it downtown yesterday.” As we started off, I got right down to business, asking Uncle Yosh if he thought it was a good idea for us to pursue the land claim one more time. He shrugged, saying nothing.

“It’s really your house, not Edwin’s. I mean, it’s your house if there ever really was a letter or deed-”

“It was ours in writing, for sure. I remember Josiah Pierce coming to our house one evening when I was a kid, Kaa-san sending me out. That musta been when the papers were done.”

The papers, or something else? I eyed my great-uncle, and struggled for the right words. “Did you see Josiah Pierce at your home again after that?”

“No, never.”

“And your father? How did he fit into all this? Where was he during this talk?”

“He got transferred to work at a plantation in Maui, around the time I was two. Never saw him after that, ’cause he died in an accident there.”

“Why didn’t you and your mother go with him?”

“The school. She was teaching here, and got paid for that. She wouldn’t have such an easy job if she went to Maui.”

“I’m sorry that you grew up without a father. That must have been very hard.” As I murmured the apology, my thoughts were spinning. It seemed more and more likely that Harue had had a secret relationship with Josiah Pierce.

“Truth is, you don’t miss what you don’t know. Lot of men around the plantation seemed too angry. The men in those times drank a lot, and the wives hated it. That’s why no drinking in my house, ever.”

“I apologize for bringing wine the other evening; I just didn’t know.” I tried to refocus the conversation. “If you were to revisit the day that you found the Liangs in your house, could you tell everything that happened?”

Yoshitsune was silent for a minute, and when his voice returned, it came in fits and starts. “I never forget that day, March seventeen, 1942. The day I touched Hawaiian ground again, when I decided go for broke, I thought might as well return home right away, even though my mother had passed. I got the bus from Honolulu out to Waipahu, and a Filipino guy I knew since small kid time rode me out on his pickup the last few miles to the house.”

“Was the house located in the plantation village?” I asked.

“No, it was makai, kind of remote but real peaceful. Because it wasn’t in village, that’s why nobody noticed that the Liangs had taken the house.”

“What did Mr. Liang say to you, when you tried to come home?”

“He wasn’t there, when I went calling. Never saw the buggah. He probably down in Chinatown, running his store. The wife was the one who came to the door.”

“Clara Liang?”

“That’s right.” He looked surprised that I knew her name, but I didn’t elaborate. I didn’t want to interrupt the flow. “Clara Liang said to me, “What you want?” I stared at her and said, “Lady, you in my house.” Then she laughs like crazy and say the house belong to her and her husband. They buy from Mr. Pierce one year previously. While she talking, I kept looking over her shoulder to see inside. See a lot of strange furniture, but a few of our things, like the old tansu chest and some lamp that was my mother’s. I said, “My name Yoshitsune Shimura, and I see you took my household goods, too.””

I was so caught up in the story that I’d inadvertently slowed to just less than fifty miles per hour, I realized after a lumbering truck passed us up. Not good highway behavior, so I sped up. “What did she say when you confronted her like that?”

Yosh shook his head, remaining silent.

“I’m sorry if I’m being too nosy.” I shot a glance at him, and saw that the craggy-faced man looked close to tears. “I don’t mean to force bad memories. I was just trying, you know, to see if there was any information from that encounter that could help me understand what happened with the land.”

“Got nothing to do with land,” he said roughly. “You want know what she said? I remember every word. She said, “You go away, dirty Jap, I know what you did at the post office. I will remind everyone, now that you’re back.” I didn’t know what to reply, so I just started walking.”

“But you…you were a war hero,” I said. “You worked with the OSS! How could she dare label you a traitor?”

“Not many know what I did. The family know, sure, but it’s not something to show off about. And like I say, it counts nothing for getting the land back,” Yosh said. “After I left the house, I thought about things. I had a buddy whose cousin was at Honolulu PD. I talked story with him, about my house. He said, only way you can prove your story is by showing the deed. Well, I don’t know if there ever was a deed; if there had been any deed in the house, like the letter, you better believe the Liangs destroyed it. And there was nothing to prove ownership at the Bureau of Conveyances, as you learn yourself.”

“Who told you that we went to the land records office?”

“I heard it on the coconut wireless.” Yoshitsune smiled, and added, ‘My old friend’s brother, he work there. He told me there was a girl in, claiming to be family.”

So much for the helpful clerk and his questions about my name. “Uncle Yosh, we found a record of Josiah Pierce selling another property to Clara Liang for a really low price, on Smith Street in Chinatown.”

“Yeah, maybe that’s their old company building. I don’t know.”

“Well, do you think there might be something odd about him selling to her rather than the husband?”

Yoshitsune shrugged again. “Why you think that?”

“I…well…he sold mostly to Asian women. I was wondering if any funny business might have been going on.”

Instead of answering me, Yosh said, “Watch it, we’re at King Street now. Left turn, and better start look parking.”

SIGNS ALL OVER the interior of the Tamashiro Fish Market declared NO EATING ALLOWED, though it seemed like the antithesis of fine dining. Walls were covered by the darkness of time, lights were dim, and we had to jostle through a crowd of customers to look at the fish. Yoshitsune taught me the names as we walked along. Thin, silvery butterfish, best under a miso glaze; opah, with a body as round as a full moon; and opakapaka, the best pink snapper. A large, flame-colored fish with whiskers looked especially enticing; Uncle Yoshitsune explained that it was called weke ula and was quite delicious.

I took three and had the counterman clean and scale them. Ten minutes later the complicated business was done and paid for, and I loaded my icy cooler with what seemed like an aquarium’s worth of sea life, because Yoshitsune had gone back to the prepared-dish counter for marinated sea urchins.

My great-uncle showed me an alternate route to the freeway on North School Street, which was dotted with okazu-ya open to the street where people were eating their lunches off paper plates. He persuaded me to stop, and pretty soon we were standing on the street, tasting poi-flavored Okinawan-style doughnuts and the crispest sweet potato tempura I’d ever eaten. Uncle Yosh, who’d added chicken yakitori to his order, ate quietly and fast, with obvious pleasure. In the silence, I pondered his story of the lost father, internment in a prison camp, and finally his mother’s death. After he came back, life couldn’t have been much better because he’d raised someone as unhappy and irresponsible as Edwin. My father said he wanted to help, out of guilt for what had happened to Harue. I thought if any help should be given, it should be to Yoshitsune.

“Did you ever receive reparations from the government for the internment?” I asked after we’d cleaned the oil from our hands, swigged down some water, and gotten back into the minivan, heading west.

“Yes. Twenty thousand dollah. I used the money to buy our house, and it was a good thing, because when Edwin had his financial trouble a few years back, he moved the family in.”

“Life has been hard for you,” I said, thinking of all the losses. He’d lost his father during childhood, he’d lost his happy youth during internment, plus his mother. And though he’d eventually married, his wife was gone, leaving Yosh in his old age with Edwin controlling him.

“Oh, not so bad. There was plenty of hardness to go around. The muddahs use to sing about it, I remember.”

“Your mother?”

“The other mothers had to teach mine the songs, you know, while they stripped the leaves from the cane in the fields. The plantation songs had a special name, hole hole bushi.”

“Women rice farmers sing hole hole bushi in Japan,” I said. “Women are known for these songs, not men. I wonder why.”

“’Cause it’s about complaining, that’s why!” Uncle Yosh then sang in a wavering voice, ‘My man is always drinking…no more money…where shall I go?”

I laughed, enjoying the sound of my great-uncle finally expressing himself in Japanese. “I guess there aren’t many people who remember the words anymore.”

“You’d be surprised. Most people your age had either parents or grandparents on the plantation.”

“Uncle Yosh, I was wondering. I’ve seen the plantation village, but I would really like to see your mother’s cottage.”

“You saw the photograph at dinner the other night.”

“Yes, but the picture didn’t give a sense of the landscape or scale of things.” I shot a glance at my uncle, who was staring rigidly ahead.

“Things ain’t like before, when the plantation was open for business. It’s way down on the water, through five miles or so of Pierce land. Can’t enter it that way, and on the other side the land’s military, closed to people like us.”

“I’d be willing to risk traveling through Pierce land. I run there almost every morning and haven’t been bothered.”

“Well, we can’t go now. What’s the point of drive all the way to Tamashiro’s and spoil the fish driving round?”

“OK, Uncle Yosh. You’ve got a good point,” I said, thinking there was no reason to force the point any further. He didn’t want to go. I was going to have to make the trip on my own, perhaps following tips from Kainoa, or-the thought struck me suddenly-going via the military side with Michael.

Despite the bit of awkwardness at the end, my trip out with my uncle had been a success, I thought as I dropped him back off at his house with his sea urchins before returning to Kainani. As I put the three fish in the coldest part of the fridge and programmed the rice cooker to switch on at five, I thought about what I’d learned. There was more he had to say, I was sure, but I’d learned the virtues of patience at my father’s knee. The truth would come out in time. And now it was time to see Michael, so I could stop thinking about family business for a while. I changed my clothes, swept up the minivan keys, and left.