So he sits, sips his tea, and watches the light flow onto his fields like a slow flood of water. From his vantage point, he can just make out some of the workers, the Mexicans who come just as the Nikkei had come so many years ago, to work the land that the white man didn't think he wanted, coated as it was with salt spray and blasted by the sea winds. But the Nikkei were used to salt and wind from the home islands; they knew how to farm “worthless” land along the sea. And from the salted soil, the old man thinks now, we grew strawberries.. and doctors and lawyers and businessmen. And judges and politicians.
Maybe these workers will do the same.
He bends over slowly to pull on his rubber boots, which keep his old feet dry in the damp early-morning fields. When he straightens up again, his grandson is standing there.
“Grandfather, it's Johnny. John Kodani.”
“Of course. I know you.”
Johnny bows deeply. His grandfather returns the gesture with a short, stiff bow, as much as his ninety-year- old body can muster. Then Johnny pulls out one of the old wooden chairs that have been in this kitchen for as long as he can remember and sits down across from the old man.
“Would you like tea?” Sakagawa asks.
Johnny wouldn't, but to refuse would be brutally rude, and with what he has to tell the old man, he wants to exercise every gentle kindness. “That would be nice.”
The old man nods. “It's a cold morning.”
“It is.”
The old man takes a second cup and pours the strong green tea into it, then slides it to Johnny. “You're a lawyer.”
“A policeman, Grandfather.”
“Yes, I remember.” Perhaps, he thinks, it is good that the Nikkei are now police.
“This is very good tea,” Johnny says.
“It's garbage,” the old man says, even though he has it specially imported from Japan every month. “What brings you? I am always happy to see you, but…”
I haven't been here for months, Johnny thinks. I've been “too busy” to stop by for a drink of tea, or to bring his great-grandchildren for him to see. Now I come by at five in the morning with news that will break his heart.
“Grandfather…” Johnny begins. Then he chokes on his own words.
“Has someone died?” the old man asks. “Your family, are they well?”
“They're fine, Grandfather,” Johnny says. “Grandfather, down by the old creek, where we used to play when we were kids… Have you been down there lately?”
The old man shakes his head.
“It's very far to walk,” he says. “A bunch of old reeds. I tell the men to clean up the garbage people toss from the road.” He shakes his head again. It is hard to understand the disrespect of some people. “Why do you ask?”
“I think people… your men… your foreman are doing something down there.”
“Doing what?”
Johnny tells him. The old man has a hard time even understanding what his grandson is saying, and then he says, “That's impossible. Human beings do not do such things.”
“I'm afraid they do, Grandfather.”
“Here?” the old man says. “On my farm?”
Johnny nods. He looks down at the floor, unable to face his grandfather. When he looks up again, the old man's face is streaked with tears.
They run down the creases in his face like small streams in narrow gullies.
“Did you come to stop them?” the old man asks.
“Yes, Grandfather.”
“I will go with you.” He starts to get up.
“No, Grandfather,” Johnny says. “It's better you stay here.”
“Those are my fields!” the old man yells. “I am responsible!”
“You're not, Grandfather,” Johnny says, fighting back tears himself. “You're not responsible, and…”
“I'm too old?”
“It's my job, Grandfather.”
The old man composes his face and looks Johnny in the eye. “Do your job.”
Johnny gets up and bows.
Then he walks out of the kitchen and down into the fields.
134
The air smells like strawberries.
The acrid smell rushes through Boone's nose as he breathes heavily, sprinting toward the trees, hoping not to be seen. He makes it into the tree line, then turns west toward the reeds. He can run more upright now, in the cover of the trees, and he makes it quickly to where the tree line ends and the reeds begin.
The reeds are taller than he is. They loom over him, vaguely threatening, the tops blowing in the breeze as if waving him back. He pushes his way in and is soon lost in thick foliage. He can hear voices in front of him, though- men's voices, speaking in Spanish.
The last time you did this, he thinks, you got beaten half to death. He takes the pistol from his waistband and keeps it ready in his right hand. Pushing back reeds with his left, he plows ahead until he makes it to the creek.
He jumps in and wades toward the caves.
135
Sunny can't paddle into this surf.
The beach break is totally closed out. There isn't space enough between waves or sets to paddle out there, and the waves are too big to paddle over.
She comes out of the water and moves about two hundred yards south, between breaks, and paddles out onto the shoulder, then starts back north on the far side of the break. She's not alone in this maneuver-all the Jet Ski crews are out there making the same approach, buzzing around like giant, noisy water bugs. She paddles strong, smooth, and hard, her wide shoulders an advantage for a change.
The Jet Ski crews linger farther out, giving them room for the high-speed run-up into the wave.
The biggest wave Sunny's ever seen looms up behind her, with another after that. She paddles herself into perfect position for the next wave. It rolls toward her, a blue wall of water, its whitecaps snapping like cavalry guidons in the stiff offshore wind.
A beautiful wave.
Herwave.
She lies down on her board, takes a deep breath, and starts to paddle.
136
The shame is unbearable.
The Sakagawa family name is disgraced.
