part of our heritage.”
“Our heritage? I thought you were a malihini from the mainland.”
Malihini was a pretty-sounding word, but I knew it meant newcomer, which wasn’t the best thing to be in Hawaii. I said, “Actually, my great-great-aunt came here in the twenties.”
“For real? Shimura’s not a common name on this island,” Kainoa said. “The only one I know of is one lolo dude who couldn’t possibly be related to you.”
“I think you’re talking about my cousin Edwin-but what does lolo mean?”
“Crazy. And hey, I’m sorry. But he’s full of it, when he talks about discrimination against the Japanese. After the war, they took over politics, law, and real estate. The real Hawaiians are the only ones with a right to complain about losing land.”
“So, may I ask if you’re a real Hawaiian?”
“A quarter, which was good enough for the Kamehamema Schools. The rest of me is Samoan and Filipino.”
So I’d been right about the Samoan part, although I didn’t yet understand Kainoa’s inner self. I didn’t care for his playful, insulting behavior, a technique that big, good-looking men like him employed a bit too often.
As if sensing my thoughts, Kainoa smiled, his teeth sharp and white. “I’d like to shoot the breeze all morning with you, Rei, but I gotta convince Charisse to stop yapping and make more coffee. You try come back here?”
“Probably,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at the counter. There was indeed a long line, but Charisse seemed oblivious, lost in yet another conversation.
“Well, next time you try a cuppa green tea. You might like it better.”
7
I MADE IT back across the Pierce fields unmolested except for by a few knobby passion fruits, which dropped from an old, twisted tree on my head and on the path in front of me. When I entered the townhouse, however, carrying two handfuls of tiny fruit, trouble was waiting.
My father, Tom and Uncle Hiroshi were all seated at the dining table, with full glasses of water. There were empty plates, and knives and forks and spoons all laid in the proper places. They looked as if they were waiting for someone to serve them. But what? I knew there was nothing in the fridge except for ketchup and sugar left by the previous renters.
Trying to ignore the accusatory expressions, I put the fruit on the table, and then stooped to unlace my shoes. “Good morning, everyone, I’ve brought you some passion fruits-which I believe are called lilikoi here.”
“Where were you, Rei?” my father asked sternly.
“I went for a run, got a coffee, and came back.”
“You went to drink coffee by yourself? I’d been hoping you’d gone to shop for food for our breakfast,” my father said.
I glanced at my watch; it was eight o’clock. “I imagine the stores are opening right now. Dad, did you take your pills? There’s that one you need to take on an empty stomach, remember?”
“Safeway in Kapolei opened at seven,” Tom said. “We wanted to go, but we didn’t want to leave without you, because of course you’d want to choose what you need for cooking.”
I felt that sinking feeling again, now certain that I was expected to cook and clean for them. If I didn’t want to wind up like an overworked picture bride, I would have to subtly resist. I smiled and said, “Yes, I’d like to help you go shopping,” before disappearing into my bathroom to shower off all the red field dust. After that, I hustled past them with the towel wrapped around me, into my room, where I unpacked khaki shorts, a black tank top, and sandals. I went out with wet hair, because the warm Hawaiian air would probably give me a natural blow-dry within a half-hour.
Tom took the wheel, in order to practice driving on the right side of the road, and I navigated. Safeway was easy to find, smack in the middle of a strip mall anchored by two mainland chains: Blockbuster Video and RadioShack. Inside Safeway, however, I was pleased to find two long aisles devoted exclusively to Asian foods, ranging from umpteen kinds of sweet bean cakes to sembei crackers and dozens of different instant noodle brands with instructions only in Japanese, Chinese and Tagalog.
Local pineapple and papaya was plentiful, but it was harder to find locally grown vegetables. I did the best I could, searching out island-hatched eggs and local lettuce and tomatoes, and then dealing with my father’s shock at the prices when it was time to pay.
Even with the added weight of a dozen grocery bags, the minivan made it back to Kainani, where I prepared a large breakfast of scallion-and-tomato omelettes for everyone-two whites and no yolk for my father-plus toasted slices of a sweetish white bread. Tom performed surgery on a Maui pineapple, cutting its flesh into perfect triangles. I cut into the passion fruit I’d picked up on my run, and scooped its runny yellowish interior into a small bowl.
When I tasted the passion fruit, I almost swooned. It was sweet-sour, fragrant, and the perfect complement to the excellent pineapple, which was not just sweet but complex, with almost a hint of coconut flavor.
Once we all had food in our stomachs, the mood around the table improved. I found myself enjoying a conversation with my uncle and Tom about what was happening in Japan.
“Rei-chan, I think you’re ready to become a wife,” Uncle Hiroshi said, wiping his mouth with satisfaction on one of the decorative paper napkins I’d bought. “I wonder what kind of dinner Edwin’s wife will make for us?”
“Margaret?” I asked, resenting the easy sexism my uncle displayed. “Who knows if she’s the family cook? It could be Edwin, or maybe the children, Courtney and Braden, if they’re old enough.”
“They all have Western names,” Tom mused.
“That seems to be the pattern of most Japanese-Americans,” my father said. “It probably has something to do with not wanting to be noticeably foreign, after what happened during the Second World War.”
“Yes, we cannot expect them to be Japanese at all,” Uncle Hiroshi said. “It’s been a century, almost, since our great-great-aunt arrived. It’s only natural they are more American than Japanese.”
I THOUGHT ABOUT my uncle’s words that night as we drove the minivan into the neighborhood where Edwin and his family lived. I’d expected it to be a flashy neighborhood, but Honokai Hale turned out to be an older community, a hodge-podge of modest homes that seemed to have followed no architectural master plan such as I’d seen in the town of Kapolei. Chain link fences, monster trucks, and barking dogs greeted us as we parked on Laaloa Street in front of an asphalt-shingled two-story house with rusted air-conditioners fixed in the windows. But because of the height of the neighborhood, it offered a magnificent view of the Pacific Ocean in all its glory, punctuated only by the containers and buildings of the shipyard I’d noticed earlier.
“My goodness,” my father said, interrupting my contemplation. “Could that be Edwin’s father-our ojiisan Yoshitsune?”
Startled, I looked at an elderly man coming around the side of the house, dragging a hose. He wore knee-length rubber boots, dirty khaki pants and a white undershirt. With a complexion like keyaki wood, squint lines around the eyes, and a shock of white hair, he looked like an aged Japanese peasant.
My father bowed deeply and murmured a traditional Japanese greeting, but the man frowned as if puzzled, and asked in a heavy pidgin accent, “You the one from Yokohama?”
“No, I am he.” Uncle Hiroshi came forward, bowing, and introduced himself in very formal Japanese, not the usual way a banker would speak to an old man in a dirty undershirt and fisherman’s boots. Tom joined him, bowing and introducing himself.
Still the man wouldn’t give his name, so I decided to speak to him in English. “My name is Rei Shimura. May I ask if you are Mr. Yoshitsune Shimura?”
“Nobody talk that formal out here. You can call me Uncle Yosh,” the man said, looking me over rather critically. “You came for my birthday, yah?”
“Yes, we did,” Tom answered in English, as if he’d finally realized that was our great-uncle’s preferred language. “I’m Tsutomu, but please call me Tom. Like you, I prefer a nickname!”
“You all a little late.”
