“There’s someone—”
“Don’t open it, don’t open it,” Daniel says, a small plea. He pulls at my arm, frightened all over again.
I think of the knife that was in the drawer of my bedside table, the one Franklin left for our protection now gone. “It’s all right,” I say, pulling Daniel closer. Even if it isn’t, even if I’m frightened too, even if my first thoughts are: Where is Franklin? Where has he been the past year? Where is he when we need him the most?
I open the door slowly, but it’s snatched from my hand by the wind and slams against the wall as if the storm itself has entered the house. The wind and rain whip into the living room. Then, as if carried in by both, Koji rushes through the doorway and shoves the door closed behind him. I can’t believe he’s standing there looking like a crazy man, drenched and muddy in an old raincoat and hat. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life. And there’s something more that has dashed in with the storm: it’s the first time since Franklin has left that I’ve felt a stirring in me beyond anything more than just gratitude. I shake the thought away.
“Uncle Koji!” Daniel shouts, and runs to him.
“Careful, careful,” Koji says, “You’ll get wet and muddy, yeah.”
“How did you get here?” I ask.
He takes off his boots and raincoat and drops them by the door, but not before he pulls a brown box out of his coat pocket.
“I have my ways,” he says. “Wanted to make sure the house was still standing. Big storm, yeah?” He looks down at Daniel. “I know you’re taking good care of your mom, but sometimes it’s good to have two men watching over things.”
Daniel nods. He relaxes into Koji’s hug.
I can’t help but smile. “Let me get you a towel,” I say. “Don’t want you getting sick on our account.” From the moment Koji steps into the house, it’s as if all of our fears have left.
I return to see him handing the box to Daniel.
“What is it?” Daniel asks.
“You won’t know until you open it, eh.”
Daniel looks at me and I nod. Rain continues to thunder down, but my little boy no longer seems to notice. He opens the box to find a metal railroad engine that looks just like the ones that rattle through the Hilo train station, the ones he’s loved since he was a toddler.
He holds it up for me to see. “It’s an engine,” he says. Marveling, he inspects its intricacies, the shiny black paint, the smokestack, the electric lamp, and the red cowcatcher on the front.
“Not just any train,” Koji says. “It’s a Lionel number five steam engine. There are thirteen in the set, and I thought you might like to start collecting. We’ll get you some track, yeah. One day you’ll have them all.”
“What do you say?” I remind my son, raising my voice above the noise of the storm. I look up and catch Koji’s eyes before glancing shyly away.
“Thank you,” Daniel says. Across his face blooms a big smile that I haven’t seen since his father left.
As Koji explains to Daniel how the engine runs I can feel the darkness lift, while outside, the storm continues to howl and rage.
Carrying On
November 23–25, 1935
9
Sanctuary
The trade winds had stopped for two days after the eruption, leaving a hazy gray curtain of volcanic fog hanging across Hilo. The air stewed with heat, and everything simmered in shadows. Nori kept the market open, knowing many of the regulars would still be scurrying through the veiled daylight, bandanas tied over their mouths and noses like bandits as they made their way to the market for companionship and the latest news.
Over the years the market had provided a place not only for Nori’s Saturday afternoon game of hearts with the Hilo Aunties, but also for the old-timers to play cards and dominoes every day in the yard out back, reminiscing about the biggest fish they had ever caught, or the prettiest girl they’d ever courted, until it was time for them to head back home. Nori always made sure to have a fresh pot of coffee, guava juice, and bowls of rice crackers available for them. She’d lost track of how many times their wives had thanked her for giving them a place to congregate, keeping them out of the house. Nori knew it was just as much for her own sake. Since Samuel had retired from fishing after a back injury a couple of years ago, he spent a considerable amount of time out in the yard with the old-timers and out of her way. She had seen Samuel more in the past two years than in all the years they’d been married.
Now that Samuel was retired, she still worried about Wilson and Mano going out to sea every morning. Nori held back her fears and concerns when both of her sons followed their father into the family business. It only proved that the Okawa blood was stronger than hers. Even the eruption hadn’t stopped them.
“With all the rumbling from Loa, the fish will be scared right into our nets, yeah,” Mano said, making light of her fears.
But Nori was always waiting, waiting for when the ocean would rise or the island would rumble with fire and split open, taking everyone she loved from her.
* * *
By the third morning of the eruption Nori was relieved to see the sky had cleared. Overnight, the winds had blown the volcanic fog west, toward the other side of the island. As soon as the lunch rush was over, Nori left Jelly to watch the market and hurried to visit her old friend Leia, and her mother, Mama Natua.
Outside, the sun was warm and the smell of smoke and sulfur lingered. The streets were crowded again, groups of men smoking and playing cards on the sidewalk, hoping to get work down on the docks if they waited long enough. Nori hurried through the crowds and walked up Ponahawai Street toward the Natua house. She usually visited eighty-three-year-old Mama once a week, bringing her the salty dried plums she liked to suck on, but missed seeing her last week because of the eruption.
Today nothing could keep her away.
When Nori was young, she liked to pretend Mama was her real mother. Her feelings hadn’t changed over the years; Mama would always be special to her, loving and no-nonsense, the woman who had taught her what family meant. From the time Nori was six years old, slight and dark-eyed, a mix of Japanese and Portuguese, Nori knew by the tone of her father’s or mother’s voice if a fight was coming, the sharp sting of ti root alcohol souring the air, followed by that rising pitch that made her stop whatever she was doing and listen, waiting for the waves to come crashing to shore. “Not picking one more damn pineapple,” her mother started, followed by glass shattering on the floor or against a wall. As their voices grew louder, Nori would quickly climb out her bedroom window, or slip out the back door and hurry along the road to Mama Natua’s house, the small cluttered bungalow with a screened-in front porch to keep the mosquitoes away. Nori had spent much of her childhood in and out of the Natua house, playing with Leia and her younger sister, Noelani, and staying overnight when her drunk and volatile parents had a particularly bad fight and the hitting began.
Nori slowed down when she saw the sagging roof of her paint-stripped, childhood house, black wattle and barbwire weeds swallowing it up whole. Her muscles tensed and her stomach churned like that young girl again in no hurry to get home, black and blue blotches peppering her arms and legs like dark clouds. Her mother liked to pinch and push, slap and shove, while her father sat, too drunk to stand. Going home every day meant becoming invisible to them and staying out of the way, and it meant not being able to see Mariko until the next morning at school. Mariko had been her best friend, the keeper of all her secrets from elementary school until her death, while Mama had been her home. Nori caught her breath and shook away the sad memories. Her parents were dead now, the road to the Natua house the last thread tied to her childhood, and with it, Mama Natua, whose mind and body were fading.