The Color of Air

by Gail Tsukiyama

  Leia opened her eyes to a blinding light from above, and a woman’s hand, half covering her mouth and smelling of eucalyptus, on her cheek. “Quiet, quiet now, don’t make trouble, yeah. It’ll all be over soon.”

  More than thirty years later, Leia still occasionally felt a twinge where the baby had been scraped away, raw and tender. They’d given her something to numb the pain, and in her weakened state she was no longer frightened. She’d lost all feeling and just wanted to close her eyes and sleep. Leia had lost so much blood that afternoon she’d felt light-headed and wondered if she were dying. She knew it wasn’t just the baby, but a part of her that had seeped away too. When it was over, the older woman said, “Let her rest here while you clean up.” The younger woman had long ago let go of her arms, but Leia still couldn’t move. She wondered if they had wrapped the baby up in newspaper like a dead fish. Tears came slowly. If Nori, Mariko, and Koji hadn’t been there waiting for her, helping her home with what they told Mama was the stomach flu, Leia never would have made it back from that cold, dank cabin, but for the longest time she wished they had left her there too.

  * * *

  Nori still shook every time she thought of that day. Years later, Mama had said to her, “Did you think I didn’t know? Stomach flu,” she spit out the words in disgust. “Did you think I didn’t look into the eyes of my daughter and know all that was lost?”

  The past flickered and was gone again.

  Nori slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Samuel, and began to dress. She was wide awake and might as well make herself useful down in the kitchen. The lava flow hadn’t reached Hilo yet, and until it did, she still had a community to take care of.

  31

  Packing

  Koji fiddled with the radio knob through static until a voice caught and came clearly through. He listened every night for the past week, following the lava’s steady flow toward Hilo, with no signs of slowing. He knew Nori was worried, not for herself, but for Mama and all those in the community who couldn’t help themselves. She tried not to show it, but he saw her fear as she waited anxiously for Pele to shift her flow in another direction, or grow bored and simply stop, just as she had so many times before.

  Koji learned early on just how protective Nori could be for those she cared for. A few months after they’d met the girls, they were all gathered on Onekahakaha beach again. He and Razor had almost missed the sugar train down to Hilo trying to clean up and look presentable. He wanted to make a good impression on Mariko, only for her to spend most of her time with Franklin. There’d been an anxious hum in the air, and Koji noticed that Leia sat quiet most of the afternoon, uncomfortably fidgeting with a piece of fishing line he later learned she used to string leis.

  “Who wants to go swimming?” Franklin asked, with a sly grin Koji would later come to hate.

  The girls stayed seated on the blanket as Franklin and Razor stood, already taking off their shirts.

  “Not me,” Leia said, her voice distant, just above a whisper. It was the first time she’d spoken since they’d said their hellos.

  “What’s wrong?” Franklin asked. “Water’s calm, yeah, nothing to be afraid of.”

  “She doesn’t want to swim,” Nori said. “She isn’t afraid.”

  “I’m not swimming either,” Mariko chimed in.

  Koji watched Leia grow more agitated. “Me neither,” Koji said.

  “Come on then,” Franklin nudged Razor. “It’s hot. We’ll just cool off, yeah.”

  He and Razor laughed as they ran down to the water. Koji stayed sitting on the blanket, and it was then that Nori came over and sat by him, asking for his help with Leia. From that day on, they shared a trust that had never been broken.

  * * *

  Now that the harvest was over, the plantation would be quiet through the next month, and Koji was finally taking up Nori and Samuel’s offer to stay down in town with them. As the lava continued to flow toward Hilo, he knew the locals were growing more anxious with each passing day. This used to be his favorite time of the year, when he’d finish up the harvest and spend happy weeks with Mariko down in Hilo. With her gone, Koji had kept to himself the past two years, numb to everything. It had been much easier to hide away on the plantation, knowing Razor would come by. This year was different: not only did he want to wait out the lava flow along with the rest of the community, he also needed to clear the air with Daniel.

  Koji looked around his spare living room, his leather rucksack sitting on his armchair. In it he had packed a change of clothes and a few belongings he wanted to take with him down to Hilo. He hadn’t expected the memories of Mariko to return so sharply when he began sorting through his few things. Everything he valued was from her, the past everywhere, in everything. Koji checked his rucksack again to make sure the shirt was there, knowing it was: he had taken it from his closet, neatly folded it, and placed it right on top so it wouldn’t get wrinkled.

  “This is for you,” he heard Mariko say again, handing him the gift-wrapped box. It was his birthday, a day he had long ago stopped celebrating. The last time was just after he’d started cutting cane, and his mother had baked him a small cake and surprised him when he came in from the fields. Even his father was happy that night as they sang and he blew out the one candle.

  Koji was equally surprised by Mariko and wanted to know how she knew.

  Mariko laughed. “Did you really think Razor could keep it to himself?” she said. “He was down in Hilo and came by last week.”

  Koji looked away, embarrassed. Razor always looked out for him. They’d grown apart the past few years, and the thought saddened him. He’d missed yet another of Razor’s labor meetings, but his first priority was always Mariko and Daniel. Razor always understood, but he knew his friend’s patience was wearing thin.

  Koji was thirty years old and felt like an awkward kid when she handed him the present. “You didn’t have to,” he said.

  “I wanted to. It’s from the both of us.”

  Koji heard Daniel in the living room playing with his trains, delighted with the railroad tracks he’d bought him, the clickety-clack of the railcars moving endlessly in a circle around the living room. Koji smiled at her and carefully unwrapped and opened the box to see a white dress shirt. On the right cuff, Mariko had embroidered his initials, KS. She had bought it downtown and it looked expensive. She must have had to save for a year. It was the nicest present he had ever received. Koji felt different when he put the shirt on in the quiet of his room. He looked in the mirror and saw a town boy, not a cane boy. Koji had only worn it out twice, once when he and Mariko went out to dinner together at Chu’s Chinese Café, where he sat nervously across from her and could barely eat for fear of dirtying his shirt; and the second time, at Mariko’s funeral.

  * * *

  Koji drove slowly past the blackened sugarcane fields and back out through the gates of the plantation onto the main road. He hadn’t seen Razor in weeks. All the while Mariko remained in his thoughts. Throughout their years together they’d never married. He had tossed around the idea a few times early on, finally asking her three years after Franklin left. Koji still felt that rejection lodged in the middle of his chest, like the hard bud of a flower that never bloomed. Even if she had been right, they were better than married. Still, he would have been happier if Mariko had divorced Franklin, relinquishing all claims on her, but Koji didn’t want to risk losing her. He hoped time would change her mind, and had reluctantly honored her wish to simply close the door on that part of her life without any more worries or disruptions.

  Just past the stripped cane fields along the main road, not more than a mile down the path, was the dirt track that led through the rain forest to the cabin where Razor’s union meetings were once held. If Koji wasn’t paying attention, he’d easily drive right by, as he usually did. Now he wondered if the cabin was still there, and had already slowed to turn down the tree-hidden lane toward the cabin. It was instantly darker and cooler as he bumped along the d
irt road, branches whipping against his truck. Koji’s thoughts had returned to the last time he’d been at the cabin, the handful of men sweating as they sat together, breathing in the same stale, thick air that tasted of . . . He suddenly slammed on the brakes and jerked to an abrupt stop to avoid hitting Razor, who was standing in the middle of the road. Heart pounding, when Koji looked again, Razor was gone. In his place was a rotted tree that had fallen, blocking the road just before the clearing, some thirty feet away from the cabin.

  “Razor,” Koji whispered.

  He remembered that the meetings had been moved to the basement of a house farther down the road after Razor had died.

  After Razor had been killed.

  Koji sat in the idling truck. He wondered if he should walk the rest of the way to the cabin. From where he sat, he could see the forlorn structure. Part of the roof had caved in on the left side, the log walls swallowed up by a slick, green overgrowth as the front door gaped open like a dark mouth. He knew there was no point in going any farther; he was already years too late.

  Koji swallowed the recurring ache and laid his forehead against the steering wheel. You’re not to blame, yeah. It was as if Mariko were right there in the air surrounding him, and he suddenly couldn’t breathe with the want of her. Koji sat up and reached for the rucksack next to him. He took out the shirt, needing to see it, feel it, the whiteness of the shirt against the darkness of the trees surrounding him that blocked out the daylight.

  Only then did he feel better.

  Ghost Voices

  MARIKO, 1917

  It’s Sunday morning and Koji is on his way down from Puli to see us. He keeps better time than a clock, and I’m expecting his truck to pull up to the house in thirty minutes. Ever since Franklin left, Koji has been a constant, helping us around the house, bringing Daniel more railcars and tracks, and answering all his questions. He even taught him how to play baseball a few years ago, which my son now loves even more than his trains. Who would have thought, yeah?

  “How come you know so much about baseball?” I asked Koji back then.

  He looked at me wide-eyed. “Nothing better to do on the plantation on weekends, not to mention the long afternoons after hoeing,” he says. “We still had energy to burn, yeah. We played baseball till dark, mostly against the Chinese and the Sakata boys. Real leagues, eh. Sunday afternoon games still big highlights.”

  Now he spends every Sunday with us, watching Daniel at practice and playing on his school team. Coaching and strategizing during dinner. I feel at peace when we’re together, something I always struggled to find with Franklin. Every time Franklin came home, it wouldn’t be long before he was restless and edgy, as if he were just waiting for the next steamer to take him away from us again. It still leaves me uneasy thinking about it. I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I know now, I tell Nori, Franklin was always a hot spark, while Koji’s a slow-burning fire.

  * * *

  It’s just another Sunday afternoon with Daniel away at baseball practice. Koji has replaced a few rotting boards on the front porch, and now sits at the kitchen table watching me pluck a chicken, gray down rising into the air and floating back into the sink. We’re like an old married couple, and it feels safe and comfortable.

  I remember once asking him, “Why haven’t you married?” It was a few years after he’d begun helping me to pick the mangoes. It was back when Franklin and I had been married two, maybe three years and he was away again. Koji was perched high atop a ladder, reaching for a branch laden with mangoes.

  He stopped working and looked down at me. With the sun in my eyes, I could only see him in outline.

  “No one ever wanted me,” he answered.

  “I don’t believe that,” I said, and laughed.

  Few are lucky enough to know Koji’s dry sense of humor.

  “Truth is,” he says, “the only person I’ve ever wanted to marry was already married.” Then he turned back and reached high, toward another branch.

  * * *

  Standing at the sink, I can feel him watching me, even with my back to him.

  “Want more coffee?” I ask, plucking the last of the chicken feathers.

  Koji is tapping his fingers against the kitchen table. After a long pause he says, “No, I’m fine, yeah.”

  But he doesn’t sound fine. There’s something bothering him, I can feel it. He’s quieter than usual, preoccupied. I rinse the stripped chicken with water, then lay it on the chopping board.

  “Marry me,” he says, serious and sudden. The abruptness of his words at first startle, then hover heavily in the air. Marry me.

  I turn from the sink to face him, putting down the cleaver I’m holding. I wipe my hands on my apron and smile tenderly at him, but I don’t mince words.

  “I’m still married,” I say. It’s nothing but the truth, but I immediately realize how it must sound to him. “I just can’t go through the process of divorcing Franklin, dredging it all up. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve already divorced him in my heart and mind.

  “Just know, there’s no need, yeah, we’re just as good as,” I add.

  “But we’re not,” he answers, his fingers tapping faster against the table.

  “I like what we have here and now,” I say softly. But when I look at him, I see the hurt in his eyes. I don’t know how to tell Koji that I can’t bear the weight of marriage anymore. I married not long after graduating from high school, a girl who couldn’t see the sky through the sunlight that was Franklin. Blinding, yeah. I’ve never lied to Koji. I like the lightness of what we have. I’ve always told him I was happy with the way things were.

  I step closer to the table. “I’m more married to you than I ever was with Franklin, yeah,” I say to him, reaching for his hand and watching him smile. “Please understand.”

  Koji stays quiet for a while. “I do . . .” he finally says, “understand. Too soon now, yeah, but later . . .” He looks away so I can’t see the disappointment in his eyes.

  I’m afraid to say anything else. Instead, I turn back to the chicken lying on the chopping board, to the comfort of doing something I’m completely in control of. I pick up my cleaver and quickly chop its head off, dissecting first the legs and then the thighs from the body. When Franklin first disappeared, I was always waiting for him to return, looking up when I thought I’d heard his voice, checking one more time before I locked the door at night. It was like a fever. I remove the chicken breasts and chop each into halves, then quarters. At every week’s end I told myself he’d be back the following week, but he never was. It would have been easier if he were dead. I put down the cleaver and look over at Koji and smile again. No more, I just want my life to move forward. Koji is a good, hardworking man. No shame in cutting cane, I tell him. What we have now is a family, strong and solid. I gather up the vegetables to cut, potatoes, carrots, and onions that will later simmer along with the chicken in coconut milk and spices. But first I sprinkle salt and pepper over the chicken before dropping each piece into the hot skillet of oil to brown.

  I hear Koji’s chair push back, feel him standing behind me, watching. “Smells good,” he says, breaking our silence.

  I know how much he appreciates my home-cooked meals, having lived such a simple life. Early on, he told me his mother cooked over an open fire when they first arrived from Japan and lived in cane shacks. “One iron pot she carried with her from Japan,” he said. “Root vegetables and tofu in shoyu, sugar, and a sake broth over rice. Couldn’t afford meat most times, but after a day in the fields, yeah, nothing better.”

  Now his evening meals usually consist of rice and vegetables, a bit of meat, or fish from Nori, or something he has picked up from the plantation store. These Sunday dinners mean so much to him, so much to us. By early evening, a wonderful aroma will fill the house and we’ll sit down to my Portuguese chicken and rice and listen to Daniel talk happily about his baseball practice, our words and laughter rising like steam through the kitchen.


  Secrets

  December 17–18, 1935

  32

  Town Boy

  Koji lay in Mano’s old twin bed and couldn’t sleep. The night was hot and sticky, the room above the market still, with a quiet heaviness. He’d left the window open hoping for a breeze, watching the thin cotton curtain waver with a sudden whisper of wind as he lay sweaty and motionless on the damp sheets. When he was young, Koji couldn’t wait to get down to Hilo town, wanting more than anything to be part of the bustling world Franklin lived in, and away from the heat and stench of the fields. Along with Razor, the three of them played ball or gathered sea urchins or had shave ice eating contests. After they met Nori, Mariko, and Leia, everything changed, and Franklin began to skip out on them when he began dating Mariko. By then, Koji was heartsick and preferred to stay on the plantation. Over time Koji came to learn that the only difference between being a town boy and a cane boy was where you lived, not who you were.

  Koji hadn’t stayed down in town for more than a day since Mariko’s death, keeping the memories at bay. Now they returned to prick at him. When she told him her cancer had spread and there wasn’t anything the doctors could do anymore, Koji had stood there speechless, letting her words quietly shatter the world around him. He and Nori had taken turns staying with her then, while Mariko made him promise her two things: not to tell Daniel how bad she was until he finished his residency in a few weeks’ time, and to make sure she would stay at home. “I refuse to die in a hospital room,” she told him. Koji felt a dry tightness in his throat recalling those fleeting months. He used to equate the passing of time with the seasons, the planting, growing, and harvesting of sugarcane. Suddenly life was moving too fast, and a matter of months meant the difference between life and death. When Daniel returned, he and Mariko had two good months together, followed by a handful of weeks that weren’t.