The Color of Air

by Gail Tsukiyama

  One look at the bulletin board—heavy with slips of paper dangling like o-mikuji fortunes at a Shinto shrine—conveyed the community’s confusion and turmoil. Every day Nori saw more and more slips of paper pinned desperately on the board—locals selling off family heirlooms and furniture, chickens and pigs, while others were looking for rides to other parts of the island, or for a safe place to stay and shelter for their animals. And still others looked for tents or tarps, blankets, shovels, and buckets; someone needed extra shotgun shells, another needed a tire for a 1930 Ford truck. The list grew. In the past week, long lines of packed cars and trucks waited down the street from Yamamoto’s Gas Station filling up their tanks, while all the canned and jarred foods, bags of rice and beans, and anything preserved or dried quickly flew off the shelves.

  Some locals had already left town, while others were preparing to leave, and a handful stubbornly refused to go. They were adamant in not abandoning their property for looters to come swooping in, and vowed to stay even if the molten lava oozed right up to their front door. Uncle Akamai, whom Nori had known since she was a little girl, was staying, repeating over and over, “When the lava comes, yeah, I’ll open the door and invite it right in.”

  Nori sighed and walked back to the bulletin board to pin up a new list of evacuation steps brought in that morning by a young, earnest geologist. He also told her it was “time to make plans about leaving in the event the army’s bombs don’t divert or stop the flow.” While they waited, each day brought them closer to the reality of Hilo being abandoned and completely devoured by the lava’s fire. It would be as if Hilo never existed. It took all Nori’s effort to pin the list up. She rearranged the flyers on the board until she found a spot just to the right of center to tack up the list of evacuation steps.

  TRANSPORT

  EVACUATION ROUTES

  SAFETY ZONES

  ASSEMBLY STATIONS

  SHELTER

  COMMUNICATION PROCEDURES

  The words filled her mouth until she couldn’t swallow. Didn’t they know? The locals knew all the roads out of Hilo, including the back-road shortcuts outsiders never knew existed. Wilson and Mano also had the fishing boat ready in case of a last-minute departure by sea. They didn’t need directions on how to leave Hilo town; they needed to know what they could do to stay.

  * * *

  As the lava continued to flow toward Hilo, Nori and Samuel retreated to their own safe places, both becoming sentimental, mindful of all they had to lose. A few days earlier, Nori noticed some items in their apartment missing, a family photo when the boys were young, a few kitchen utensils, and a small needlepoint cushion Samuel’s mother had given them. She later found that Samuel had quietly packed them away in a box in their bedroom closet. Without a word, Nori added to the box—a comfortable pair of shoes, her favorite wooden rolling pin, and her father’s ukulele. It was the one good memory she had of him, her father playing his ukulele and singing, “Oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’ Clementine.” His runny eyes focused just long enough to really see Nori, until the song was over and she quickly lost him again to the stink and haze of the ti root alcohol. Try as she did, she couldn’t find one good memory left of her mother.

  They established other habits. Each evening after the market closed, Samuel went down to the docks to check on the Okawa fishing boat and see the boys. Nori knew her husband enjoyed the distraction of having a beer with Wilson or Mano and his old fishing buddies at Hoku’s Bar down at the wharf. The two-story building, with its faded wood exterior and slumping corrugated overhang, had always looked like a structure on its last legs. It had survived the corrosive sea-salt air, howling typhoons, and drunken fist fights for the past fifty years and was beloved by the fishermen. Inside the dark and cool interior, it smelled of fried fish and stale beer, while the ceiling fans turned too slowly to generate any real relief. “More beer sold that way,” Wilson had once explained to her. Now they hoped it would survive Mauna Loa.

  “Be back soon, yeah,” Samuel said, pausing at the door.

  Nori smiled at his reassurance. “Tell the boys I love them,” she said before locking up behind him.

  After Samuel left, Nori went directly to the market’s kitchen. It was where she always felt safest, where wonderful things bloomed from her measuring and mixing, kneading and baking. She kept busy cleaning up, breathing in all that was calm and familiar, finding comfort in the years of old stains on the scuffed floorboards, the worn furniture, the lingering sweetness in the air. Nori filled the empty containers with precious flour and sugar, and made sure there was enough lard in the icebox. She took down two jars of mango and papaya jam from the pantry and relished these moments when she cleared the large wooden table to make room for rolling and cutting the dough out for the morning’s sweetbread and rolls. Every morning felt like a new beginning, like anything was possible, seeing her empty table waiting, knowing that she was going to cover every inch of it with her sweet comforts. Nori breathed deeply. She would leave the rest for tomorrow. She took one more look around the readied room before turning out the lights.

  * * *

  By Christmas Eve, word still hadn’t come from the army as to when they would bomb the lava flow. Nori was fed up waiting. It was Samuel who provided a calming voice. “Not so simple, yeah, the winds and temperature play a big part,” he said, explaining all the planning and logistics the army had to consider. “Planes aren’t like birds, yeah.”

  Nori couldn’t be appeased. “Aren’t planes man-made birds?” she asked. “With all the money spent on the military, they should be able to fly at a moment’s notice.”

  It was up to her to look for other distractions. Nori walked back to the kitchen when an idea came to her. She returned with her largest mixing bowl and a big glass jar that once held dill pickles. She placed the bowl and jar on the counter next to the register, along with a pencil and pad of paper. It was time she turned their anxiety into something more productive.

  “Five-cent buy-in! Winner takes all!” she announced to everyone in the market. “The one coming the closest to picking the right date and time of the bombing wins the entire pot, yeah. And don’t forget your name or I keep the pot!”

  Maile and Kailani had come by while she was back in the kitchen and helped to keep everyone orderly and relaxed as they lined up to write down their predictions. Coins clinked into the jar, while slips of paper filled the mixing bowl. As Nori thought, the betting pool cheered everyone up. By the time she locked the door that evening, they were up to $1.65 and counting.

  40

  Mele Kalikimaka

  “Nice, yeah,” Nori said when Koji walked into the market, his eyes wide with surprise. The fish market had been transformed into a scene from a mainland Christmas card Daniel had sent to them one year when he had to work and was too busy to return.

  In red block letters, MELE KALIKIMAKA, Merry Christmas, was tacked up on a long piece of paper behind the front counter, while Benny Goodman and his band’s jazzy rendition of “Jingle Bells” played on the radio, and two large poinsettia wreaths, no doubt Leia’s handiwork, hung from the front picture windows. On the koa bar were growing piles of papayas, lychee, and coconuts picked right from the trees, while Nori’s sweetbread and tarts sat next to freshly sliced tuna Wilson and Mano had caught that morning, and the hulking centerpiece was a large kalua pig the Yamamotos’ older son had shot and cooked all night in a fire pit.

  “Thought it would be good to forget about the lava flow for a few hours, yeah,” Nori explained. “Sent Samuel and Wilson out to cut down an island pine.” She pointed to the large tree they’d decorated with flowers and colorful ribbons and put up next to the back tables. “Just like the movies, yeah.”

  The first time Koji had ever seen a real Christmas tree was when Daniel was still a toddler and Mariko had asked him to help cut down a small pine for the house. He was confused at first; didn’t seem to make sense dragging a live tree into the living room, but when he saw the tree
decorated, the sharp, woody tang of pine in the air, and Daniel running around it with such joy, he saw the sense of it.

  “Went all out, eh,” Koji said. He knew it had nothing to do with the haole religion. Nori’s Christmas had to do with cheering up the community. If this was to be their last celebration together in Hilo, then Nori wanted it to be a memorable one.

  “Also brought back this,” Samuel said, sneaking up behind Nori and holding a sprig of mistletoe above her head, stealing a kiss.

  “You are an old fool,” Nori said, teasing.

  Samuel leaned closer to Nori. “Your old fool, yeah.”

  Koji laughed. He stood among his old friends and glimpsed the almost full pickle jar of nickels next to the cash register. When he dropped his five cents into the jar yesterday, he’d predicted the planes would be bombing the lava flow the day after Christmas at midmorning, and he planned to stay the night with Nori and Samuel to collect his winnings tomorrow. He had bothered Daniel long enough.

  The Christmas party had succeeded in not only cheering the locals, but also the restless dockworkers, the new young teacher and his wife from Texas who lived above the Kilauea café down the street, and all the other shop owners and their families in the surrounding blocks of Kamehameha. No one spoke of the flow, and when the dancing began, Koji watched from the sidelines, happy to see Daniel and Maile together most of the night. Whatever had happened to her in Honolulu had left her jumpy, always looking over her shoulder. He hoped that being home again would help her to relax, that Daniel would be able to see her through whatever trouble she was having. Koji touched the bandage that covered his forehead, his stitches itching more than anything else. He pressed against it gently, trying not to scratch.

  “It means you’re healing,” Daniel said, walking over to him. “Just leave it alone,” he scolded with a smile. “You’ll be as good as new in a few days.”

  Koji lifted his beer in a toast, happy to get on with his life, and drank. He looked again to see Daniel’s gaze lingering on him until he began to feel uncomfortable.

  “You didn’t tell me the knife wound was so bad you had to quit cutting cane,” he said, his voice low and serious.

  Koji didn’t have to guess. “You talked to Nori.”

  Daniel nodded.

  “It was time anyway, yeah,” Koji said. “I was in my thirties, middle-aged. Most cutters already retired, finding easier work planting or milling or moving down to town to work as mechanics or knife sharpeners, like Uncle Chigo. Others just simplifying, yeah, living off the land, eh.”

  Daniel shook his head. “What about Uncle Razor?”

  Koji swallowed. Suddenly the room seemed to shift and the Christmas music blared too loudly from the radio. “It wasn’t his time.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Daniel said.

  Koji steadied himself. No one would ever be able to convince him he couldn’t have saved Razor’s life had he been at the meeting that night. It would always be his burden to carry, something he sensed Daniel knew all about.

  Koji leaned in closer. “It wasn’t your fault either,” he said.

  * * *

  Koji lay in Mano’s cramped twin bed; thankful he was so tired, he closed his eyes and fell immediately into a dream. He was back near his train cottage perched above the cane fields. It was windy as he stood outside looking down at the distant lights flickering from the other villages scattered around the plantation, each celebrating Christmas in their own way. As a boy, Christmas was simply a rare day off, while all the families at Kazoku village prepared and gathered for the New Year, bringing food to share. It was always his favorite time of the year.

  As Koji walked back up the dirt slope to his cottage, he looked out at the wavering shadows of the uncut cane fields. The winds had picked up and he felt something or someone tugging on his sleeve. Koji paused when a rustling movement at the edge of the darkening field caught his eye and filled him with hope. Razor. He hadn’t seen his old friend since the day he left for Hilo and stopped at the cabin. Koji stood and waited, his wound tingling until he saw the tall leaves part and Razor step out from the cane field.

  Koji hurried back down the road to the field, happy to see his old friend. “I was wondering when I’d see you again,” he said.

  Razor stood, waiting. “You the one been gone, yeah,” he said, and smiled.

  “Lot’s happening, eh. Back now,” Koji said.

  Razor pointed to his forehead. “Bumped your head?”

  “Tripped.”

  Razor reached for the whiskey bottle in his shirt pocket. “Cures all,” he said, offering it to him.

  Koji declined.

  “Like I told you, Pele’s having her way, eh.”

  Koji nodded. “You were right, yeah. The army wants to bomb the vents, divert the flow away from Hilo.”

  Razor laughed. “Won’t make any difference,” he said, shaking his head.

  Koji missed this, their simple conversations that set the world right, even if they were wrong. “I’m sorry,” he suddenly said. “I’ve always wanted to tell you, yeah. I’m sorry I wasn’t at the meeting that night,” he said, the old ache rising again. “I was supposed to be there, I promised you. I would have, but Franklin—”

  Razor inched forward. “No need,” he said.

  “It’s important you know, yeah, I want you to know.”

  “I do,” Razor said. He looked toward the field of cane and back again. “I do know. I wanted you to see that I was more than that crazy kid you grew up with, eh.”

  “Much more,” Koji said.

  The sky darkened. Last chance for daylight before the spirits came out, his father had said. He’d lost his oldest friend that night, while Franklin had lived. Razor’s death would always haunt him. The years since had allowed him to bury that night until Daniel’s return stirred everything back to the surface again.

  Razor shook his head. “Franklin always put his needs ahead of everyone else’s, yeah. Nothing would have changed; you couldn’t have saved me. If not that night, would have been another.”

  Koji swallowed. “I should have been there for you.”

  Razor drank from his bottle. “You have been,” he said. “Life doesn’t boil down to one night, yeah. Remember the time Laki ran into the fields? You saved us both that day from that crazy luna. Don’t know if he wanted to kill me or the dog more, eh.”

  Koji smiled at the memory.

  Laki had suddenly showed up in Kazoku village one day and never left. The dog was as playful and tenacious as his size, and he and Razor had adopted each other almost immediately. His friend loved that dog in an easy way he’d never shown to anyone else before. Laki took to trailing Razor everywhere, and was especially eager to follow Razor into the cane fields every morning, even when his friend did everything he could to keep the dog away from the lunas. If Razor tied Laki up, he’d gnaw through the rope; if he closed him in a room, he’d find a way out. Nothing could keep him penned up without his breaking free. “A free spirit, yeah, can’t keep Laki down for long,” Razor boasted.

  One morning, when Razor thought the dog was secured, Laki came running through the cane fields looking for him, loping across the tall shoots, panting wildly and crushing anything in his way. Just as they caught sight of Laki, so did a luna on his horse at the edge of the field. The foreman rode down the path toward them, dirt rising, whip in hand, and quickly brought the strip of stinging leather down on Razor’s shoulders. “What the hell did I tell you about keeping that mutt out of the fields?!” he yelled. Just as quickly, Laki turned and charged, spooking and nipping at the horse as it rose on its haunches and came down hard before taking off down the path, the luna trying to calm the frightened animal. Razor quickly grabbed Laki and dragged him out of the field, while Koji began cutting not only his row of cane, but Razor’s too. By the time the luna returned on foot, Laki was gone, and they were both down the field cutting another row of cane as if nothing happened.

  Razor laughed before turning ser
ious. “Best dog, yeah.”

  “Best.”

  Koji knew he was thinking of what had happened two nights later when they found Laki lying at the back door of the Takahashi’s cottage, his stomach sliced open, his intestines dragged halfway out and being picked at by crows. Razor screamed and kicked the crows away and then went silent. He pushed Laki’s intestines back in, his gray, matted fur stained a rusty red by the dry blood, then picked him up and walked toward the fields. It was one of the few times Koji had seen his friend cry. After Laki was killed, Razor was never the same. The fun-loving, carefree Razor he grew up with became more and more involved with the growing labor movement, a staunch fighter against the lunas and plantation owners whom he blamed for Laki’s death. Koji was proud to see the fight Razor had helped to start continue to grow in numbers that could no longer be denied.

  “You helped to start something big, yeah,” Koji said. “The unions have grown tenfold, their voices louder than ever.”

  “Not for nothing, eh?”

  Koji shook his head. “You did good.”

  Razor smiled and looked at him in the eyes. “You the only one blaming yourself all these years, you need to let me go, yeah.”

  “No, don’t. Stay.”

  Razor suddenly appeared like the young boy Koji first met, mischievous and playful. “Got other business,” he said.

  He turned around and lifted his hand in a wave as he disappeared back into the fields. There was the sudden rustling of the leaves, and Koji could have sworn he heard Laki nipping and panting after him.