She didn’t know why she was telling him this, but continued anyway. “If I hadn’t met him that day at the funeral, I might still be in Minnesota, holed away in some office, raising four kids and married to the town plumber.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Parker said.
“I hadn’t expected a proposal so soon when I came, but he had it all planned out. I simply couldn’t refuse. Sometimes I ask myself, ‘Was I wrong for saying yes?’”
“It’s neither good nor bad. It just is.”
A moth fluttered in and landed on the underside of the eave. She contemplated the lacy pattern on its wings and envied such a simple life. “I grew to love him in a deep way—his stability and honesty. He was a simple but good man. Though to be sure, it wasn’t my notion of how marriage would be. I had this expectation of passion and romance. That never happened.”
“You had Ella,” he said.
“Ella is the one thing I am sure of.”
“Life doesn’t come with directions, Violet. We do the best we can given the circumstances, which in some cases can be pretty bleak.”
The words that she wanted to say were wedged in her throat, unable to come out. She picked up his hand and held on to it for dear life. He squeezed, offering her all the silence she needed.
Eventually she found her voice. “I think that being with you scares me in such an unfamiliar way that the only thing I’ve been able to do is shut down. Partly because I never felt this same kind of fire with my husband, and partly because you won’t be here in a week. You were never meant to stay.”
There you have it.
Parker lay back on the wood, tightening his grip on her fingers. She lay back, too, and he pulled her hand to his chest. “I would give anything to promise I’ll be back. But it’s not a promise I can own.”
“I know.”
A chill crept up her bare feet. Ella would be proud of her, not wearing slippers for once. She leaned her thigh against his. Wherever they touched, her skin burned.
“In case I forget or fall asleep, I left a small box for you in the tree,” he said.
“But you already gave me something.”
Parker laughed. “If you think I’d leave you here with an apron to remember me by, you’re not as bright as I thought.”
“Is that an insult?” She turned her head and met his eyes.
His look burned through her. “You know what I mean.”
With her free hand, she reached over and traced her finger along his forehead, his nose, his clean-shaven jaw. Parker rolled onto his side and faced her, using his arm as a pillow. She did the same, moving three inches away, close enough to feel the heat of his breath.
“You won’t believe how hard I’m going to try to stay alive,” he whispered.
She blinked.
He exhaled.
She inhaled.
His breath.
She tried not to think about the war pictures. The twisted metal and sunken ships. Limp bodies half-buried in sand. Dead eyes. But images were one thing her brain couldn’t seem to erase. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“Come on.” He pulled her up and they blew out the last candles before repositioning themselves on the pune’e on the porch.
Heat collected between them, in the tender part of his arm where her head lay, under her palm. His uniform smelled like starch. His skin, salt. Strangely, she craved the ocean, even though it would lead him to more dangerous waters.
“What we’re doing is important. I keep reminding myself,” he said.
“It is.”
“It has to be.”
Violet leaned up on her arm to look down at him, though his face was now all shadow. “Listen, Sergeant, you fighting for our country matters more than anything. For all those boys killed in Pearl Harbor and those other islands. For us. And don’t you forget it.”
He stared at the ceiling. “I guess it’s just that I’ve seen the other side of the Japanese while I’ve been here. Sure, there are the crazy bastards. But most of the population is probably not so different from Setsuko and her family, or Mrs. Kaiama and her love of feeding us with her hamburgers. It almost would have been easier not to know them.”
“Maybe it will give you some compassion.”
“Compassion’s the last thing I’m gonna need.”
“I beg to differ.”
The stillness continued around them. While Violet memorized the sound of his breath, Parker rolled against her and buried his face in her hair. He made a sound like a hurt animal. Something inside gave way, and with two fingers, she felt for his lips, tugging on his bottom one until her own mouth reached his.
Parker lifted her chin and closed his mouth around hers. The kiss ran through her whole body, causing a flutter below her belly button. He brushed his hand lightly along her collarbone, and the next second pinned her to the bed. Her heart skipped. It was like a whole string of Christmas lights had coiled up inside her chest, blinking madly.
She ground her hip into his thigh.
His breath was hot.
Ribs. Abdomen.
Hardness.
In order to breathe, she eventually disentangled herself.
Parker wiped his mouth. “When I come back, I want to take you out properly to a fancy dinner with a big bottle of champagne,” he said.
She felt a stab of panic. “Wait a minute. I’ll see you again before you ship out, won’t I?”
“Of course. Just getting ahead of myself,” he said.
Here he was, not even gone and already planning his return. This was a man worth hurting for.
She missed him already.
* * *
Two mornings later, Violet dreamed that the school bell had broken and wouldn’t stop ringing. All the students were gone for the day and she tried to type a letter but the ink wouldn’t show up on her paper. She covered her ears, but that didn’t help. A moment later, she woke with a start. The telephone! Wrapped in the blanket, she sprinted to the kitchen and picked up, breathless. “Hello?”
Dial tone. She called the operator with shaky fingers. When no one had picked up one hundred rings later, she slammed the phone down. The clock on the wall said four twenty. People didn’t call at this hour unless it was important.
Jean showed up after a few minutes, bleary-eyed. “Who was that?”
“I don’t know. I missed it.”
“Did you try Irene?”
“No answer. I have a bad feeling.” Her voice came out in a high squeak.
Jean walked over, picked up the phone and dialed. Again, no answer. “Either no one is in yet, or they’re too busy fielding calls.”
“The boys are leaving,” Violet said, sureness settling in her chest.
“Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“I’m not jumping to anything. I got the distinct feeling that when Parker walked out the door yesterday morning, it would be for the last time.” Before she knew it, she was gulping down air like a dying fish.
Jean grabbed her shoulders. “Get ahold of yourself. Even if they are leaving, he’ll be back. So will Zach.”
Jean fixed coffee while Violet tried the phone every two minutes, every time without luck.
“Enough,” Jean finally said.
To distract herself, she ended up outside to let the hens out. High wispy clouds hung in the sky, each lit with a variation of orange. She noticed a lone plover on the roof, perched like a tiny weather vane. If you were going to sail off to war, this would be as fine a day as any.
Jean came onto the porch with a steaming mug. She turned an ear toward the mountain. “Hear that?”
In the distance, the ground thundered. It was a sound she had heard before, and she knew exactly what it meant. “Convoy!” she yelled.
They both tore into the house, and Violet shook Ella awake before throwing on
a dress, brushing out her hair and dabbing a spot of coral on her lips. By the time the first trucks arrived, all three of them stood in wait on the edge of the slanted sidewalk. A few other townsfolk stepped out from storefronts, but other than that, the streets were empty.
The line of trucks extended past the last building. Soldiers smashed together in the backs, along with their duffel bags. Some stood and waved. Within minutes, more people filtered onto the streets, cheering and hollering, “Victory!” The marines were dressed in utilities, the air thick with anticipation. Long months of training now gave way to the real thing.
Irene appeared with her clothes looking like they were on backward. “I thought we’d get to say goodbye.”
“We all did,” Violet said.
Ella held on to her hand with all her might as they scanned the soldiers for any sign of Zach or Parker. Even Riggs. It wasn’t until the second-to-last truck that she saw a couple of men hanging out from the side, waving their hats madly.
“Mama, it’s them!” Ella squealed.
All four of them jumped up and down. As the truck drew near, Violet made out Parker’s face. God, how she wanted one more day with him. When they were close enough, his eyes locked onto hers and never faltered. She stood forward and reached out her hand as he passed, and for a split second, their fingers met. “I tried to call,” he shouted.
In her mind, she burned a photograph of the look on his face. One hundred ten percent honest-to-goodness love.
After the last truck passed, they stood there until the sound of chirping of birds took over. Violet’s dress collar was damp with tears. In the distance, the whistle of the sugarcane train rose, shrill and sharp.
They held hands and prayed for a miracle.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ella
Christmas is supposed to be the happiest day of the year. Not this time around, I promise you that. For the last two days all we’ve done is lie around in our pajamas and pretend to want to do things. Like get out of bed, or breathe. Mama has swollen eyes and Jean cries halfway through every song on the radio. For once, I’m not the most troubled person in the household.
Not only that, but the days are tinted red. I see everything through red cellophane and it has me concerned. I don’t want to bother anyone by asking if they see it, too, so I keep my mouth shut. I don’t like the color red. It reminds me of blood and blood brings up bad thoughts. Of Papa and now also of the soldiers and what’s in store.
No one will tell us where our soldiers are going.
We know they took the sugarcane train—what is usually reserved for moving sugarcane from our area to Hilo—from Pauuilo to Hilo, then got on a really big boat called the USS Lubbock. About now they’re most likely turning green somewhere on their way to Japan. Every chance I get, I say a prayer that God spares them and brings them back whole and able to walk and see and eventually get married and raise families and have chicken fights and fun stuff like that. The newspaper shows pictures of facedown men on beaches, which gives me a funny feeling in my stomach. Their bodies are folded at strange angles and I can hardly believe they were once people.
All it takes is one or two bullets.
I felt heavy from lack of sleep and the feeling all over again that something was missing. Life was the same in some ways. We did chores, Mama and Jean cooked like maniacs, and of course we listened to the radio. It just seemed like all the brightness had been smeared away.
I wanted to see Roscoe right away, but Mama said we could visit him after Christmas. He would be living with the town veterinarian for as long as the soldiers were gone. He was growing bigger, and people had concern over how nice he’d be once he became an adult. Mama worried, too. I had convinced myself he wouldn’t change—I prayed for it—but a part of me worried they were right.
Adults don’t always think kids are paying attention and I heard Mama tell Jean that she felt like a tree that had just sprouted a new branch, only to have it unceremoniously hacked off. I knew what she meant. We avoided church on Christmas Eve, and on Christmas morning new gifts appeared under the tree from Santa, who is really a drunk Portuguese man. But that didn’t stop my eyes from popping out when I saw the two big boxes. There was also a small box hiding high in the tree for Mama.
“Some of the kids at school say Santa isn’t real,” I told them.
Jean lay back on the pune’e and gave Mama a look that said, You’re on your own with this one. They were both visions of red in flannel pajamas and wool socks. Snowflake curled up next to them, purring like a lawn mower.
“Santa is real, sweetheart, if you want him to be,” Mama said.
“I just don’t see how he could get to everyone’s houses in the whole world in one night. And we don’t have even fireplaces.”
After blowing out a big breath, she looked far into me. “Remember I told you that life has magic we can’t always explain? This is one of those things. The key is believing.”
Her words spun around in my head while I unwrapped her present, careful to salvage the ribbon and paper. “I want to learn how.”
“We’ll practice, all of us. How about that?” Mama said.
“Today?”
“Whenever you want.”
Knitting needles and balls of mustard-yellow and green yarn. That was my present. Mama promised to teach me to knit so I could help Setsuko and Umi meet the needs of our chickens and those of everyone else in town. I started thinking of all the dogs and cats I knew that might need one, too.
“Can we also knit hats for the soldiers? So when they come back they won’t be so cold all the time,” I asked.
Jean leaned forward. “Right there is a good start in belief practice.”
“What do you mean?”
She tapped me on the heart and smiled. “Because already, you see them coming home. You said when they come back, not if. That matters.”
I nodded like I knew what she was talking about, but what I really wanted to know was what Parker got Mama. She plucked her box from the tree branch and set it in her lap, staring at it like a dog with a bone. The present was wrapped in a small piece of burlap and had a big red bow stuck to the top, made from real ribbon.
“Hurry the heck up,” Jean said, after watching her try to untie the knot without tearing the ribbon.
Mama ignored Jean and took her sweet time. A bit of sun fell in the window, warming my skin. We almost seemed like a normal family, even though part of our hearts was missing, and I realized that with the three of us here, Christmas was salvageable.
Mama held up a metal beaded chain with a dog tag at the end of it. The silver shone in the light, and I suddenly worried how they would find Parker if Mama had his dog tags. Then I remembered what Jean said earlier and I tried to erase the thought.
“Is it a real one?” Jean asked.
Mama inspected the words and then smiled. She read it out loud in good Hawaiian. “‘Hoku’ula.’”
“What the dickens does Hoku’ula mean?” Jean said.
Mama looked dreamy and her mouth bunched up like she might cry. “‘Red star.’ It’s the proper name for Buster Brown hill. Where the men trained. We went there.”
She handed me the tag. Someone had pounded in the letters in a very rough fashion, which made it seem like Parker had made it himself.
I think he loved her.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Violet
After breakfast on Christmas morning, the doorbell rang. It was Luther. He had called four times in the past couple of days. The first time, Violet said she had a roast in the stove and practically threw the phone away from her ear. From then on, she asked Jean to answer the phone. How could she face him and not say anything after what Riggs told her? Her gut had been telling her something was amiss with him all along.
“Merry Christmas. Anyone home?” Luther said as he pounded on the
door.
Violet felt the pit in her stomach deepening. She shrugged at Jean as Ella disappeared into the bedroom.
“Come in,” Jean said.
He wore a red hat, and with his white beard and paunch, he would have made a far better Santa than the drunk paniolo. Violet pretended to clean up paper and boxes around the tree. “Saw your friends shipped out,” he said.
“They did.”
“I have a gift for you ladies. Nothing big, but anyway.” He fumbled around, clearing away a spot on the table to set down a jar of nuts. Were his hands shaking?
She commanded herself to act normal. Aren’t people innocent until proven guilty? For that very reason, she hadn’t told Setsuko yet. She wanted her ducks in a row. But Riggs had sounded convinced. After sweeping up imaginary dust and rearranging the tree lights, she fetched a coconut pie from the icebox.
“Merry Christmas. This is for you,” she said to the wall behind his right ear.
When Luther took hold of the pie, his hands most definitely trembled. Alcohol or nerves? She felt a stirring of doubt. What if Riggs was wrong? Nevertheless, her main concern was how to get him out of the house.
* * *
During the next week, the mailbox became a central figure in their lives. Each day, checking the mail meant sweaty palms, a flurry of hope and, in the end, disappointment. Bursts of news slipped in through Irene Ferreira—the soldiers were laid over on Maui for one more bout of training; they had stopped at Pearl Harbor. Finally, they were gone from Hawaiian waters.
Violet and Jean both combed the papers for hints of where their men might be headed. Instead they heard about two drunk white US marines on Guam shooting and killing a black enlisted man. Hours later, another was shot to death.
“Horsefeathers! Black. White. Yellow. Why does any of it matter?” Jean asked.
Each night, Violet lay with Ella before bed. Since the men left, her sores had flared up and the nightmares resumed. She wet her pants twice in school, both times in shop class, which made her wonder. Was Luther going to work drunk? Was he scaring the kids?
Island of Sweet Pies and Soldiers Page 25
