Under the Silk Hibiscus

by Alice J. Wisler

  He snubbed out the cigarette butt into an old coffee can he kept under his chair and used as an ashtray. Carefully, he took the box in both hands. Running his fingers over the back and front, he opened the casing to see the face of the watch. “6 o’clock,” he said. With fingers wrapped around the chain, he lifted the watch to his ear. “Stopped ticking.”

  “It just needs to be wound up a little bit. Like you do.” I studied his face for a smile, but there was none. Perhaps I could get him to talk like he used to about our family treasure. “Tell me the story of the watch again,” I said.

  Papa leaned back in his chair. He sighed a few times, as though the action was helping him to remember. “A young girl slipped into the river,” he began. “She couldn’t swim. She was sure she was going to die.”

  I closed my eyes, letting the sound of his voice take me back to yesterday, back to when I was a boy, back before the terrible war, to a sweet season when Mama was with us.

  “She was going under. The water was cold and . . . she knew . . . she was going to die.” Papa paused. Abruptly, he said, “Did she suffer?”

  I waited for him to continue, but after a moment of silence, I opened my eyes. I saw that he was looking right at me. He was waiting for me. “Uh, yes, the girl suffered. A bit, but she was saved.” Had my papa forgotten the family story? Or did he want to make sure that I knew it? This was unlike him. In the past, he never asked questions when he recalled the special Mori family tale.

  Suddenly, Papa’s hand left the watch and gripped my arm. “Did she suffer?”

  My mouth turned dry, and a lump formed in my chest. Papa was not talking about the girl in the story.

  “Did she suffer when she died, Nobu?”

  I saw Mama’s pale face, my memory even heard her cough and her frail voice asking me to take care of everybody. “No, she died quickly,” I lied.

  Papa relaxed his fingers against my arm. He closed his eyes, and I closed mine.

  We sat like that until the moon rose above us, shining like it does no matter where you are in the world, no matter what you are going through or have been through. We breathed in the sweet aroma of nearby roses, roses that clung to thorny stems before winter whisked them away.

  A neighbor’s barking dog brought us out of our thoughts, and then we knew it was time to get ready for bed. Together, we stood. Together, we entered our home.

  While brushing my teeth, I realized that I hadn’t asked Papa if it was all right to sell the watch.

  The next morning at breakfast, the more I chewed my toast and thought about telling him about Lucy and her need for money, I concluded that it was a bad idea. I watched him read the headlines of the paper, watched him spread strawberry jam on his toast, watched him stir his coffee. And all I could hear was the sound of family history, of tradition, of the value of the watch and how it had been in the Mori family for three generations.

  Sell it? Papa wouldn’t go for it. What if I just sold it behind his back? He was so lost in his muddled thoughts that he would probably never ask where it was.

  But I had made too many mistakes about this watch. Now I needed to tell Papa that while it had once been a noble treasure for us, this watch had become a source of frustration for me.

  As I walked to my store, I prayed for wisdom.

  When I reached Everything But Buttons and unlocked the door, my prayer was still unanswered.

  Aunt Kazuko entered the store that afternoon, greeted me, and while I talked with a customer, she dusted off the tops of some canned plums before flopping onto the chair. “Business good today?” she asked.

  “It’s been okay.”

  When the customer left with a pack of Wrigley’s gum and two greeting cards, she said, “What did your papa say about the watch?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m afraid he’ll say no.”

  “I saw Mrs. Yokota today at the grocery store. She is worried about Lucy. I told her that you love her and that you want to pay for her to come back.”

  “You told her all that?”

  “Yes. And I will tell your papa the same thing.”

  I knew I needed to do this. “I’ll do it. I’ll tell him.” Tonight. After dinner.

  “You can do it now.”

  “Now?”

  “He went to the cigarette shop but after that he’ll be coming here.”

  “You set this meeting up?” I gave her a quizzical look. “Why are you wanting to be so helpful?”

  “I’m always helpful to you. And I will help you with some advice now.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You tell your papa how you feel about Lucy. He loved your mama very much. He understands love.”

  “Do you think he’ll ever get over Mama’s death?” I asked. It pained me to remember how he’d asked last night if my mother had suffered.

  “He will always walk with a hole in his heart.” She stood and began dusting off the tops of cans again as though the action helped her voice her thoughts. “You tell him you love Lucy, she is the one for you, and that you want to bring her back here from Seattle, and that you need money to do that. You say all that. You hear me, loud and clear?”

  The door opened, the bell sang, and in walked Papa.

  “Say it like I tell you,” my aunt whispered as Papa made his way toward me.

  I grabbed my courage. I wasted no time. Now while the shop was without customers. “Papa, can we sell the watch?”

  My aunt shot me a look that told me I had done it all wrong.

  Papa rubbed his chin. “What’s this about?”

  Then I told it just as my aunt had instructed me. I spoke of love, and how I needed money to bring Lucy back to me, that by selling the watch we would save Lucy. I even added that the watch had been presented to our family because my grandfather had rescued a girl and that now it could also be used to rescue a girl. I must have talked ten minutes without taking in air.

  Papa looked out the shop window. “The watch has been in our family for three generations.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s the only tangible inheritance I have left from my parents.”

  A customer entered, creating a gap in our conversation. I wanted the customer to leave, but she was enjoying browsing.

  “Are these beets?” she asked, as she picked up a jar. “I love beets.”

  Aunt Kazuko walked over to Papa and said to him in Japanese, “If Nobu doesn’t bring Lucy here and marry her and have children, then there will be no more Mori generations.”

  Papa nodded. I wondered what his nod meant. After several minutes, he said, “Do what you must.” Then he left the shop, leaving my aunt and me to exchange grateful smiles.

  After Papa and my aunt left, I walked around the shop with new energy. My smile wouldn’t leave my face. I was planning my trip to Mr. Rizzardi’s when a silver-haired woman from Aunt Kazuko’s To the Table group entered. She handed me a small wooden sign made of the same material blackboards are made of.

  “I came here on Saturday and you weren’t here,” she said. “I wanted to buy some canned plums for a pie I planned to make for Sunday’s dinner.” The woman seemed disappointed. She wore bright red lipstick and her lips formed into a pout.

  I knew that she was telling me that I needed to show my customers what my shop hours were. That was a good idea, one I would consider. “I’ll have to make a sign with the hours posted,” I said. “Or perhaps the landlord will let me paint the hours on the door.”

  She pouted even more. Her lips were so red against her powered white face.

  What was wrong with her? Did not being able to buy plums really make women that upset? I’d have to ask Aunt Kazuko.

  Taking a piece of white chalk from her pocket she thrust it into my hand. “This is for you to use on that blackboard!”

  I held both the blackboard and the chalk, one in each hand. “I will use them,” I said, hoping I could appease her.

  “You can write
your store hours on it.” With a sharp fingernail, she pointed to the blackboard.

  At last I realized that her gift to me was to serve the purpose of a sign. I apologized for being thick in the head. And then to make her happy, I wrote out our store hours on the board in my best penmanship.

  Once I finished, the lady nodded in approval. “You need to hang that sign up now,” she said.

  I searched the shelves for a nail.

  “There’s a nail here,” she said, finding an abandoned one sticking out of the storage door frame.

  I wiggled the nail out of the wood as she stood close by, watching me. The top of the chalkboard had a hole and so I strung a piece of string through it. “What do you think?” I asked. “This string should hold it well.”

  Together we walked outside. I pounded the nail into the wood at the very top of the door, just above the windowpane. I used my fist, although the heel of my shoe would have been a better choice.

  Then I hung the string on the nail, and watched the blackboard dangle against the glass. Now everyone could read our shop hours.

  As we stood outside the shop looking at the blackboard, she said, “Anyone could take the sign down or mark on it.”

  I wish she’d told me of her concern before I’d hung the blackboard. I scanned the street as cars sped past. She was right, of course. A little blackboard hanging on a door to a shop run by a Japanese was sure to give all those who wrote about the Japs being menaces to society reason to tamper. I could see myself coming to work tomorrow to find this gift destroyed or slanderous words written across it. I removed the sign, and pulled the nail out.

  “Can you hang it inside so that it can be safe and yet be seen by passersby?” she asked.

  We entered the shop and I shut the door. She watched as I banged the nail into the wood that surrounded the top of the door. This time I used the heel of my shoe. Then I strung the sign from the nail. Now it hung inside where it was protected and yet could be seen through the glass from the outside.

  The woman exited the shop, and through the window, I saw her viewing the new sign. The bell rang when she entered once more, a smile on her face. She picked up two jars of plums. “I’ll use these in a pie for this coming Sunday,” she said. “There’s nothing like a good plum pie.”

  “Thank you. Thank you for buying plums and for the blackboard.”

  The miniature blackboard and chalk spoke to me of kindness. I appreciated this Caucasian woman’s thoughtfulness. With all the hatred toward Japanese, it was nice to get some encouragement and affirmation.

  When Tom came to see me before I closed the shop for the day, he erased what I’d written and wrote the days of the week and the hours in his neat penmanship. We both agreed that his writing was easier to read than mine.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The pawn shop was quiet, just me and Mr. Rizzardi. I walked over to where he stood behind the counter reading the newspaper. Placing the box with the watch onto the counter top, I took a deep breath. With shaky fingers, I removed the watch from the box. The sun streaming in from the window made it glisten. Opening the hinge so that the watch face was exposed, I said, “I want to sell this.”

  “How much do you want for it?” he asked, as he picked it up, pulled on his reading glasses. “It’s heavy. Gold.” He looked at me.

  How much? Over the years, I clearly remembered Mr. Kubo telling me that he thought it was worth about three-hundred dollars. With all the boldness I could produce, I said, “I want three-hundred dollars.”

  “I can give you one-hundred.”

  Without another word, I turned and walked out of the shop onto the sidewalk.

  I heard the bell on the door ring and his voice behind me. “Sir?”

  I took in a breath, but did not turn.

  “Sir, please come back inside.”

  “Three-hundred dollars,” I said.

  “Two-hundred.” His tone was firm.

  “Three.” I tried not to flinch, hoping that he would not see my fear.

  “Come back inside,” he said.

  With my back still to him, I said, “Three.”

  “I will give you three.”

  Back inside, he gave me the money. I pressed the bills into my pocket. I thanked him, and rushed outside. It was the first time I had run home, because I didn’t want to get mugged.

  And now we had money. Tom went to the doctor’s and was fitted for a new brace. Emi said he walked taller now. Aunt Kazuko went to the ladies’ shop on First Street and bought a new pair of shoes. And a new dress and a new pair of white gloves, because all the ladies at church had a pair. Emi got piano lessons from a real teacher. A lady from the church came over every Monday afternoon to teach her. For the shop, I ordered as much as I could, even boxes of matches and towels of all shapes and sizes.

  I bought Papa a new recliner so that he could relax whenever he read the newspaper. I encouraged him go to the doctor’s to get a checkup. He refused. I expected that he would.

  Then one evening he entered the kitchen where Tom and I were washing and drying the dinner dishes.

  “I have low iron,” he said.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “The doctor told me.” He filled a glass with water. From his trousers he removed two tiny brown bottles.

  “What are those?”

  “Some medicine the doctor gave me today.” He took one pill from each container. After downing the tablets, he muttered something; I wasn’t sure which language it was in.

  “What was that, Papa?” asked Tom.

  “If these pills don’t kill me,” he said, “I think I’ll live.”

  “It looks good,” Tom said one afternoon when he came to help me at the shop. He perused the tables; one section was for commissioned items and the other for wholesale products I’d ordered from a catalog. “Like a real five and dime.”

  But we both knew that our objective was not to become a five and dime. I wanted to keep my first goal in mind that this was to be a place that Japanese-Americans—no, make that all Americans—could sell their wares and feel a strong sense of dignity about what they had to offer, and who they were as Americans.

  It was Christmas again, and the town was lit up with decorated trees and lights. Emi played at her kindergarten’s Christmas concert. She was excited that, at last, she was in a real concert.

  Lucy and I talked by phone at least once a week. She’d found a church with a choir. Between choir practice and helping her aunt and uncle with their business, her days were full.

  “Do you plan to make another record?” I asked.

  “It’s not that easy,” she said.

  “You did it once.”

  “Yeah.” After pausing she said, “But that’s not the life I want now. I told you that before.”

  “I want you to come home,” I said. I’d told her that before, too. “I’m going to buy you a train ticket so that you can come back to San Jose.”

  She was silent for a moment, and then I realized that she was crying. “Really, Nathan? Really?”

  “Yes, I can wire you the money.”

  “Oh, Nathan, I know you are struggling financially.”

  “I sold the watch.”

  “Sold it? But why? It is your family’s treasure.”

  I didn’t want to talk about treasures. “If I send you the money, will you come here?”

  I heard her sniff, clear her throat. “I need some time . . .”

  “Time for what?”

  “You know that I’ve made so many mistakes in the past. I’m at a good place now.”

  “A good place?” Without me? “What do you mean?”

  “I have obligations here. I can’t just leave.”

  In that moment, I hated the word obligations. If she loved me, why couldn’t she abandon everything in Seattle and come to me?

  “Good night, Nathan,” she said before I could speak my mind.

  That night I pleaded with God. Please, let her come back, stay here, and be
happy. And as for loving me, oh, dear God, you know I need her to love me.

  Each day at the shop, I hoped to see her standing there as she had that day in July. Tom told me that hope is the word which God has written on the brow of every man. I thought he was brilliant to come up with that saying. Then I saw that very line in one of his literature books with Victor Hugo’s name beside it. Tom might not have written those words, but he was brilliant to know that I needed to hear them.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  She came back in March when the hibiscus on our street were the most beautiful.

  I was at work, arranging items on shelves and thinking of her. It had been months since I’d sent the money for her train ride back to California. When the money arrived, she’d phoned the store to thank me. I told her that if she couldn’t come back to stay, to at least come for a weekend visit. I didn’t care that I sounded desperate to see her.

  After closing the shop for the day, I leisurely walked home. A neighbor on an evening stroll stopped to ask about the shop. Neighbors, I had learned, like to inquire about business and offer their suggestions—whether you ask for them or not.

  As I stepped onto our porch, I heard a familiar sound, Emi playing the piano. But there was also singing. Wildly, my heart beat. There was no mistake; no one else sang “Blessed Assurance” like she did.

  Midway through the last verse, I couldn’t wait any longer. Swinging open the front door, I rushed inside, into the living room.

  There she was, seated at the piano bench beside my sister.

  “Nathan’s home!” Emi cried when she saw me.

  Lucy turned from the piano and smiled, just as Aunt Kazuko emerged from the kitchen.

  “Emi,” she said, “I need your help with dinner, please!”

  Emi didn’t want to help, but my aunt bribed her with a few grapes.

  As the two of us were left alone and the kitchen door closed, I took Emi’s place to sit beside the most beautiful woman in the world. “Hello, stranger,” I said. “I’m Nathan Mori. I was wondering if you would like to sing while I play a song?”