Ruth celebrated the New Year, 1922, in Japanese fashion, enjoying a feast of special foods including New Year’s soup, mashed sweet potatoes with chestnuts, fish cake, sweetened black beans, and—Ruth’s favorite—mochi, sticky white rice cakes (she helped her mother prepare them by gleefully mashing the grains of rice with a wooden mallet). She was thrilled to learn that by tradition, the birthdays of everyone in the family were all celebrated on New Year’s, with even more gifts and sweets. Being Japanese was fun!
Sister Lu visited on Ruth’s actual birthday, February 8. After she hugged her, Ruth ran over to Mayonaka, snapped her up, and brought the startled cat to Louisa. “This is Mayonaka,” Ruth said as if introducing a queen.
Louisa scratched the cat’s head and smiled. “Oh, she’s quite beautiful. You are a lucky girl, Ruth.”
Later, after drinking hot tea and sampling mochi prepared by Etsuko, Louisa gave Ruth a small stuffed cow as a birthday present: “This is to make sure you don’t forget all the people who loved you at Kapi'olani Home.”
But of course she would, eventually. And soon even Honolulu itself would recede like a dream into memory.
Late in the year, as the red fruit of the Christmasberry tree could be seen gracing the slopes of Mount Tantalus, Etsuko was mopping the floors when she heard Taizo ascending the stairs. Usually he only came up once a day, for lunch. Now he stood in the doorway looking like a scarecrow that’s had the straw knocked out of it, holding a letter in his callused hands.
“I just received this,” he told her in Japanese. “From Jiro.”
Jiro—“second son”—was Taizo’s brother, older by three years. He had been the first in the family to immigrate to Hawai'i when, according to tradition, their eldest brother, Ichirō, inherited the family farm in Hōfuna. Taizo, who had always idolized the brash, boastful Jiro, followed him, seven years later, to Hawai'i—only to discover that Jiro, after years of work as an itinerant laborer, had saved enough money to move to faraway California, where he was eventually able to purchase his own farm.
Etsuko had never cared much for Jiro but was still alarmed by her husband’s demeanor. “Taizo, what is it? Is Jiro all right?”
“He has a rich man’s problem. Says the farm has grown too large for him to manage on his own.”
“How large is it?”
“A hundred acres. A huge estate by any measure.” He read: “‘All of my daughters have married and I have only my son Akira to help me. The farm is not producing as abundantly as it once did, and I have need of someone with your experience. You always were the better farmer, little brother.’”
Etsuko could see the pride in Taizo’s eyes as he looked up, but she couldn’t help frowning. “A braggart’s flattery is not worth filling a thimble.”
Taizo ignored this, finished reading: “‘And so I humbly ask you, Taizo, to give due consideration to becoming my partner in the farm.’”
Etsuko was genuinely astonished. “What?”
“He is serious. He says he will give me half ownership in the farm if I—if we—move to California.”
Etsuko, as stunned as if Jiro had reached across the Pacific to swat her on the head, sank slowly onto a zabuton at the dining table.
Taizo had expected this response and said dryly, “Such fervid displays of enthusiasm are most unseemly, Okāsan.”
She looked up at him, in no mood for jokes. “You cannot be serious.”
“Land, Etsuko! We can own our own land, as we always dreamed of.”
“Land in Hawai'i, yes,” she countered. “We have built a life here, fifteen years’ worth. You would toss all that aside?”
“I would exchange it for a better life, in California.”
“And what of the keiki?” She had been here so long she used the Hawaiian word as a matter of course.
“Children can adapt to any circumstance.”
Etsuko shook her head. “I don’t understand any of this. Why doesn’t he just hire someone to help him?”
“Because he wants me, his brother. Is that so unusual?”
“It is for Jiro.”
“Etsuko, believe me. I would not consider moving you and the children across another ocean just because Jiro’s words please me.”
“Then why?”
Taizo sat down beside her. “You know why. I love farming. Not laboring on a plantation, but our own farm, growing the food my family eats and the crops we sell—as my ancestors did. And if this is not my ancestors’ land, it would be ours to bequeath, in part, to Haruo and his children. You knew me in Hōfuna—have you ever seen me as happy doing anything else?”
Etsuko saw the light in his eyes and knew she could not deny him. In Japan, a husband would not even have bothered to discuss this with his wife. But this was America, and it had worked its alchemy on Taizo as it did on all who settled there.
She softened, trying to put aside her trepidation. “You say he offers—half ownership?”
“It would have to be done in Haruo’s name once he comes of age, since noncitizens cannot own land in California. The other half is in Akira’s name, since he is an American citizen. There is more than enough land for us all.”
She had to admit to herself, it was a substantial offer.
“It would be a blessing,” she allowed, “to be able to pass on land to our children. Would it not?”
He nodded.
She considered a long moment—then forced a smile, feigning an excitement she hoped someday to feel.
Here, in the privacy of their home, she tenderly put a hand on his.
“Then when the children come home from school,” she said, “we shall tell them they are about to go on an exciting new adventure—in California.”
The joy in his face made her heart sing.
“We will have a better life. Trust me.”
She smiled. “I always have.”
Their children would have been quite shocked, then, to see their decorous, undemonstrative parents seal that trust—with a long, ardent kiss.
Chapter 4
It was early in April of 1895—just before the start of the school year in Okayama-ken—when Jiro, then fifteen, invited Taizo, twelve, on a fishing trip to the Asahi River. The sky was overcast with a light wind combing the water’s surface, which Jiro preferred: “The fish don’t move as much on a cloudy, windy day.” His theory seemed to be borne out. At first they caught only tiny tanago, but soon they were pulling in some of the larger, rainbow-hued kyusen, a few smaller shiro-gisu, and finally, one or two big suzuki, Japanese bass. The flopping, twitching fish soon filled the big metal bucket they had brought along. But before they turned to the long trek back to Hōfuna, Jiro spontaneously began stripping off his work jacket.
“What are you doing, Niisan?” Taizo asked.
“Going for a swim.” Jiro slipped his shoes and trousers off and stood there in his undergarments. “Race you across!”
“The water seems a little cold,” Taizo noted warily.
“If you are afraid of a little cold water,” Jiro taunted, “then stay here with your tail between your legs until I return.” He dove into the crystalline waters.
The taunt stung, as usual, and Taizo began peeling off his clothes. He really didn’t want to go swimming, but he would not let Jiro think he was afraid. He jumped in, and the frigid slap of the water chilled him to his marrow.
But Jiro was happily swimming across the river and Taizo was damned if he would get out now. Stroke for stroke, he followed his elder brother.
At this point, the Asahi was fairly narrow—barely a hundred-odd yards wide—so swimming across it was hardly difficult. And Taizo had to admit that it was lovely looking up at the mountains, like towering green pagodas on either side of the river.
They swam to the other shore and back again. Jiro won, of course. When Taizo emerged from the water the wind gave him goose pimples, but he followed Jiro’s example of toweling off with his jacket, then dressed quickly and picked up his fishing pole and the bucket of fish they had caught.
Soon the wind raking his wet jacket set Taizo’s teeth to chattering, and though at first Jiro joked about this, he quickly realized his brother’s discomfort. “Here, let me take those,” he said, grabbing Taizo’s fishing pole and the bucket of fish. Taizo nodded his thanks, then crossed his arms and tried in vain to warm himself with his hands, like a wet match that could not be lit.