When they got home Taizo barely ate his supper, was allowed to take a hot bath in the furo even before his father, and then went straight to bed.
By morning he was running a high fever. The doctor arrived and grimly diagnosed Taizo as having “winter fever,” pneumonia. He prescribed a treatment regimen that would only increase Taizo’s discomfort: hot mustard plaster on his chest, back, and soles of his feet, to bring the fever down; yaito, the application of burning herbs; and the drinking of fluids Taizo preferred not to think about, such as the blood of a carp and an extract of boiled earthworms.
And bed rest. Complete bed rest for—how long? No one could know.
Privately, Jiro apologized to Taizo for goading him into swimming but asked that Taizo not tell their parents it was his idea. As usual, Taizo complied.
Taizo would remain bedridden for the next six months, getting worse before he got better, coming close to losing his battle with the winter fever. In fact, he would have lost it, if not for …
* * *
“MI-AOWW!”
Taizo sighed, reminded again—as if it were ever in question—that Mayonaka was not happy. Her miseries had begun with her being unceremoniously forced into a small cage and then obliged to share quarters with assorted dogs, cats, parrots, and cockatoos on the lower deck of the Oriental Steamship Company’s America Maru. The Watanabes had booked second-class passage bound for San Francisco—the whole family sharing a single cabin with six bunks and a communal bathroom in the passageway—but pets traveled steerage. Ruth had spent as much time as she could belowdecks, stroking Mayonaka’s head through the wire mesh of her cage for as long as Okāsan allowed her to stay—or until they both grew seasick in the rocking bowels of the ship.
The cat was relatively sedate up to the boarding of the train, but from the first blast of the steam whistle she had made her disapproval known with her aria of miaows. Even now Ruth was gently stroking the cat’s neck through the cage as she whispered consoling words to her. Taizo smiled with affection at his daughter’s compassion; she had indeed been a worthy choice.
Outside the train window a landscape grander than he had expected was rolling past. The Southern Pacific Railroad cut through the plains south of Sacramento like stitches through a floral quilt; on either side of the train were fields embroidered with pink, yellow, blue, and violet wildflowers, fertile vineyards bursting with fruit, and acre upon acre of strawberry plants, their green bouquets extending in long rows to the horizon. Standing astride the fields were lofty towers crowned by windmills that spun like a child’s pinwheel, pumping water to the thirsty plants.
So much sky, so much land—everything was on a much grander scale than in Hōfuna. But farmland was farmland, and it always made Taizo feel at home.
The train slowed as it approached the tiny Florin depot. As soon as it stopped, the ice-packed freight cars began taking on hundreds of crates of strawberries for delivery to Sacramento. As Taizo’s family got off the train, Jiro’s only son—twenty-four, tanned, broad-shouldered—stood waiting for them, wearing a dark Western business suit for the occasion. He gave a deep, respectful bow.
“Konnichiwa, Ojisan,” he greeted Taizo. “I am Akira. My father has asked me to bring you to our farm. We are honored by your presence.”
Taizo returned the bow. “The honor is ours, nephew,” he replied in Japanese. He allowed the young man to pick up some of their luggage, while he signaled his own sons to carry the rest of the bags and steamer trunks.
“It may be a bumpy ride in back for some of you. My apologies for the shortcomings of our vehicle,” Akira said with typical Japanese self-deprecation.
But the “vehicle” turned out to be a handsome, nearly new Ford Model TT truck, its wooden stake bed painted a glossy green, the cab and chassis a shiny black. Taizo had seen rich haoles driving this kind of truck in Honolulu; he was amazed and impressed that Jiro owned one.
“Nonsense,” Taizo said. “We shall be honored to ride in such fine style. Okāsan, you and Dai sit up front with Akira. The boys and I will ride in back.”
With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the hand throttle, Akira backed the truck—making its signature, deep-throated chugga-chugga—out of the train station. Florin’s business district in 1923 was a dusty collection of wooden storefronts that seemed plucked from a Tom Mix movie, but for one difference: the majority of the stores boasted Japanese names. Hayashi Fish Shop, Kawamura Tofu Company, T. Tanikawa General Merchandise … Taizo had not seen so many nihonjin, Japanese, names in one neighborhood since leaving Japan! He felt even more at home now.
But as the truck passed the Florin Supply Company, Taizo caught a brief glimpse of a chipped and faded poster nailed to its wall, flapping defiantly in the breeze, reading:
KEEP CALIFORNIA WHITE
REELECT
JAMES D. PHELAN
UNITED STATES SENATOR
And then they were past it, Taizo not quite putting together the jumble of English words and quickly forgetting it amid the excitement.
They drove up a dirt road, past flourishing fields of strawberries and grapes. Each plot of land seemed enormous to Taizo, as did the American-style homes: clapboard walls painted white, green, or blue, mostly one-story, with adjacent barns or laborers’ barracks. Farmhands—largely Japanese, men and women, adults and youngsters—were out picking grapes.
Finally, Akira turned, heading for a two-story home in the distance. The land surrounding it was as expansive as Taizo had been told. The house, painted white with green trim, was much larger than its nearest neighbors; its front porch was decorated with bonsai trees in pots, their saucer-shaped branches meticulously trimmed. Akira parked the truck and helped Etsuko, Ruth, and the caged Mayonaka out of the cab. Taizo and his sons folded down the back of the stake bed and jumped out.
Ruth took in the adjoining barn and pasture with delight. “Cow! You have a cow! And horses!” A lone dairy cow grazed in the pasture, while two horses—one tan, the other black—chewed hay in the barn.
“Ah! You must be Dai!” came a deep, booming voice speaking excellent English.
A tall, strapping man wearing the same kind of dark business suit as Akira, his broad face split by a big grin, strode over, bent down, and lifted Ruth as easily as he might a bowl of rice. She giggled to find her legs dangling in the air like the strings of a kite. “Such a pretty little girl! And you like animals? Well, we have plenty of them here for you. Get yourself unpacked and Akira will introduce you to our cow, Mamie. Have you ever milked a cow, Dai?”
“Only by accident.”
“You will have to tell me about that sometime.”
He lowered her to the ground, as Taizo—intimidated, as usual, by his brother’s outsized personality—approached, bowed, and said in Japanese, “It is good to see you again, Niisan. You remember my wife, Etsuko?”
Jiro bowed to her. “Of course. It has been too long since I have seen my beautiful sister-in-law.”
“Indeed, too long,” Etsuko answered with apparent, if not sincere, warmth.
Taizo introduced his sons to Jiro’s wife, Nishi—as shrinking a presence as her husband was gregarious—and Akira’s wife, Tamiko. After everyone removed their shoes, they were led by Jiro into the house. It was a traditional American structure, and in many ways it reflected that culture, notably a tall Western-style dining table made of oak, with matching chairs. A piano stood near the window, its pearl-white keys reminding Etsuko uneasily of Jiro’s broad smile. But there were Japanese accents as well, stylish ones: the polished wood floors were decorated by elegantly woven tatami mats, a Japanese scroll hung in a tokonoma alcove, and tables and cabinets were ornamented with blue and white ceramic vases, bowls, teacups, and plates, their faces adorned with delicate designs of mountains, sea, and sky.
“Welcome, my family,” Jiro said expansively, “to your new home.”