My father spoke of the Hakalau Sugar Plantation like he spoke of death—something immutable that taunted him at every risky venture, greeted him at the end of every failure, and loomed like a buzzard over him, waiting for him to stumble so that it could pick his bones. Having grown up in the Japanese section of the plantation camps, I was used to this kind of traditional morbidity, but my father's fatalism was different. He embellished his specters, animating them and seizing my imagination so securely that I continue to dream of death not as a rattling skeleton, but as a hided cane worker, sweating flesh and dirt, his square, hammertoed feet leaving bloody tracks on the porches and floors of my nightmares. We thought of the plantation as part of our family, a wicked stepfather, perhaps, someplace we could always go back to but without our self-respect. So, in January of 1923, when we left the plantation for the third time, we had no way of knowing for sure that it would be for good.
My parents moved into the Palama area of Oahu, an area filled with Filipino and Japanese plantation expatriates, people like ourselves who possessed the immigrant's vision, like a blindered horse, of only looking forward. My father used to say that he didn't have time to look where we were, only where we were going. It would be many years before I realized that this was because where we came from was too deeply inscribed upon his memory. But for me, away from the plantation, a whole world had opened up. Luxuries that I had only heard about and never believed, such as children's shoes, suddenly entered my life and all things seemed possible.
As his own boss, my father worked harder than ever, keeping the hours of his cane working days, sunrise till sunset, six days a week. He worked as a "yard boy"—cut the grass, trimmed the hedges, tended the flowers. They're called gardeners now, but yardboy is what the haoles called it and to call it anything else would have been useless. He prided himself on being quiet and efficient, keeping immaculate flower beds and rarely chatting with the other domestic staff. I imagine the wealthy families in Manoa that he worked for thought well of him, "a credit to his race," passing his name along to their friends, speaking of his reliability and industry. What they never discovered were his little acts of defiance: our eggplant vines growing amidst their hibiscus groves, the rose gardens he would let die and blame on the insects and later replace with tropical plants, the ponds he created upon request, never warning them about the mosquito breeding.
As the oldest son, I helped him in November and December, so that he could charge a little bit more and try to pay off all our debts before the new year. I helped him for years, happily abandoning my schooling during those two months, eager in the promise of more "firsts"—our first radio, first icebox, first automobile, first house—which was the real measuring stick of our lives. My father's plans, however, were different, as he secretly squirreled away most of the money in the bank, waiting for that day when he could purchase us an entirely new life overnight, that first foothold in the American Dream.
So that December of 1923, we were working the grounds of the VanHarding estate in upper Manoa. It was the biggest place he worked for and he usually spent his Saturdays there, preparing the grounds for some kind of gala event: the welcoming of a new industrial pioneer to the islands or the hosting of a private charity. I liked working with him on Saturdays; it meant missing Japanese school, but mostly I enjoyed the bus ride from the fevered alleyways of our dusty community up into the cooler reaches of the Ko'olau mountains and into the shaded valleys of oak and banyan trees. Once there, I was never very much help, just followed him around with the rake or rubbish bag, picked up fallen palm fronds, or watered the hibiscus. But I liked to go with him because sometimes I got near enough to the VanHarding house to catch a glimpse of the inside.
My mother used to call it the ichiban white house, because although the other haole families had white houses, the VanHarding house was the biggest, the whitest, and the cleanest. My father, however, had another name for it: the obake house—ghost house. "Too white," he would say. "No more anybody there during the day. Just like one ghost house." Shaking his head, he would go on, "Why anybody want a white house in the first place? So unnatural, like that. And hard for take care, every time chip and gotta repaint." He would conclude by spreading his arms and saying, "More better have one house like this. If little bit chip, little bit dirty, no matter. Brown paint anyway." Every time he said that I would look at our house and think how poor it looked next to the VanHarding's, like newsprint next to linen, and I would hunger even more for what I thought cleanliness and whiteness could buy: prosperity and satisfaction.
That Saturday, as my father piled bananas on top of me while I made a basket with my shirt, I planned my approach to the white house. I would have to run and stay out of sight until the last minute, because if I walked or crossed the open lawn too early, Otsu-san the maid would see me coming and meet me outside the kitchen door. But if I ran and knocked on the door, sometimes Mrs. VanHarding would answer and let me into the kitchen. This time I got lucky.
"Oh, it's the yard boy's son," Mrs. VanHarding said as she held the door open. "Come in."
"Okay," I said. My father would have wanted me to say "thank you," but at that age, I was polite only to people who scared me, like my father and his friends. It never occurred to me to be scared of Mrs. VanHarding. She was one of those haole ladies with a big bust, but the dresses she wore made her look soft, like an overstuffed futon pinched too tightly in the middle. Her dresses were fringed in layers of white lace, more lace, I imagined, than in all the dry goods shops on King Street. And she was always powdered and perfumed, even for just staying at home. As she took the bunches from me, I stood close to her and inhaled, and was I instantly transported to the plumeria tree in our yard, wet with dew and still riffling in the morning breeze. It was an intoxicating but soothing fragrance, and once I was there, I didn't want to be anywhere else.
After she finished unloading me, she pulled two bananas from the bunch and offered one to me. "Banana?"
"Okay," I said and then remembered. "Thank you."
We both ate standing up. It was part of the ritual. When she was done, she stepped back and looked at me. "Good?" she asked. "The bananas, I mean?"
I shrugged. Big bananas were okay eating, but they couldn't compare to the sweeter and smaller apple bananas that I stole from our Filipino neighbors. "Anything else?" I asked. My father instructed me that anytime Mrs. VanHarding told me to do something, I was to ask if there was anything more I could do.
"How is your mother?"
I then gave her the answer my mother told me to say whenever the haole ladies asked about her. "My mother is good and thanks you for your generosity to our family."
Mrs. VanHarding smiled at me and looked as if she wanted to say something else. In all previous encounters, nothing ever came out. Usually, a minute of silence would pass where she looked around the kitchen nervously, and I would inch closer to smell her better. "Well, good-bye," she would say, and I would say bye, and walk out the door. The ritual complete.
This day, however, in the middle of my sniffing, she said, "Stand up straight."
"Hahh?"
"Stand up straight," she said, as she walked around me and looked. The smell of plumeria had completely surrounded me. "You are eight?"
"Ten," I corrected, which I was, although I felt as if I were lying. "Ten, missus."
"Yes, of course." She stood in front of me again, nodding her head. Her lips were a thin line as she looked me over, top to bottom. "Of course." She looked over her shoulder into the heart of the house, and then turned back to me. "Do not move. I will be right back." And she left the kitchen.
I didn't know what to do. My instincts told me to leave because good surprises rarely came from my father's employers. Extra hours, pay reductions, reprimands, and odious tasks were the kind of surprises I was used to. But I also knew that if I disobeyed Mrs. VanHarding and my father found out, I would be lucky to live the night. Even if I did manage to survive, I could foresee a long week of lectures on responsibility and the precariousness of our financial situation, punctuated by additional emphatic physical reminders. It seemed I had but one choice, so in the few minutes she was gone, I tried not to move. Soon I saw her coming toward me, but I still did not move until she handed me a brown paper bundle wrapped in string.
"Here," she said, "I think these will fit you."
The bundle was soft and I turned it over, but I couldn't see what was in it. I looked up at her and wanted to say something, but I didn't know the proper thing to say. No haole lady had ever given a gift to me before. I could only think of what my mother would have said. "Thank you for your generosity to our family."
"I have a son who is your age," she said. "He outgrew these a few years ago, and they were just taking up space in his wardrobe, so I thought…" she paused and looked around the kitchen and then at me again. "Well, your mother might have to alter them a bit."
"Thank you," I said and bowed like my father did when he got paid. "Thank you for your generosity to our family."
"Don't get them dirty when you get outside."
I nodded, bowed again, and ran out the kitchen door, across the lawn, and into the banana grove. "Look," I said to my father as I held up the bundle. "Look at what she gave me!"
"Who?" he asked.
"The haole lady," I said, "Mrs. VanHarding. She said she also had a son who was ten and that he didn't need these anymore because they too small for him now and…"
"Gimme that!" he said as he dropped his sickle to the ground and threw off his gloves. He wiped his hands on his shirt and snatched the bundle from my arms. "Why you accept this? We taught you better than that!"
"But…but she said she didn't need these. And I thanked her for it. I did. I said, 'Thank you for…"
"No." He shook his head. "No charity. We no can accept this."
"But how do you know?" I knew my father would give the bundle back without even opening it. "She said they were too small for him. She said they were just sitting around. They're probably only boro-boros anyway…"
My father turned to me with a glare that stilled the rest of my thoughts. "Don't say stupid things, Ma-chan. Put away all our stuff. I going take this back." He turned around and walked towards the house.
I didn't try to stop him. I picked up the sickle and gloves. I knew there was no sense even hoping that he would change his mind. He couldn't accept the gift for some Japanese reason, and I knew from past experience that it was useless to try and convince my father out of his Japanese reasons. I just had to accept them.
Even now, I don't know if he could have explained his "Japanese reasons" to me anyway. In times of uncertainty, these traditions, rooted in his custom and history, were the springs he touched upon to propel all of us into our new future. It was a way I could never fully embrace and I would have to create a new way, balancing the forces of my past with those of my future.
After I finished putting the sickle, gloves, and ladder in the shed behind the white house, I started toward the kitchen door, knowing that my father would wait there, hat in hand, for Mrs. VanHarding to pay him. When I got to the door, my father was still trying to give the bundle back to Mrs. VanHarding, who was shaking her head furiously.
"No," she said. "Please take it. These are just old clothes. I must insist you take it."
"No. Too generous. We no deserve such kindness."
"No. This is not a gift. Christopher has outgrown these clothes."
"Then please take the cost out from here," Dad held out the weekly salary Mrs. VanHarding had just given him. "To pay."
"No!" A horrified Mrs. VanHarding looked at me for help. I shrugged. She couldn't win. "Please take them," she repeated.
"No charity," he said. "Not right."
"Yes," she said. "It is right." She took the bundle from my father and thrust it at me. "Anyway, I was giving them to your son. Doesn't he want them?" She turned to look at me. "Don't you want them?"
I couldn't believe that she was trying to get around my father. I knew that if she had not been a woman and also haole, he would have been very insulted and left. Instead, he turned toward me and I could see the violence brewing in his eyes: I better not even raise my arms to accept the bundle—or else. But the look on Mrs. VanHarding's face was equally clear: She was not used to being disobeyed, and I was to take the bundle from her. It was up to me to do the right thing, and for the second time that day, I tried not to move.
"It would make my son very happy, " she said to my father, "if your son would accept this gift from Christopher."
I almost laughed then, thinking, that's not going to work. You have to think of something better than that. But when I turned to look at my father, he had turned away from Mrs. VanHarding and was looking at the ground. He seemed suddenly bashful, something I had rarely seen, and after looking at his shoes for a few seconds, he lifted his head and asked, "How your son? Good, yes?"
She nodded her head but said, "No." And then added quietly, "The doctors say this might be his last Christmas."
My father looked back down at his shoes and then turned to look at me. "My son," he said as he nodded at me, "honored by gift from your son."
I stepped forward and then the bundle was in my arms.
The following Sunday and the entire rest of the week was frantic as my parents argued about what I should give Christopher. In the bundle was a white shirt and a pair of white shorts. Both of them were too big for me, and my mother refused to alter them because she said the material was too expensive and too nice to cut up. Instead, we draped the clothes over a chair set up in the living room, and all our neighbors came over to see and feel the silk shirt and linen shorts from Christopher VanHarding.
We knew that we could not afford to buy him anything that would be as fine as the clothes he had given me. We also knew that we could not make him the kind of food he was used to. So it was decided that I would give Christopher the koa carving that one of my father's friends had carved for me when I was born. The carving was of a carp twisting and fighting against the current, its tail flexed as it thrust its body out of the turbulence, determination and power barely restrained under its scales. It was a carving that had always frightened me as a child; its ferocity was more demon than fish. But my father thought it was an appropriate gift for a sick boy like Christopher.
The next Saturday on the bus, I asked my father why he had never mentioned that the VanHardings had a son my age. He said that he had seen Christopher only once, when Mrs. VanHarding had my father wash the windows. Christopher was lying in bed in a bedroom that faced the back lawn. He said he could see that Christopher was very sick but figured that the VanHardings could afford expensive haole doctors to take care of him.
"So is that why you decided to accept the gift? Because Christopher is sick and might not get well?"
"Yes, " he said. "When number one son dying, it is a very sad time. Doesn't matter if they Japanese or not. Everyone sad."
I nodded my head and we remained silent the rest of the way to Manoa.
My father waited until the afternoon before he sent me to the white house with the gift. The carving was heavy in my arms and was wrapped in the same brown paper and string that Mrs. VanHarding had given us. As I made my way across the back lawn to the kitchen door, I looked into the windows but did not see Christopher in any of the rooms. Mrs. VanHarding answered my knock and led me into the kitchen.
"How are you, Mrs. VanHarding," I said from the carefully prepared script that my parents had devised.
"Fine, Masa."
"My parents thank you for the beautiful clothes you have given us." I offered the present to her. "And hope your son will accept this meager gift in return."
"Oh." Mrs. VanHarding looked over her shoulder and then back at me. "You did not have to do that."
"It is nothing so fine as the gift he has given me," I said. Then in proper Japanese fashion, "This gift is worthless and of poor quality." I bowed and held out the present in front of me. "Please accept this token of our gratitude."
According to the script, Mrs. VanHarding was supposed to take the gift, after which I would take a step back, bow again, and then leave. But as I waited, bowed over, she didn't take the gift. I was worried that maybe she wouldn't accept this token of our gratitude because of what I said about it being worthless. These proper Japanese things are always getting me in trouble, I thought.
"Masa?"
I raised my head without straightening up. "You don't want this? It's actually very nice. My mother made me say that part about it being worthless. It's not really…"
"This present is for Christopher?"
I nodded.
"Then maybe you should give it to him yourself."
I didn't know what to say. Meeting Christopher was not in the script. I was curious about seeing him, maybe through a window, but I wasn't sure I wanted to meet him. I wouldn't know what to say to a sick, rich, haole boy. I straightened up and tried to think of a tactful response, when Mrs. VanHarding said, "It would make him happy to meet you."
I knew then I had no choice, and said what my father would have wanted me to say: "You honor me."
Mrs. VanHarding motioned for me to follow, and for the first time, I walked out of the kitchen and into the VanHarding world. Even now, it is still hard to describe what I saw there. I can't really describe each room through which we passed. I remember thinking that it took a long time to cross the rooms, and there was something new to look at with every step. At the time, I had never seen so much material used to cover a window, with the excess allowed to spill out onto the walls. I had never seen a wooden floor shine. I had never seen chairs where cloth covered the entire thing, not just the seat. I had never seen doors made of glass. I had never seen plates and bowls and cups and pitchers that reflected like mirrors. I had never seen walls made of books. I had never seen an overhead light made up of diamonds, too numerous to count. But all of that did not prepare me for a sight I had never even seen in my dreams.
"There's a tree in your house," I said to Mrs. Van Harding, but she had already moved to the other side of the room. It must be a mistake, I thought. Why would someone grow a tree in their house?
"Christopher, you have a visitor," she said to someone lying on the couch.
I knew that I was supposed to follow Mrs. VanHarding to the other side of the room and give Christopher his present. But I did not want to stop looking at the tree. It was a pine tree, of course, but at that time all I knew was that it was a tree shaped like a green mountain, pointy on top and broader on the way down. I was going to touch it and make sure it was real, but I knew my father would not like me touching anything that belonged to the VanHardings.
"Masa," she said, "Masa, we are over here."
I carried the present to where Mrs. VanHarding was calling me, but kept my eyes on the tree.
"Christopher," she said as I got closer. "This is Masa. The yard boy's son. He is ten, also."
I turned my eyes away from the tree to the boy on the couch. I was surprised to see that Christopher, propped up by pillows, was not the tall, fat boy I had envisioned. Judging by the clothes he had given me, I had expected to see someone who was much taller and much heavier than I was. A boy version of Mrs. VanHarding. Instead, Christopher's skin looked as if it didn't quite fit, like he had shriveled inside from staying too long in the ocean. Against his white clothes, his skin took on an ashy hue, like a shirt that had been worn and washed too often. Even his hair looked weary of fighting the advancing white that had taken over his blond roots. When he looked at me, I felt I was looking into the worn down eyes of an old plantation worker. Eyes that saw everything but kept it on the horizon.
"Hello, Masa."
"Hi…" I didn't know what to say next. I was trying to remember the beginning of the script so I could restart, but the tree and then Christopher made me forget. "…Christopher."
"Only my parents call me Christopher." He smiled at his mother. "Everyone else calls me Chris."
"Yes…Chris," I said and then frantically tried to think of something to say. I watched Mrs. VanHarding squeeze Christopher's hand, then walk past the tree out of the room. "The tree," I said to myself, then I noticed Christopher looking at me. "You have one in your house…Chris."
"Yes, do you like our Christmas tree?"
"Oh yeah, Christmas." I had heard of Christmas. My parents had used the word once or twice, and one of my friends had said something about Christmas, something he had learned in school, but I always missed school during the last few months of the year. "A Christmas tree."
"This is the biggest tree we've had yet. How big is your Christmas tree?"
Our Christmas tree? I wondered if I should tell him the truth. "Not as big as this one."
"Yes, yes, but how big is it, anyway?"
I was about to reach up with my hands and say, about this big, when I realized I was still carrying the gift and had no way to gesture. "We don't have one."
"Your family doesn't have a Christmas tree?"
"No."
"Why not? What do you do for Christmas? How can you have Christmas without a Christmas tree?" Christopher pushed himself a little higher up on the pillows.
Although I didn't know what he was asking, I didn't like the way he was asking it, so I shoved the package at him and said, "Here, here's your gift." I knew it wasn't the proper thing to say, but I didn't care. It was my father's fault for getting me into this in the first place. Why did we always have to give something back? "Here, take it."
"Is this a Christmas present?"
Christmas present? What do I answer? Yes? No? Which answer did he want to hear? I chose yes.
"Well, you have to put it under the tree, then." Christopher frowned at me. "Didn't you know that?"
"Yeah," I said and put the gift next to several other boxes that were beneath the tree. It didn't make sense to me, but if he wanted me to put it under the tree…
"Don't you know anything about Christmas?" he asked.
I wanted to say yes because it sounded as if I should know, but saying yes got me in trouble last time. "No."
Christopher continued frowning while I stood next to the tree. The tree had a pleasant scent, and it reminded me of my sister, Naomi, and the powder we put on her newborn skin.
"You don't know about Santa Claus or Bethlehem?" he asked. I wasn't sure if he was asking me or himself. "Don't you get presents either?"
"Well," I said as I considered his question. "I usually get presents on New Year's Day." Christopher swung his legs off the couch and sat up. "And then there's Boy's Day."
"But that's not like Christmas," he said.
"No." I thought about the tree behind me. "I guess not."
We then looked at each other. I could imagine my father kneeling among the orchids, wiping his brow, and wondering what was taking me so long. I was thinking I should probably leave now that my mission had been accomplished, and was just about to make that suggestion when Christopher said, "Come here. Sit down."
"Why?" I asked, even though my father had scolded me many times for asking “why” so much. No good ask too many questions, he would say.
"Because I'm going to tell you about Christmas." Christopher smiled at me. "I'm going to tell you a Christmas story."
I still don't know why Christopher decided to do what he did. I don't think he was trying to convert me to Christianity, because he barely mentioned the baby Jesus and Bethlehem. Or if he did, I didn't remember that part as much as the story about decorating trees and the flying animals and the fat haole man with the white beard and how he came through a hole in the ceiling instead of the door and gave you presents, everything you wanted if you were good and had listened to your parents that year. As Christopher told the story and I followed his voice and hands, I forgot that he was sick, that he was haole, and felt as if I were with any of my Palama friends just talking story. When he finished, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the couch. Neither of us had anything to say as he breathed heavily and slowly as if asleep. We sat in silence until Mrs. VanHarding appeared in the doorway a few seconds later.
"Masa," she said. I stood up from the couch. "Your father is waiting for you outside."
I nodded at Mrs. VanHarding and turned to say something to Christopher. He had opened his eyes and was smiling weakly at me.
"I was just telling Masa a Christmas story," Christopher said to his mother as he slid his legs back on the couch. "But we ran out of time before he could tell me a story."
"Well, perhaps next week Masa can tell you a story." She turned to me. "You are coming back next week?"
"Yes," I answered, although she didn't really seem to be asking me. "To tell Christopher a story."
"Good," she said and then to Christopher, "I will be right back with your medicine after I show Masa out."
Christopher nodded. "See you next Saturday, Masa."
"Yes, next Saturday." I nodded. "Chris."
My father did not say a word to me at the VanHarding's kitchen door or the entire bus ride home. Even through dinner, he did not once look at me. So later that night after my mother had cleared the dinner dishes, I was relieved when my father finally said, "Why you cause trouble for the VanHardings?"
"I didn't. Mrs. VanHarding told me to give the gift to Christopher. She said that he wanted to meet me, so…"
"You see inside the house?" my mother asked.
"Yes," I said and proceeded to tell them all I could remember. My father did not say anything as I described the things I had seen, but my mother kept interrupting me for more details. What color were the walls, the rugs, the furniture? How big were the rooms, bigger than this house? Was Mrs. Van Harding wearing lots of gold and diamonds? When I got to the part about the tree, my father snorted.
"No make sense, I tell you, " he said. "These haoles. Make me cut down live tree and put tree in house. After new year come, make me take tree out of house. Throw tree away."
I knew I had to wait until he was finished. But he didn't say anything else, so I continued. Then, in the middle of my description of Santa and the presents, my father blurted, "And how you throw tree away? Cannot. Got to burn." He lifted his empty teacup. My mother reached over with the teapot and refilled his cup. "Wasting tree, I tell you," he said.
"Go on, Ma-chan," said my mother, and so I did, ending with the part where Christopher had finished his story and Mrs. VanHarding was back in the room.
"Mrs. VanHarding," I took a deep breath, "wants me to come back next Saturday."
"Hahh?" Like most Japanese fathers, my father didn't like surprises from his children. "What you mean?"
"It's for Christopher. Mrs. VanHarding wants me to help Christopher."
"Help? Help with what?"
"She wants me to help him…" For the first time in my life, I lied to my father, "…learn Japanese."
My father started to stand up. "No shibai, you!"
"I'm not lying," I lied. "She wants him to learn Japanese."
"Why? Why he like learn Japanese?" He was standing now, looming over me.
"I don't know, " I said, scared that this was starting to get away from me like an unraveling ball of yarn rolling downhill. "You told me never to ask why, especially to haoles."
"Don't say dumb things!" He raised his arm. My mother started tugging on his shirt but he ignored her. "Haoles no like learn Japanese, they like everyone learn English!"
"Let him go, let him go," my mother pleaded. "Maybe she pay extra for teaching."
I nodded at him, knowing that if I opened my mouth again, that hand would come down. He glared at me and I lowered my gaze to my feet. Neither of us spoke and I didn't raise my head until he exhaled loudly and said, "No embarrass us."
I nodded again and started to leave the room. I was almost out when I heard him say, "And no get me fired."
I didn't want to tell my father the truth because I didn't want him and my mother to tell me what story to tell Christopher. I knew they would pick a story about one of Japan's glorious samurais who did this or that brave deed and then died violently. Or some story about a child who did not listen to his parents and was tricked by demons and was now enduring eternal punishment. I wanted to tell Christopher a story like the one he told me: a story where animals had magical powers and good things happened to children, and at the end of the story everyone was happy.
However, I did not know a story like that. All the stories I had learned from my parents or their friends were not happy enough, and Christopher probably knew all the stories I had learned in school. Every day until Saturday, while working with my father at one of the estates or afterward at home, I tried to make up a story. But every story turned out to be a thinly disguised version of the Christmas story, except with a fat Japanese man or flying mongooses. Saturday afternoon found me at the VanHarding's kitchen door, with no story to tell.
"Hello, Masa." Mrs. VanHarding opened the door. "Christopher has been waiting for you."
"Is he too tired to see me?" It was my last hope. "I don't have to see him today. Maybe next week?"
"Nonsense, " she said. "Come, he's waiting for you in the sitting room." She turned and motioned for me to follow.
I slid my feet after her, barely looking at the things around me. This time, the VanHarding house did not seem so wonderful, just confusing and forbidding. I suddenly understood what my father meant by the obake house.
When we entered the sitting room, Christopher was on the couch near the Christmas tree. The tree had been decorated with ribbons of red and green, paper cutouts, white candles, garlands of silver, and glass balls that reflected the sunlight. The festivity of the tree only made me feel more empty-handed, like the hollowness I felt when I won a game by cheating. The carving I had given Christopher stood unwrapped on a table. Mrs. VanHarding whispered to Christopher, turned to smile at me, and left the room.
Christopher pointed to the end of the couch. "Hello, Masa. Come sit here."
"Hello, Chris." I was hoping that he forgot I was supposed to tell him a story.
"So, what story are you going to tell me?"
I tried a change of topic. "Your tree looks very nice. Very Christmas."
"My father helped me decorate it," he said. "I did the bottom and he did the top."
Having exhausted all my knowledge on that topic, I switched to another. "Did you like the gift we gave you?"
"Yes, my mother was just telling me that I should remember to thank you for it." We both turned to look at the carving. "So thank you for this very nice…fish."
Both of us started laughing, but stopped almost immediately when Christopher started to cough. He coughed for a long time, and I waited until he was breathing normally.
"That's why we gave you this fish," I said as I stood up and took the carving off the table. "So you would get better." I handed the carving to Christopher. "It's a carp which is good luck for boys."
"Good luck for boys?"
"See this,” I pointed to the base of the carving. "This is the water, the current." I pointed to the flank of the fish. "See this? The carp is bursting out of the water. It is a strong fish and can fight off the rough water."
I put Christopher's hand along the carved side of the fish. "Can you feel it? It is alive, full of power." He caressed the carving. "The carp is not afraid and does not give up."
And then it came to me. The story I needed to tell.
I drew up my legs onto the couch. "Once there was an old couple who lived in the countryside of Japan. Everything was good, and they lived simple and peaceful lives, farming rice year after year. But there was one thing that was missing. One thing that they really wanted but never had. Something that would make their lives much happier." Out the window, over Christopher's shoulder, I could see my father pruning the hedges. I watched him move from one bush to the next, each swing of the sickle fluid and assured, a movement he performed hundreds of times a week. Then somewhere in a dim portion far back in my ten-year-old mind, I thought that if I were lucky, I would be able to move as he did in the world: deliberately and without shame.
"What!" Christopher shook my arm. "What was it?"
"A boy," I said. "They wanted a son." I told him the story of Momotaro, the boy born from a peach found by the old couple. I told Christopher of how Momotaro grew and brought much happiness to the couple, their lives made brighter by his presence. How Momotaro excelled in school and at games. How he was an expert wrestler and a good swordsman. "Then," I said, "when he was still a young boy, Momotaro decided to kill the demons stealing from his village." I told Christopher of Momotaro's journey and of the talking animals he befriended: the dog who could bite through anything, the monkey who was slyer and trickier than any man, the bird who could see further and fly faster than any other animal. I explained how Momotaro was not afraid and sailed to the island where the demons lived and killed them all with the help of his animal friends. How Momotaro returned to the village and gave back everything the demons had stolen. And how, now that the demons were dead, the entire village celebrated but none more than Momotaro's parents who were just happy that their son was home with them.
When I had finally finished, Christopher looked up the from the carving he was still holding. "That was a good story."
I nodded. "When you get better, maybe we can play Momotaro sometime." I saw my father brush off his clothes, and walk across the lawn toward the house. "Like I do with my friends at home."
"That would be fun," he said. "As long as I get to be Momotaro."
"All right, it's more fun being the monkey anyway." And as soon as I'd said that, Mrs. VanHarding appeared in the doorway.
The next Saturday was the first week of the new year, and I returned to Japanese school. I wish I could say that despite our differences, Christopher and I had become steady friends, but in reality I never went back to the VanHarding estate and I never spoke with Christopher again. I didn't forget him; my days just became too busy. Regular school during the week, Japanese school afterward and on Saturdays, adventures with my Palama friends on Sunday—it seemed I always had something else to do, something too important to postpone. Then one Saturday halfway into the new year, I came home from Japanese school and found my father already back from work.
"Didn't you go to work today?"
"Yes, but I had to come back."
"Why?" I asked, but I already knew.
"VanHarding boy die two days ago." He shook his head. "Very sad. Funeral today, so no work."
Suddenly, I wanted to tell my father what had really happened between me and Christopher and of the story I told. But as the impulse to confess welled up in me, I knew that I wouldn't be able to tell him. I thought of the promise I had made Christopher and then abandoned. And as that wave of guilt sucked me out into an ocean of remorse, I turned away from my father, confused.
My father and I never talked about the VanHardings again; I suppose he felt there was no need. I did not understand what it meant that Christopher had died and my father could not afford the luxury of dwelling further upon it.
In a few years, my father saved enough money to open up his own restaurant in Palama, The Palama Inn. He gave his old clients to a friend of his, a recent immigrant to the islands. One day this man told my father that the VanHardings had decided to move back to the mainland. Massachusetts, the man said.
Now, years later, after an old man's lifetime of knowing people and then letting them slip out of my life for no reason other than my own laziness, Christopher's is the friendship I think about the most. I wonder if I might have become a different person if I had gotten to know Christopher better. So in my regret, I do the only thing I am able do. Every year, with my children and now with my grandchildren, I tell them the Christmas story. I tell them also of the boy, Momotaro, and his fearlessness while facing his enemy. And then, when they are ready, I show them the white shirt and shorts and tell them this story. 
This story got mentioned in the Washington Post review of Honolulu Stories. (Thank you reviewer Wendy Smith!)
