The WATCHER of WAIPUNA and Other Stories GARY PAK
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The WATCHER of WAIPUNA and Other Stories GARY PAK BAMBOO RIDGE PRESS 1992 COPYRIGHT This is a special double issue of Bamboo Ridge, The Hawaii Writers’ Quarterly, issue nos. 55 and 56, ISSN 0733–0308. ISBN 978–0–910043–28–1 Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 92–426 Indexed in the American Humanities Index Copyright 1992 Gary Pak Most of the stories in this collection were previously published in slightly altered versions in Bamboo Ridge, Hawai’i Review, Honolulu Magazine, Mānoa and Scrawling Wall. All Rights reserved by the author. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission of the author. Printed in the United States. Published by Bamboo Ridge Press. Editors: Eric Chock, Darrell Lum and Holly Yamada. Copy Editor: Milton Kimura Managing Editor: Cathy Song Davenport Cover and book design: Susanne Yuu Cover photography: “Nā Koena O Wā Kamali’i Ma Keana” (pier) by Anne Kapualani Landgraf. “Mai’a ’o Kukuiokāne” (bananas) by Mark Hamasaki. Typesetting: HonBlue Inc. Bamboo Ridge Press is a non-profit, tax exempt organization formed to foster the appreciation, understanding, and creation of literary, visual, audio-visual and performing arts by and about Hawaii’s people. Your tax-deductible contributions are welcomed. Bamboo Ridge Press is supported in part by grants from the State Foundation on Culture and the Arts (SFCA). The SFCA is funded by appropriations from the Hawaii State Legislature and by grants from the National Endowment for the Arts. This book is also supported in part by a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA), a federal agency. Bamboo Ridge Press is member of the Council of Literary Magazines and Presses (CLMP). Subscriptions to Bamboo Ridge, The Hawaii Writers’ Quarterly are available for $16/year. Bamboo Ridge Press P.O. Box 61781 Honolulu, Hawaii 96839–1781 iv COPYRIGHT 7 6 5 4 3 10 11 12 13 14 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Pak, Gary, 1952– The Watcher of Waipuna and other stories / by Gary Pak. p. cm. — (Bamboo Ridge; no. 55–56) ISBN 978–0–910043–28–1 (pbk.): $8.00 1. Hawaii—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series. PS3566.A39W37 1992 813'.54—dc20 92–426 CIP v TO MOM AND DAD ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I wish to give my thanks to the members of the Study Group and the editors of Bamboo Ridge Press—Eric Chock, Darrell Lum, Holly Yamada, Mil- ton Kimura and Cathy Song—for their camaraderie and invaluable insights. A special thanks to Susanne Yuu for designing the book. I also wish to thank the following people for their generous friendships: Wing Tek Lum, Bob Onopa and Rob Wilson. And a toast to my brothers on the road: Ron, Ed, Ralph and Eugene. I wish to thank my family for their everlasting love and sustenance: to my grandparents (both sides); to my parents; to all of my aunties and uncles and cousins; to my parents-in-law; and, of course, to my wife and children. Finally, I wish to thank the Ludwig Vogelstein Foundation of Brooklyn, New York, for its generous support. viii TABLE of CONTENTS TITLE PAGE iii DEDICATION vii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS viii The VALLEY of the DEAD AIR 1 The WATCHER of WAIPUNA 10 For the SAKE of a CHRIST 60 The TRIAL of GORO FUKUSHIMA 66 A TOAST to ROSITA 79 The GIFT 89 An OLD FRIEND 110 The GARDEN of JIRO TANAKA 118 ABOUT the AUTHOR 126 COPYRIGHT 4 ix The VALLEY of the DEAD AIR The day after Jacob Hookano died, that old hermit who had lived at the very end of Waiola Valley, a bad air from the ocean came in and lingered over the land. The residents of the valley thought that a Kona wind had brought in that rot- ten smell from the mangroves and mud flats of the coastal area, and they waited impatiently for another wind to take the smell away. As Leimomi Vargas said succinctly, “Jus’ like old Jacob wen fut and dah fut jus’ stayin’ around.” And stay around it did, for weeks. There seemed no end. The residents prayed for that new wind to blow the obstinate smell away, but no wind came and the air became stagnant and more foul as if the valley were next to an ancient cesspool that had suddenly ruptured after centuries of accumulations. The mal- odor permeated the wood of the houses, it tainted the fresh clothes hung to dry, and it entered the pores of everyone, making young and old smell bad even after a good scrubbing. The love lives of the residents became nonexistent. “We gotta do somet’ing ’bout dis hauna,” Joseph Correa complained. The retired sewers worker from the City and County sat on a chair under the eaves of an old abandoned store that fronted the main road. “Yeah, but what?” said Bobby Ignacio. He turned his gaunt, expressionless face towards Correa, then returned to his meditation of birds eating the ripened fruits of a lichee tree across the road. “You know, Bobby,” Correa said in a voice shaded ominously, “I betchu dah gov’ment is behind all dis. Look how long dis hauna stay heah. Long time al- ready. If was jus’ one nat’ral t’ing, dah wind already blow ’em away.” Ignacio, a truck farmer up the road in the valley, spat disconsolately into the wild grass growing on the side of the store. “But I tell you dis, Bobby. I betchu one day dah gov’ment goin’ come down heah and dey goin’ brag how dey can take dis hauna away. And den they goin’ take ’em away. But I betchu little while aftah dat, dey goin’ come back and try ask us for do dem one favor. You watch.” Correa nodded his head. “No miss.” The farmer shrugged his narrow shoulders. “But you know what everybody 1 The VALLEY of the DEAD AIR saying?” “Who everybody?” “Everybody.” “So what everybody saying?” “Dey saying old Jacob dah one doing all dis.” The old retiree nervously stretched out his tired legs, his head twitched a few times, then he looked out languidly towards the mango trees across the road. “I nevah had no problems with old Jacob,” Correa said weakly. “I was al- ways good to him. I nevah talk stink ’bout him or anything li’ dat.” The smell persisted, and somehow it infected the rich, famous soil of the val- ley. The earth began to emit a terrible odor of rotten fish. While plowing one corner of his sweet potato field, Tats Sugimura uncovered a hole full of fish scales and fish bones. He didn’t think anything of it until his wife complained to him later how fishy everything smelled. The bad smell of the valley had numbed his nose so Tats couldn’t smell anything worth shit now. His wife, on the other hand, had a super-sensitive nose and she often would sniff the air in her kitchen and know exactly what the Rodriguez family was cooking a quarter of a mile down the road. “Tats, you wen dump some rotten fish around here or what?” she said. Sug- imura shook his head. He wasn’t the talking type, even with his wife. “Den whas dat stink smell?” He thought of telling her about the fish scales and bones, then he thought that perhaps a bunch of stray cats had had a feast in that corner of his field. The fish were probably tilapia or catfish the cats had caught in the nearby stream. But he was tired from working all day under the hot sun and in the stifling humid air and he didn’t have the energy to describe to his wife what he had seen. The fish scales and fish bones were unimportant, and he shrugged his thin, wiry shoulders and said nothing. But something bad was in the soil. When Tats and the other sweet potato farmers began harvesting their produce a few days later, they found abnormally small sweet potatoes, some having the peculiar shape of a penis. “How dah hell we goin’ sell dis kine produce?” complained Earl Fritzhugh, a part-Hawaiian sweet potato farmer. “Dey goin’ laugh at us. So small. And look at dis one. Look like one prick!” “Somet’ing strange goin’ on in dis valley,” said Darryl Mineda, another farmer. “Get dah story goin’ around dat old Jacob doin’ all dis to get back.” “Get back at who?” Fritzhugh asked irately. “At us.” Fritzhugh looked at Mineda incredulously. “At us? Why dat old Hawaiian like get back at us fo’? He wen live by himself. Nobody wen bother him.” Mineda shook his head. “Somebody tol’ me all dah land in dis valley used to 2 The WATCHER of WAIPUNA and Other Stories be his family’s land, long time ago. Den dah Cox family wen come in and take dah land away from his family. Somet’ing ’bout Jacob’s family not paying dah land tax or water tax or somet’ing li’ dat, and dah haole wen pay instead.” “But what got to do with us? I not responsible. Dah haole wen do it. Not me.” Mineda shrugged his shoulders. “Eh, I was good to dah old man,” Fritzhugh said. “I nevah bother him. When he used to go up and down dis road, he nevah said not’ing to me, so I never say not’ing to him.” He paused. “But I wonder who goin’ get his land now he ma-ke. He no mo’ children, eh?” Mineda shrugged his shoulders again. “Maybe das why,” Mineda said.