Island Of Sweet Pies And Soldiers: A powerful story of loss and love

At three o’clock, when Mama was poking around in the closet for linens and Jean was swaying like she always did in the kitchen to Louis Jordan singing the “G.I. Jive,” I decided to post up near the window to keep an eye out for our visitors. High swirly clouds floated in the sky and a group of mynah birds were in the grass, fighting over what was probably a bug carcass. From a built-in cushion area right next to the screen, you can see the whole lay of the land. Who’s coming up the driveway, the other teacher cottages on our lane, and even the rusty tin roofs of houses below the school.

Our new chicken was still alive and wrapped in an old blanket next to me. The whole way home in the car, I rubbed just under her eye. Mr. Manabat, who lives out near our land and sells eggs, said that’s how to hypnotize a chicken. I thought maybe it would cheer her up. Mama agreed that we could call her Brownie, which I came up with all on my own.

For some reason, I was curious about Zach. He was nice, even if he thought my butterfly was a buttercat. And I didn’t want to disappoint him by telling him that no such thing existed. I decided to draw another butterfly that looked more like a real one, with orange-and-black lacy wings. I wanted him to see it. I got the crazy idea that if I got on the soldiers’ good side, they could help me sort out my problems. Maybe we could teach God a thing or two. I had been asking God repeatedly to tell me what to do about this horrible knowledge inside of me, but for some reason He never answered. I was beginning to wonder if at some point in my short life I did something to upset Him, or if He was just too busy with the war going on and all the new prayers to answer.

The problem is, I don’t know who to trust outside the house—besides the Hamasus and Irene Ferreira. Not talking to strangers is getting harder with so many strangers around. I am pretty sure I can trust Zach, though, since he is Jean’s brother and he has honest eyes and one of those faces that smile from the inside out. I call them trust faces.

Did you know that about people? You can tell a lot about them by the way they look at you. Take Miss Irene Ferreira, our telephone operator. Her eyes are huge and chocolaty and clear. They’re always so open that you would know right away if she was hiding something. She is simply unable to keep a secret by manner of those big eyes.

Old people also have interesting eyes. It seems like their eyes know so much that they hardly have to say anything. Mr. Hayashi is like that. He sits in the back of the store, carving things out of wood. I’m not sure he can even see, but that doesn’t stop him. He still has all his teeth, which is rare for old people, and he shows them off when I sit down on the stool next to him. Mama takes her ration tickets there, and while she picks out flour and rice and things for the kitchen, I sit with him. He used to carve Japanese characters onto small blocks of wood, but now he sticks to American letters, or stars or animals. Even though his eyes are milky, it seems like he can see right through me.

Sometimes that makes me nervous. I don’t want anyone to see into my head. It’s bad enough that I’m in danger and scared of my own shadow, but I don’t want anyone else to know what I know. Then they could be, too.

Chapter Nine (#ulink_c5d39415-74c5-51b3-9d9b-7d06e114ef3c)

Violet

“Lateness is rudeness,” so her mother always said, but Violet wanted to give Zach the benefit of the doubt. Jean paced on the porch, as her lips moved with the words playing on the radio. A picture of lovely, she wore a red pleated skirt and a white blouse. As always, the fire-engine-red lipstick set off the gold in her hair. Violet had stuck with a plain blue dress with red buttons. She had sewn them on herself one night while feeling patriotic.

“I’m sure he has a good reason. Once you’re in the military, your time is not your own,” Violet said.

“Zach never was good with time. I should have guessed he’d be late.”

No sooner had she spoken the words than a military jeep rattled into the driveway. Three men hung halfway out the windows, waving. Singing must have run in the family, because Zach and a redhead were hollering like fools. By the time they arrived at the front door, it was obvious why they’d been late.

“Alma Jean Quinlan, are you ready to dance?” Zach called from the steps as they filed up.

Jean shot Violet a look before answering. “Where have you boys been?”

All three of them stood in varying degrees of leaning and swaying, and removed their hats. Her cheeks heated up. If late was rude, late and sauced was inexcusable.

Zach’s smile must have been a mile wide. “Ladies, I believe you’ve met Parker, and this here is Tommy O’Brien, the fastest man this side of the Pacific Ocean. I apologize for our lateness, but we had to meet up with a few members of our company at the hotel.”

Violet stood on the front porch, deciding whether to say anything. But since she had nothing nice to say, she kept quiet. Jean ushered them into the living room, where Ella still sat by the window, only now she was drawing rather than watching.

“Where’s my talented little friend Ella?” Zach said.

“Ella, honey, please greet our guests. These are very important men, so we need to treat them with respect,” she said, wondering if Ella would pick up on their drunkenness.

Ella waved at the men and said, “Hello, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” And immediately went back to her paper. The hen began clucking at the intrusion.

“What do you have here?” Zach said. In two strides, he was at Ella’s side.

“Why don’t you tell them how we got it,” Violet said.

Everyone crowded around the chicken in the blanket, whose clucking had taken on a frantic tone.

Parker bent down for a closer look. “She’s just about in tune with the radio. This little lady yours?”

Ella nodded.

“Looks like she got in a fight with a lawn mower. What happened?” he asked.

Ella pinched her lips together and without a word climbed down and started rubbing under Brownie’s eye. Violet was impressed at the tenderness of her touch. How her small fingers were so precise, delivering just the right dose of love. Not more than a minute later, the hen stopped her ruckus. Ella beamed up at them. “She likes that.”

“Where’d you learn that trick?” Parker asked.

“From Mr. Manabat. He knows everything.”

That got a laugh from the men.

“Does he, now? Well, then maybe we should be talking to him about a few things,” Zach said.

Tommy finally spoke up. “Like where on earth we’re headed. All I care to know.”

Ella traded a look with her mom. “I meant he knows everything about chickens. He wouldn’t know about that stuff. But you could ask.”

“Good advice. I just might do that,” Tommy said.

Jean disappeared and came back with trays full of peanuts and Saloon Pilot crackers with chunks of salted codfish. She set them out on the card table. Violet realized that this was the first group of adults she had entertained since Herman’s disappearance. Sure, the Hamasus came over often, but they were like family. These were men, and even though it was only Jean’s little brother, she suddenly wished she had worn something prettier.

Zach’s voice was several notches louder than the other night, and he scooped up almost the entire batch of peanuts in one hand. “Lord, it’s nice to get out of that wind-blasted tent city for a change. You ladies been up to Camp Tarawa much?”

“Now and then. We go to sell vegetables if we have too many,” Violet said. “Waimea is not always like that. Just you wait. It’s about the loveliest place on earth when the weather’s right. With all those pastures, the sky always seems bigger up there.”

Tommy laughed, revealing a missing tooth to one side. “You mean to tell me there’s a sky up there? I haven’t seen anything but that crazy sideways rain and heaps of clouds. It’s enough to drive anyone mad.”

“Once the weather turns, you won’t want to leave,” Violet said.

The words had already come out when she realized her error. As if they had any choice in the matter. Parker nodded as if considering the implications.

“Speaking of Camp Tarawa, guess what?” Jean said, clasping her hands together.

“What?” all three men said in unison.

“We’re going to be setting up a pie stand outside the USO on Saturdays pretty soon, so that should cheer you up!”

The pie-selling plan had come about after driving into Waimea one day to sell greens and sweet potato with Takeo. Jean took one look at all the soldiers milling about and a light bulb flashed on.

“These boys need some home-baked love,” she had said and then continued, “We’ll make them pies and end up with change in our pockets and a whole new set of handsome friends. And we will be doing something important in the war effort.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Violet had questioned.

“Somehow having Zach here has made me feel more protective of these soldiers. Instead of a big horde of smelly men in uniforms, I see them like brothers, sons, husbands,” Jean had said.

“I suppose it might not be a bad idea. But we’d need to work on boosting our gas rations.”

Jean had stood with her hands on her hips. “Of course it will work. Boosting morale, fattening them up. In my eyes, comfort food is better than any pill.”