“It was accidental death,” she said hoarsely. “If you go to the police you’ll only make a fool of yourself, and cause trouble for Jack.”
“You care about Jack, don’t you?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” she said. “He was mine before he ever saw Una. She took him away from me.”
“And now you think you’ve got him back.” I got up to go. “I hope for your sake he doesn’t figure out for himself what I’ve just figured out.”
“Do you think he will?” Sudden terror had jerked her face apart. I didn’t answer her.
THE CHIRASHI COVENANT
BY NAOMI HIRAHARA
Terminal Island
(Originally published in 2007)
There were Alice Watanabe’s deviled eggs, lined up in diagonal lines on her white ceramic serving plate, Betty Shoda’s potato salad mixed in with a smidge of her secret ingredient, wasabi, and Dorothy Takeyama’s ambrosia, peeled orange slices with coconut flakes.
Next to the hostess’s ham was a wedge of iceberg lettuce with Green Goddess dressing dripping from the sides. Not a surprise—Sets Kamimura hated to cook and always took the lazy way out. The rest of the women knew this but would never say anything to Sets, even in jest.
And finally, in a huge round lacquerware container was Helen Miura’s chirashi. The women were amazed by Helen’s handiwork. Each piece of vegetable—carrot, shiitake mushroom, burdock root—was uniformly cut and mixed in with the rice like scattered tiny leaves and twigs blown by the Santa Ana winds. Others may have used a grater or a Japanese daikon suri, but Helen was a master with the knife. Her father had been a fisherman in Terminal Island before the war and Helen, being the oldest, was in charge of cleaning the catch he brought home for dinner. Her mother worked in the tuna cannery, so Helen was destined to get things done.
In the ice box was a vanilla cake, which had been purchased at a Japanese American bakery on Jefferson Boulevard in the Crenshaw area. Written in thick pastel icing were the words Japanese American Court Reunion and, below, 10-Year Anniversary.
In 1941, these seven women had ridden on a float in a parade down the streets of Little Tokyo. Yoshiko Kumai, who was hosting the reunion, had been the queen, but everyone knew that Helen was the most beautiful one of them all. Even today, with her thin frame despite having a baby girl two years ago and her long legs, she captured second looks from men of every color and income bracket.
But what Helen lacked was charm. She didn’t smile easily; even in all the photos with the rest of the court she never showed her teeth. Helen and Yoshiko, both twenty-year-olds at the time, stood together at the Yamato Hall in Little Tokyo, waiting for the winner’s name to be called. Yoshiko groped for Helen’s hand, her own hand moist and warm. Helen’s hand remained limp and cool, and when Yoshiko squeezed, Helen did not reciprocate.
Even though Helen hadn’t won the 1941 beauty contest, she had won life’s competition so far. She had married Frank, probably the most eligible Nisei man in the Manzanar War Relocation Center. By all counts, the insurance company he had started for the resettled Japanese Americans was headed for success.
“I just don’t know how you do it, Helen,” said Alice. “I’m always embarrassed to make chirashi, because I know how beautiful yours comes out.”
“It’s nothing, really. Just a lot of chopping and cutting. You need to start off with a good knife.”
The conversation then quickly turned to children and the Japanese American women’s club that three of them belonged to. While the women giggled and laughed, Helen grew more distant.
“I’ll be right back,” she excused herself, taking her clutch purse with her.
When Helen was nearly out the back door, Sets pressed two fingers to her mouth and then mimed blowing smoke from her lips. “Ta-ba-co,” she commented to the others, with a wink.
Helen took a package of cigarettes from her purse. She had started smoking just recently. Frank didn’t approve, of course, and his mother had been aghast to find her smoking in the backyard of their rented Boyle Heights wood-framed house. No matter how much Frank and his mother commented on her smoking, Helen refused to give it up. She needed something of her own.
“Hello.” On the other side of the low fence stood a hakujin man in a suit. He was clean-cut and handsome with a large open forehead. A William Holden type.
Helen lit a cigarette with a lighter she had purchased in a department store in Little Tokyo.
A young white couple emerged from the back of the next door neighbor’s house. The woman was visibly pregnant. “We love it, Bob. It’s perfect,” she said. They then noticed Helen on the other side of the fence. Helen could feel their enthusiasm wane immediately.
“You’ll love the neighbors,” the man who had greeted Helen said enthusiastically. Almost like he meant it. “Ken was in the U.S. Army, fought over in both Italy and France, I think. Works for the city as a draftsman. He and Yoshiko have two children. They’re good people. Go to a congregational church not far from here.”
“That’s nice,” the pregnant woman said weakly. She was disappointed, Helen could tell. Her picture-perfect world was shattered. Helen knew what that felt like.
“Don’t worry,” Helen spoke up. “There’s not too many of us living on this block. Give us ten years, it might be a different story. But you will have moved out by then.”
The couple exchanged glances and looked down at the lawn. “Well,” the pregnant woman said a little too brightly, “let’s take another look at the laundry room.” The couple surveyed the backyard wistfully, as if saying a final goodbye before returning to the inside of the house. The man in the suit remained outside.
“I think that I might have cost you a sale,” Helen said without any regret.
“Well, good riddance, then. Ken and Yoshiko are good people. Anyone would be lucky to have them or any of their friends as neighbors.”
Helen was surprised. She had expected to be met with anger.
“Bob Burkard.” The man walked to the low fence and stuck out his hand. Helen hesitated. She moved her lit cigarette from her right hand to her left to better shake hands. She murmured back her name.
“Are you in the market for a new home?”
“What do you mean?”
“You look hungry for a new house.” The agent then laughed. “I can tell these things. In my job, you need to be observant.” Frank had said the same thing in his line of work. He was constantly selling, but in a comfortable, non-threatening way. Usually by the end of his sales pitch, his customers thought it was they who had approached him for insurance.
“Not here,” Helen said. Not Montebello, a few cities east from where they lived now. Montebello was a growing suburb, but it was inland. Helen hated to be landlocked.
“Where, then?”
“The ocean.”
“Ocean? Do you mean Sawtelle?”
Helen almost burst out laughing. Alice Watanabe had represented the Sawtelle area in their beauty pageant. Unincorporated, it drew a cluster of Japanese American nurseries and small shops just a stone’s throw away from the Veteran’s Administration Hospital.
“Not Sawtelle. Pacific Palisades. Malibu. Right by the ocean.”
The agent didn’t even blink. Helen was impressed.
“I grew up near the water,” she offered up more.
“Where?”
“Terminal Island.”
“The military base?”
“It wasn’t always the military’s.”