“Sister, no!” Louisa was startled by her own vehemence. Sister Bonaventure, taken aback by the outburst, broke off in midsentence.
“Forgive me for shouting, Sister,” Louisa said. “But you know as well as I do … there are girls at this Home who have been here all their lives. Girls who will never be adopted. Who may never leave here. Would you deny Ruth a chance at a normal, happy life and a family who loves her?”
Sister Bonaventure nodded slowly.
“Yes. Of course, you’re right, Sister,” she said. “It’s not for us to judge. The Lord sent these people here; we should leave this matter to Him.” Then, soberly: “But you must prepare yourself, Sister, for the possibility that all may not turn out as you hope. And if so, this may not be the last we see of Ruth.”
Louisa nodded as calmly as she could. But her hands were trembling.
* * *
Three days later the Watanabes’ petition was presented to Judge John DeBolt of the First Circuit Court of Honolulu, a Texas-born haole in his early sixties who seemed at ease with Japanese people and asked some routine questions—about their financial status, religious background, and family health history—before granting their petition. Ruth was then issued a new birth certificate, legally rechristening her “Ruth Dai Watanabe.”
On the following Monday—when the Watanabes arrived in a taxicab to take Ruth home with them—Louisa squatted down and hugged Ruth, feeling as if she were losing a piece of herself. Fighting back tears she told her, “You are a lucky little girl, Ruth. And I’ve been very lucky to have known you.”
“I love you, Sister Lu,” Ruth said, holding her friend tight.
“I love you too, Ruth. But you have such an exciting life ahead of you! A new home, three brothers—and a cat.”
“Yeah!” Ruth was happier than Louisa had ever seen her. “Will you come visit and see my cat?”
Louisa glanced at Etsuko Watanabe, who smiled and said, “You are always welcome in our house, Sister.”
Louisa forced herself to let go of Ruth. “I will, then. So this isn’t goodbye, it’s just … be seeing you.”
Ruth smiled and, as her new mother helped her into the car, she waved at Louisa. Even as the cab wound its way downhill, Ruth continued to wave. Louisa prayed that the road ahead of her would be a happy one.
Chapter 3
Chinatown in 1921 was a microcosm of what Hawai'i was becoming and a reflection of the multiethnic culture that the plantation owners had unwittingly fostered. As sugar boomed and the Native Hawaiian population declined due to Western diseases, the plantations began importing immigrant labor—first Chinese kulis, then Portuguese and Japanese laborers. But when after a decade the Japanese became the largest minority population in the islands, the sugar barons—determined not to let any one ethnic group dominate and wield too much bargaining power—turned to Koreans, Puerto Ricans, Spaniards, and Filipinos. Hawaiian “pidgin,” the lingua franca that allowed the different ethnicities to communicate on the plantation, united the tens of thousands of immigrants who left the plantations when their contracts expired and then opened up shops or found better-paying jobs in Honolulu. And most of them lived in Chinatown—an island within an island. These were working-class people—carpenters, plumbers, stevedores, bartenders, fishermen, salesmen, butchers, shoemakers, teachers—living and working in a motley bramble of wooden tenements, pool rooms, restaurants, tailor shops, bakeries, and general stores.
Kukui Street was the beating heart of Chinatown, and as the Watanabes’ taxicab made its way down this main artery, Ruth sat with her face pressed up against the side window, taking in the life’s blood of the street: old men peddling steaming saimin from pushcarts; Chinese and Japanese housewives culling the best eggplant, bitter melon, bok choy, and lotus root from grocers’ bins; laughing keiki wielding softballs and bats, headed for a game in the grassy triangle of A'ala Park. Commingled with the traffic noise was the babble of multiple languages—the higher-pitched tones of Asian tongues and the raucous baritone of Western voices.
But rather than being frightened by it all, Etsuko observed, Ruth seemed to be enjoying it … even as Etsuko herself enjoyed it. After fourteen years in Chinatown, she had come to appreciate the boisterous vitality of these streets, where commerce and congress transcended race and poverty. Despite its chaotic surface, it embodied to her the Japanese principle of wa—harmony—in a most American way. For all their many differences, the people of Chinatown lived and worked together in an unlikely sort of wa.
“You have never been here before?” Etsuko asked Ruth.
Ruth shook her head.
“So many people…” she said wonderingly. “Is this where you live?”
“This is where we live,” Etsuko corrected her.
Ruth smiled, her face glowing with pleasure.
Finally the cab stopped in front of a two-story business whose front window announced: T. WATANABE—GENERAL CONTRACTOR & BUILDER—CARPENTRY & CONTRUCTION SERVICE OF ALL KIND.
“Here we are. We’re home,” Etsuko said.
She helped Ruth out of the cab as Taizo paid the fare, then unlocked the store. Inside was a wooden counter like the ones Ruth had seen in candy and ice cream shops, but there were no packets of crackseed or funnels of shave ice here, just big pieces of lumber—planks, posts, beams—and instead of sweet sugary smells, the scent of freshly cut pine pleasantly tickled her nose. Behind the counter she recognized hammers, saws, and screwdrivers but only later would she learn to name tools like the lathe, drill press, and planer.
One thing began to alarm her, however.
“We live in here?” she asked, searching in vain for something like a bed.
Etsuko laughed. “No no, this is your father’s workshop. We live upstairs.” They rounded a tall room divider; in the rear of the shop there was a staircase against one wall, and along the other, a stove, icebox, sink, and countertop. “This is our kitchen, Dai. Perhaps you can help me make—”
“Otōsan?” “Okāsan?” Boyish voices erupted from the top of the staircase, followed quickly by actual boys galloping down the steps in their bare feet, eager to meet this mysterious new thing called a “sister.” The two youngest—Satoshi, twelve, and Ryuu, seven—collided at the bottom of the stairs. The oldest boy, Haruo—a strapping and worldly fourteen—paused a few steps up, watching his two younger brothers with amusement.
Etsuko said, “Dai, these are your brothers—Haruo, Satoshi, and Ryuu. Boys, this is your new sister, Dai. She speaks no Japanese, so you have our permission to speak English at home until she learns.”
Satoshi, thin and gangly, stepped forward, gave a small, formal bow of greeting to Ruth, and said, “Konnichiwa, Dai.”
“English, Satoshi,” Etsuko reminded him.
Haruo bowed and said warmly, “Hello, Dai. Welcome to our family.”
Ruth felt a surge of joy at that word: family.
Ryuu, small but brash, stepped up, bowed, then shook her hand. “Hi, Sis. Don’t worry, I’ll show you the ropes around here.”
“Upstairs now,” Taizo said in a tone that indicated he was used to being obeyed. “Dai, please remove shoes. Leave here at foot of stairs.”
“We Japanese don’t wear shoes inside our homes,” Etsuko explained.
Ruth was delighted. “The sisters made us wear shoes everywhere!”