Chapter 24
After Nash beaches the skimmer, I wrap my boots in a towel and throw them onto the shore, a mix of sand and fine gravel. “You can stay here. I will be fine on my own.”
But Nash has already chucked his boots onto the shore next to mine.
“How would that look, me losing the heiress of Nowhere on our first date? Your bruiser would pop my head off like a grape.” His black eye seems to turn a shade darker.
“On second thought, he might do that even if I don’t lose you.
” Nash jumps off the boat and holds a hand out for me.
It doesn’t matter what I say; Nash will probably follow me anyway. That or threaten to leave me stranded. With a sigh, I ignore his hand and climb out after him.
We perch on the driest rocks we can find and yank up our boots. My feet have turned ice cold, and not just from their brief dip in the ocean.
Nash sets his arms on his knees, watching powdery blue kingfishers patrol the shoreline. “So, what is our plan here?”
“Not everything needs a plan,” I say grumpily.
“So there is no plan.”
I yank my laces tight. “If there were, matching hats is definitely not part of it.” I take off my hat and leave it on the shore.
A makeshift staircase consisting of two planks is jammed into the hillside. At the top, a path lined with alternating dark and light colors snakes through the firs, a thoughtful detail that somehow reassures me. Where there is art, there is enlightenment, I hear Mr. Sanders say.
I hear the men before I see them. They are noisy, laughing and singing. Aside from the language, which sounds rough to my ears, they call to mind our shipbuilders on their lunch break.
My feet slow as a dozen young men come into view, draped on log benches or clustered around a stone cooking hearth.
Some are eating from bowls with wooden sticks; others do stretching exercises by a neat vegetable garden.
They are trim of figure in their rough cotton trousers held up by thin suspenders, and wear a variety of hats—woolen caps, boaters, fedoras, derbies.
On the far right, two boys no older than fifteen crack red seeds between their teeth, making a game of tossing the shells into a bucket.
It suddenly becomes hard to breathe.
I have always viewed them from afar, like some migratory species only here for the season.
They are not welcome guests on Orcas Island.
They don’t make trips to Eastsound or take ferries for pleasure, at least as far as I know.
They are here to work. It shames me I have not given them much thought until now.
A warm hand touches my back, and Nash looks down at me, a question on his lips.
Rather than try to explain my sudden reluctance, I take a step forward.
The closest man, small and wiry with quick movements, reels back when he sees us. A torrent of words follows.
“Hello.” Realizing I am nervously tugging my braid, I let it go and press a hand to my chest. “Pung yau.” Friend.
The wiry man’s wide mouth falls open. “Pung yau?” he repeats, adding a slew of sounds after it.
Either he doesn’t know this word, or he doesn’t believe I am a friend.
Am I saying it wrong? Perhaps the Chinese in Hawaii speak a different dialect than the Chinese workers here.
The others have gone silent, their faces doubtful and mistrusting.
“English?” I ask, only now noticing a man with a cleaver cutting a watermelon on a table.
The cleaver seems to whistle as he brings it down, slicing the fruit with a decisive whack. Red juice spills over the table, bright as blood.
The men on the log have gotten to their feet, exchanging words with the wiry man, whose subject is clearly me.
“I am wondering if any of you knew my father. Ba. Harry Tang was his name. Ba. Harry Tang.” My voice has gone embarrassingly high. The men move closer to me. “Nash?” I glance behind me.
But he is gone.
Someone laughs. I follow the sound and find Nash holding out one of his ridiculous lollipops to the two boys cracking seeds. “Go on. They are tasty.”
When the boys don’t take the candy, Nash pulls off the wrapper and sticks it in his mouth.
“Mm.” He takes it out and twirls the stick between his fingers, letting the light turn the candy into a plum-colored jewel.
He pops it back in his mouth and pulls out two more suckers from his pockets and offers them to the boys.
This time, the pair take the candy and imitate Nash in sucking on them. Smiles work up their faces. One offers his bowl of red seeds.
Nash takes a seed, but instead of cracking it puts it in his mouth whole and chews. The boys erupt in laughter. Swallowing, Nash glances toward me. “Needs a good Bordeaux.”
An older man is fetched from the cabin. He emerges rubbing sleep-shot eyes and holding a journal. His face is as round as a moon under a striped knitted cap. “I am Wai.”
I want to weep. Hearing English from this man is like a door opening. “I am Lucy. This is Nash.”
“Please sit.” He gestures to a worn log.
I quickly place my bottom to wood. Nash perches next to me. Wai smooths his trousers, which have been patched in several spots, and carefully sits on my other side.
Warm cups of fragrant tea are placed in each of our hands. I murmur thanks and inhale deeply. “It smells like flowers.”
“Jasmine is Empress Dowager’s favorite tea, but ours not as fine as hers.” Wai speaks haltingly, an accent rounding his vowels.
Faces press in, as curious about me as I am about them.
I take a deep breath. “I have come to ask if anyone knew my father. Harry Tang was his name. He died before I was born.” I hesitate to tell them my father was the Can Man, in case they are as superstitious as those who live on Nowhere.
“He would’ve worked here eighteen to twenty years ago. ”
“Harry Tang. No.” Wai shakes his head. “But perhaps he worked at the lime kilns.”
My thoughts trip on themselves. “I thought only the cannery hired the Chinese.”
“Now, yes. But back then, Chinese worked wherever Chinese could find jobs. I hear Mr. Tavernish used a big crew of Chinese for one of his kilns.”
“He would’ve needed an interpreter,” I say, suddenly breathless.
Nash leans in, forearms on his knees.
Wai coughs. “Your father was an interpreter?”
“Yes. He is known as the Can Man.” My voice sounds shaky.
“You are talking about Hao Lee.”
The men’s faces grow alarmed, and a disapproving chatter starts up.
Wai holds up his hand, speaking in his native tongue, and the men quiet.
He pencils something in his journal, then shows me.
The page is filled with writing in both Chinese and English, with an assortment of sketches—trees, objects, animals—accompanying the words.
He taps the pencil at three Chinese characters.
“Tang Hao Lee. ‘Tang’ is the last name. ‘Hao Lee’ means ‘thoughtful son.’ ” He delivers the name as if holding out a gift with both hands.
Tender feelings brush my heart, even as the line connecting my father and Mr. Tavernish grows darker.
Both island bosses employed my father—the cannery man and the lime man.
I swallow against the tightening of my throat.
“ ‘Thoughtful son.’ ” I rolled the words over my tongue.
He had been someone’s son. Had my grandparents known what befell him?
My stomach clenches as I think of the whole ancestral line that has been closed off to me.
“So you did know him?” I touch my father’s name, rubbing the silvery pencil smudge between my index finger and thumb.
“No. But we have all heard of him. Before taking jobs here, we are all warned of two things: Mr. Gotze’s bad temper and Hao Lee’s ghost.”
My bones chill. “Ghost?”
“Person with unnatural death can come back as hungry ghost, eating but never full. I hope this is not your father’s fate.” His kind eyes bow in sympathy.
The log seems to shift under me. I brace my feet, feeling sick at the idea that even in death, my father might continue to suffer. “Do you have any idea who could’ve killed him?”
“Hao Lee walked among king yue—your sea wolves—without fear. Talking to them. Some called it unnatural. Some think he grew too close and they killed him.” He translates for the Chinese, causing another ripple of conversation.
I grip my cup, thoughts spinning around my head like coins in a bowl. So my father did also experience this sea-wolf sense.
Nash, who has been as still as a portrait beside me, shifts, eyeing me warily. He saw me talking to the sea wolves. Didn’t he just suggest they might’ve killed his uncle? I try to ignore his intense gaze and the way he’s scrubbing at his face.
“Do you think the sea wolves, king yue, did it?”
One of the boys speaks, gesturing with his lollipop at Wai’s journal. Wai flips to a sketch of an unusual black-and-white bear done in a detailed hand. He is quite an artist.
“In China, we have black-and-white giants as well,” says the interpreter. “You call ‘pandas,’ and they mean ‘peace.’ Life in balance between yin and yang.”
“Pandas. I must add them to my wish list of things to see. But what is yin and yang?”
“Opposites.” Wai makes a twisting motion, as if opening a jar. “Yin is female, cool, dark, moon. Yang is male, hot, bright, sun. Both live in us.” He pats his belly. “Together, balance.” He interlaces his fingers. “Sea wolves are like pandas. They… show harmony.”
“A union of extremes,” says Nash, canting his head with a look of wonder. “Fascinating.”
Wai closes his book. “Perhaps your sea wolves are as peaceful as our pandas.”
“Is it true Mr. Gotze is shooting sea wolves to protect his traps?” I ask.
Wai bows his head. “Yes, it is true.”
Cookie was right. Perhaps the ill-tempered Gotze blamed my father for the loss of his fish traps and harvest in the Salmon Calamity.
Cost him a fortune. Not sure how he stayed in business, Cookie said.
Maybe my father had caused the calamity.
I don’t want to think of him as the type to stir up trouble, but he might’ve had his reasons.
Yet if Mr. Gotze was a viable suspect, surely Mr. Sanders would’ve gotten to the bottom of it before now.
A salty gray mist pulls a shroud over the sky. I take a long sip of my tea, letting the warmth soothe me. “How can a hungry ghost be set free?”
“He can’t be, unless he is…” Wai gropes for the word, hand scooping the air. “ ‘Make right?’ ”
“Avenged,” Nash says darkly.
Wai nods, pencil already moving.
Avenged.