Chapter Eleven

The shock that ripped through Honolulu over the weekend brought the military to its feet, and with it, our worst fears. At the National Guard Armory where the Red Cross was holding their training session, I was among dozens in line on Monday, waiting to be issued a white headscarf, and register for an armband emblazoned with a cross hastily stitched in red.

Headlines in the Sunday Honolulu Advertiser had galvanized a willing corps of volunteers. “JAPANESE MAY STRIKE OVER THE WEEKEND…KURUSU SAYS THAT HIS NATION IS READY FOR BATTLE.” Armed patrols were stationed along the waterfront around the electric plant, bringing traffic to a near standstill on my drive to the Armory. Still, I managed to find a parking space for the Nash near where Auntie parked her Ford. I privately welcomed her suggestion to take separate cars, in case of any unforeseen duties she might be assigned. I had plans of my own.

My Sunday had been spent in a cloud heavy with letters from the past, a cloud that lifted as I glimpsed the shy rays of my mother’s first love. Hiroshi Sumida had written about the beach and the trees at the far end of plantation road where they made a secret place to meet in the evenings. His letters ached with a longing for nightfall when they could be together.

There was one from my mother, too. Undelivered, it seemed, and written before she had gotten his final note.

Dear H

I’ve missed you this week, and have been using the time to think about what to tell my parents about us. They won’t understand, and I’m afraid I don’t have the strength to go against their wishes. I will wait for you at our place where we can talk.

My love, C

I thought of the painting Jamison wanted to buy―At the End of Plantation Road. My mother must have painted it to keep Hiroshi’s memory from slipping away. Those memories were the only thing left to her after she and Hiroshi separated to please their parents. Then they each married someone not of their choosing.

I couldn’t imagine the pressures that must have been pulling them apart. The supervisor’s daughter and the Japanese peasant farmer’s son. They were worlds away from each other. Different cultures. Different ethnic backgrounds. No wonder they had hidden themselves from prying eyes around the plantation. They would have been judged severely. Meeting at the deserted beach in the evening must have given them the only moments when they could be themselves, free from social restraints.

Hiroshi’s descriptions of “their place” stirred up an awareness of the shadows I’d become sensitive to in my own life, and how the falling darkness seemed most seductive when I was with Jamison. I read about his father’s hopes and dreams with the same surrealism I’d felt when I had first seen my mother’s self-portrait and mistook it for my own face.

And his letters warned that if anyone found out about them, they would get in trouble.

I folded the faded pages back into their envelopes, one by one, careful not to tear the brittle fragments of my mother’s past. For the time being, I’d keep them hidden in the tin box.

The necklace was a different story. I had no reason to believe my mother wanted to pass it down to me, except for its presence in the box, safely hidden away all these years—and the clue to finding it that she planted in her painting. Jamison’s words came back to me, that his father had put my mother’s self-portrait in a place where he knew only his son would find it. Had my mother done the same?

****

Vivian, on the phone, didn’t hesitate. “Your grandmother Grace always wore a cameo on a gold chain for special occasions.”

“There wasn’t anything like that handed down to my mother. Not that I can remember.”

“No, there wouldn’t have been. The little jewel box Grace carried with her when she travelled was never recovered when their yacht capsized. To this day I don’t understand why they went out in such stormy weather.” She sighed. “Sailing to a party at the Lahaina Yacht Club wasn’t worth the risk. Everyone was thankful your father hadn’t been on board.”

Looking down, I ran my fingers over the diamonds set in white gold. The necklace had a weighty fluid feel to it like the ocean on a calm day that was so unlike the one that ended my grandparents’ lives. I left it lying in my palm for a minute, before I closed my fingers around it.

“Can you think of any reason why my mother painted my grandmother wearing a diamond necklace instead of the cameo? Auntie May thinks the portrait was left unfinished for a while after the boating accident.”

“To begin with, the portrait had been your father’s idea. I always thought your mother felt it was too big a departure—an unwelcome departure, maybe—from her landscapes. The garden setting was her way of adding a signature touch. I first saw it when the background and your grandmother’s face had been blocked in. After the accident, I believe the painting did get put away. Under the circumstances, it must have seemed best.” There was a long pause. “The next year your mother got the diamond necklace as a wedding anniversary gift. Your father surprised her with it at a dinner party at the Moana Hotel. He had arranged for the band to play ‘The Hawaiian Wedding Song’ when he fastened it around her neck.”

“You were there?” I asked, hoping to learn more.

“Most of the guests were investment bankers and people doing business with your father. Your mother knew Richard and I were in town so she personally asked us to come.” Another long pause. “I don’t think I ever saw her wear the necklace again. It was an extravagant piece that was so unlike her.”

“In those days, the Wentworth Lines must have been doing well,” I said, speculating on how my father could afford such a gift.

“Bookings had been going down. Your father sold off one of the steamships, then another. It seemed like a prudent business decision at the time, but one never knows. He and one of the bankers had their heads together for most of the dinner.”

“About the necklace, why do you suppose my mother painted my grandmother wearing it?”

“I couldn’t tell you for sure. Maybe it was to please your father. Does it matter?”

I reminded Vivian about the break-in at the Art Academy, and the news report that there had been some minor damage to a painting. “That portrait was involved. It had been damaged.” She gasped. “It got me wondering about the necklace and whether a burglar was interested in the painting, or something else.”

“Oh, Merrylei.” Her sympathy came through the receiver. “The violation of a family heirloom can be devastating.”

“It was a shock at first.”

“You’re not turning from art historian to detective, are you?” This last was frankly meant to put me off if I intended to look into the burglary at the Academy. I was sounding far too composed.

“Nothing like that.” I tried for an inflection that implied the idea was preposterous.

“Let the police handle things,” she said. “It could be the act of someone not right in their mind. It could be dangerous. Who has the painting now, the police?”

“Yes.”

“And your father sold the necklace years ago, I’d guess, to avoid bankruptcy,” she mused.

I wedged the receiver on my shoulder to hold up the necklace with both hands. “I don’t know much about it,” was all I said.

We spoke a little longer about my grandmother, ruling out the possibility that my mother had copied a photograph of her wearing the necklace. “If you could keep an eye out for one, I’d appreciate it,” I said, “even if it doesn’t make up for losing the portrait.”

“I will, Merrylei, and I’ll phone if I have any ideas. We’ll have tea again when I get back from my trip to the Big Island.” Warmth flooded her voice as she said goodbye.

I set down the receiver and stared at the necklace. My mind had temporarily gone blank as I bumped up against another unanswered question. The telephone table wobbled when I rested one elbow on the worn top and propped up my head. No good could come from wondering “what if” over and over again. I needed to do something, anything.

Upstairs in my room, I picked up Pride and Prejudice, then set it down unopened. I couldn’t get the necklace out of my mind. What if I counted the diamonds? That was better than doing nothing. Twice I lost my place, or didn’t know if I had missed one and had to start over again. There were thirty-five in all, including the pear-shaped center teardrop. I didn’t have any way to estimate its worth, unless...

I thought back to the Chinese jewelry store. I could ask for an appraisal there without attracting unnecessary attention. The Wall & Dougherty jewelry store had been closed for years, but I would have hesitated to take the necklace there, in any case. Even with all the evidence I had uncovered about the king’s crown, it was hard for me to escape the nagging apprehension that the necklace was in some way linked to the stolen crown diamonds.

After the Red Cross class, I could make time to visit the jewelry store. The problem was, what to do with the necklace? I didn’t feel secure carrying it loose in my purse, so I fastened it around my neck under a cotton dress, buttoned all the way up, then topped the whole thing off with an old fashioned lace collar. The effect was downright matronly but would do well enough for a morning of first aid classes, and be a cinch to undo afterwards.

I touched the little bulge under my collar reassuringly as I followed the directions of a Red Cross nurse to where tables and chairs had been set up in the Armory. A familiar voice called my name.

The pleats of Mrs. Davenport’s dress couldn’t hide the cane she was leaning on. “My dear,” she started in the way I’d discovered was characteristic of her. “How are you? Mr. Oswald told me that you’ve loaned the Art Academy another one of your mother’s paintings for the exhibit. How kind of you after that dreadful business.”

“I’m fine, thank you. I know that my mother would want to be represented. She was a great supporter of the Academy.”

“Have the police notified you of any…” She attempted to gather herself to her full height before sinking back on the cane. “Of course, there’s nothing they can do to bring back the painting. Putting the scoundrel in jail doesn’t seem adequate, does it?”

“I haven’t heard anything, yet. I’m just letting them do their job. What about you?” I nodded toward the cane. “What happened?”

“My lumbago is acting up, so I’m being assigned to the surgical dressing unit where I can work sitting down.”

“I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.” I looped my arm around her free one.

“Thank you, dear. At my age there are bound to be a few inconveniences. Nothing that will prevent me from rolling bandages. The Preparedness Committee is recommending a reserve supply of sixteen thousand—sixteen thousand, mind you—so I want to help.”

“I’m being trained for the blood bank at Queen’s Hospital. It’s the doing of Auntie May.” There wasn’t any need to bring up Edward. “Auntie’s here somewhere, putting her nurse’s training to good use again.”

“Good for her. During the Great War, women pretty near ran the country while the men were away.” She leaned more heavily on my arm as I walked her toward a table with a sign scrawled in black letters that read, Dressings. A belligerent voice rose above the din of conversation in the room that turned our heads.

A stout woman standing with her hands on her hips had cleared a circle around her. “I know a navy officer who said that if the Japanese were crazy enough to start a fight, they wouldn’t last a week.”

A younger woman stood up from the table and attempted to calm her. “We’re all here in case there’s some kind of emergency, not necessarily an attack.” She took a step back from the big woman who leaned forward and pushed out her chin. “Can’t you see? We have the Japanese so blockaded that they can’t get any raw materials? They may have no choice except to fight. Honolulu could get fired on.”

“What are you—a Jap lover?” The first woman pounded her fist on the table. Her voluptuous chest was dangerously close to bursting through the top of her dress. Several women were muttering among themselves until two Red Cross supervisors escorted the stout woman out.

Mrs. Davenport hung her cane over the back of a wooden folding chair as the room buzzed back into activity. She gave the young woman a haughty look right down her very proper roman nose. I didn’t want to get drawn into a commentary, so I pretended not to notice.

“I’d better go find the table set up for the blood bank.” I took a quick accounting of the room. “Auntie May is probably looking for me because we’ll be stationed together at Queen’s. I won’t be drawing blood,” I added, “just assisting.”

Mrs. Davenport patted my hand, and said, “Give her my best, dear.”

Three hours later I was certified as a Red Cross volunteer and was trying to look as professional as humanly possible in a headscarf and armband, offset by my lace-collared dress. In actual fact, the blood bank had closed for lack of donors in early November. Nonetheless, the seven of us women in-training practiced lying on a gurney, putting our acting skills in action by pretending to feel faint. A Red Cross nurse showed us how to move a donor’s legs and feet before easing the person into a sitting position to offer a shot of whiskey in a paper cup. I gathered, as our group left the Armory, that we would be notified if needed. Auntie was pointing to a map and giving instructions to women of the “Motor Corps” who would be driving blood donors and supplies to the hospital. I gave her a wave goodbye when I caught her eye.

As I walked away from the Armory to my car, new thoughts sprinkled me with prickly showers. The women who had come for training in the Armory were from all walks of life. In my group alone there was a Chinese shopkeeper and a Japanese seamstress, both offering their help in case of an emergency. I grew up attending private schools, mostly all-white, but never really joining in activities outside my own fair-haired clique, even when there was the chance. I always believed in equality for all races, though as I looked back, I wondered if I had always shown it.

Driving across the streetcar tracks into Chinatown, I left off thinking about my fellow trainees and concentrated on finding a space that didn’t require parallel parking. A corner spot on River Street opened up that I could swing into, leaving me with a two-block walk back to the jeweler’s store.

The surging mass of humanity that jostled elbows with me on the sidewalk was as eclectic as the shops that spilled all the way onto the streets. I stepped around pink and yellow vegetables propped in crude wooden boxes. Chicken carcasses hung in store windows open to the midday heat, and a pungent smoky haze filled my lungs with every breath. Between the window displays and neon signs, I dashed past dark stairways that reeked of cheap perfume. Two sailors eyed me and brushed against my shoulder when they passed, though I didn’t think I cut much of a figure in my dowdy dress. Otherwise I was ignored by bargain hunters preoccupied with snatching up a good deal before someone else got to it first.

The glass door of the jewelry store was open, so I stepped over the threshold and looked around. Seated where I had last seen him at a workbench was the old Chinaman, wearing wire-rimmed spectacles. He let them slide to the tip of his nose as he peered at me.

“I have a necklace I’d like you to look at,” I said.

“Not in business for looking, Missy.” He pushed his glasses up and turned back to the bench.

“It’s a necklace I might want to sell, if you know of anyone who’d be interested.”

“Okay, okay. Bling here.” He waved me closer with a crab-like pincher movement of his fingers.

I reached beneath the back of my collar and unfastened the clasp to hand it to him. “It was my mother’s,” I said.

“No matter who,” he said in a sharp tone. He fitted the eyepiece in his left eye and held the teardrop diamond up close to it. Then he inspected several other diamonds, seemingly at random. Some jewelry pieces lay on the bench with little tickets attached to them that were obviously in for repairs. One brooch needed several missing stones replaced, and I wondered, with a sudden jolt of worry, if any of the stolen diamonds from the king’s crown so many years earlier had found their way into reputable jewelry pieces.

The Chinaman was scowling at me. “What you think, Missy? Waste my time?”

I hadn’t considered that he needed a high-class clientele to buy such an expensive necklace. To help him save face, I stumbled through a half-formed apology that didn’t make sense, even to my own ears. Before I dug myself in deeper, he broke into my misguided ramblings and shoved the necklace to the edge of the bench. “This glass is nothing.” He shook his head.

“What do mean glass?” I couldn’t have understood him clearly.

“Glass, glass,” he sputtered. “Cut clystal.” He curled his fingers into a cup and mimed a drinking motion. “I cannot sell glass. You take now.”

At the front window, a reflected patch of blue sky skimmed above the display case, with its tired gemstones. Now I knew that my mother had hidden away a treasure, after all, though it didn’t have anything to do with missing diamonds.

Several questions flashed across my mind in that instant. Had my father impressed his banker friends, then sold off the diamonds and replaced them with glass? Or had the necklace been a fake from the beginning? Contrived to make him look prosperous, and his company a profitable business investment? And had my mother hidden the necklace to save the family reputation? Or was she protecting what she mistakenly thought was my inheritance, before it was squandered away?

I turned away from the past as I thought of Jamison. The letters and poetry from Hiroshi Sumida held the true meaning of The King’s Crown. The love between my mother and Hiroshi had bridged the chasm between two different worlds in a time when things like that simply didn’t seem possible. It wasn’t despair or heartbreak that my mother was warning me about. Quite the opposite. Her hidden treasure offered hope for a future where there was equality and tolerance in all things.

I picked up the necklace from the bench and offered the puzzled jeweler my sincere thanks for the gift I’d been given.

****

With a steady hand, I pushed open the door that held back the stale dimness of my mother’s last minutes on this green earth. Her bedroom was large, hung with blue damask drapes that had been drawn against the tropic sun many years earlier. The bed was a four-poster that was immense for one person, but seemed dwarfed by the size of the room. I had peeked into the room once when I first returned home, then quietly backed out and waited for my pulse to stop racing. It seemed an age ago, in some ways, and in other ways it seemed like only yesterday.

I wondered why I had gotten so wrapped up in my mother’s paintings. Now I considered that her dreams for love had travelled across a generation through her artwork to bring Jamison to me. The phony necklace wasn’t a part of our new world; it was the remnant of another time.

The idea was strangely liberating. I peered into the closet where my mother’s dresses hung undisturbed. There were beaded gowns for formal occasions and flowery cottons for daytime. I ran my hand against them, feeling them sway with movement for the first time in the years since her death.

A tall mirror stood near the closet, and I stared at my reflection, thinking I looked somewhat different from my usual self. My hair looked shinier, my eyes bluer. I laughed a little at my reaction, and the sound reminded me of how unaccustomed to laughter this room had become.

A jewelry case sat on the top of the highboy against the other wall. It was a pretty little case, decorated in bas relief with gold fleur-de-lis and compartments inside that were lined in purple velvet. I fingered a pair of plastic clip-on earrings that were being called costume jewelry these days. It was a trend started by Coco Channel a few years back, who declared quite famously that the baubles weren’t designed “to give women an aura of wealth, but to make them beautiful.” Everything of value had been taken out of the jewelry box years ago, leaving behind only trinkets and the earrings that were fashioned after fantastically sized pearls.

The vague uneasiness I’d had when I came to my mother’s bedroom changed in an instant.

I remembered from childhood how one of the decorations on the jewelry box could be pressed to unlock a hidden drawer that was camouflaged in the woodwork. Mother and I sometimes left little surprises for each other in the drawer when I was very young.

Was it still working? I pressed my now much larger finger on one of the fleur-de-lis, and a space cracked open.

From my purse I pulled the diamond necklace and closed it in the drawer.

It’s back where it belongs, I remarked to myself with satisfaction.

Somehow I thought my mother would approve.