Butterfly's Child (23 page)

“I couldn't find him, Mama.” He began to cry.

“But you tried. I was so frightened—don't you ever, ever …” Before she realized it, she was shaking him.

“Kate.” Frank helped her stand. “Here are the kind people we have to thank—Mr. and Mrs. Schultz. They've brought him all the way from East Dubuque. He was sleeping in their shed.”

Mr. Schultz gave a slight bow. “We saw the notice in the paper.” His face was broad and grave. His wife, a slight woman buried in a fur coat, stepped forward and took Kate's hands. Kate felt how cold her hands were in the woman's grasp.

“I know you've been in anguish,” the woman said. “I couldn't bear it if my children ran away.”

Kate's face went hot. “Thank you,” she managed to say.

“I see you're expecting another,” the woman whispered, then said in a louder voice, “Such a brave little boy you have. It's too bad about his brother.” She pressed her thumbs into Kate's hands. “I pray you'll find him too.”

December the 14th, 1905

Dear Benjamin
,

I have made many a go at this letter and seem to get bollixed up each time, so I have decided to take the steer by the horns and write to you straight out, just as if we were talking
.

First off, I know you are grieved by the loathsome theft of Kuro, but you must not mortify yourself on this account. This villainy was in no way your fault. A horse thief is not going to advertise himself as such. Though I believe most human beings to be sound at the core, there are some putrefied ones, and more than a few of these have a slick outer surface through which it may be impossible to penetrate. I will do everything in my power to apprehend this swine and recover Kuro. You have made an excellent start yourself, in alerting the sheriffs in Ottumwa and Dubuque and, as you say, it is likely that someone in Iowa will have seen the varmint. If this odious Mr. Moffett imagines that he will be able to hide himself and a handsome quarter horse under a bush, he is as much a fool as he is a devil. If you could provide even a rough drawing of the wretch, I will see that it is posted across the plains and into the southern regions, where you think he might have returned
.

In the meantime, remember that Kuro is a spunky, smart fellow. I think of him as a quadruped version of you, and I believe that he will endure come what may
.

I was heartened and indeed overjoyed to know that you are well and that you have found a sinecure for the winter months. The German woman
sounds sensible and fair-minded, and I am surmising that it is a great comfort to her that you are reading aloud to her sightless husband
.

As for your family, I can report that they are doing well enough. In accord with your request, I have not informed them of your whereabouts, but all were relieved to hear of your safety and general good health
.

Your stepmother will give birth in the spring and has been much confined to the house. Franklin is becoming a little man, and your sister is sprouting up like a sunflower and is the charm of Plum River. Your grandmother is as hardy as ever, though she misses you sorely, as we all do, but you must not let thoughts of that stand in the way of your journey
.

Now for some glad tidings:

Lena and I were married on December 1st in Plum River Church, and a giddier production you have never seen, but all the frills and furbelows were well worth the happiness that I now enjoy. I never expected such again in my lifetime. The only shadow over the day of ritual was your absence. Lena and I both have remarked several times that if you'd been here I'd have had you standing by me to keep me from quaking in my boots, for—this may come as a surprise to you, young friend—I have ever found you a steadying influence, even when you were a sad little chap who had just lost his mama
.

All in all, I stoutly believe that you will make a success of your life, of which this journey comprises a significant segment. You are traveling alone through perilous chasms and dark thickets, but it is such experience that can make a great man
.

Enclosed is a monetary contribution to your progress. Lena and I hope this will help see you on your way. By my calculation, it should be enough to carry you by train to California and to establish yourself there awhile as you are making ready for your passage to Japan
.

Yours truly,
Horatio C. Keast

Dressed in a new suit,
bowler hat, and fine black shoes—parting gifts from Mrs. Weber—Benji leaned against a train window, watching Iowa recede. The sounds of the locomotive's whistle and the wheels clattering on the rails were urgent and thrilling. He was on his way at last.

It had been a long winter of snow and gray skies, but now in mid-April the ground was thawed and the farmers were at their plowing. Through the open window he could smell spring—the odors of the rich, turned earth, the thickets of wild plum along the streams, already in blossom. The fragrance of plums would always remind him of Flora, their walks along Plum River in the spring.

He had tried several times at the Webers' house to write to her but had sat paralyzed at the kitchen table before the sheet of paper, images of Digby, Kuro, the bridge in the rain, Frank's whip, tumbling through his mind. There was too much to say. Maybe, like Keast, he should begin as if speaking to her in person, as if she, and not that old man snoring in the seat across from him, were here.

What would she think of him in the bowler hat and suit? And what of his black hair, colored with shoe polish at Mrs. Weber's suggestion, so he would fit in with the other Japanese in San Francisco? Flora might laugh. Looking at his reflection in the dim mirror of the Webers' hallway, he had been startled to see a young man, but he hadn't decided if it was a distinguished or ridiculous-looking one. Mrs. Weber said he looked very handsome, but Otto laughed and said he was a dressed-up monkey.

There was stationery on the little table between the seats.
Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy Railroad, All Aboard
, it said across the top; beneath
was a picture of a long train with smoke streaming from the engine. Flora would like this paper, and if he wrote to her on it, it would be the closest thing to having her here.

He searched in his shiny new valise for a pencil.
Dear Flora
, he wrote,
I have thought of you every day, in circumstances that would surprise and even shock you. I spent the winter at the house of a dying man. It was terrible to watch him suffer. When I read to him, I thought of how you and I used to read Longfellow and Shelley to each other beside the river
. He stared out the window. He'd also thought of Flora when he rubbed the old man's forehead and arms with the pine oil that seemed to soothe him, imagining that if Flora could see him she would know he'd make a good, kind husband.
I made the coffin
, he continued,
nothing as fine as your father's work, of course, and I dug the hole myself, to spare his children. His wife said after we laid him in the ground that he had always been such a considerate man; she thought he waited to die until the ground was no longer frozen
.

This was no letter to send to a girl. He crumpled the page, stuffed it in his pocket, and began again.
Dear Flora, How are you? How is school? I hope you are very well, and your family too
.

I have had many adventures. Maybe someday I can tell you about them, though it would be better if I could see you. I don't know when, though
.

I am on a train just like the one shown above, on the way to San Francisco. The train is going too fast for me to write straight, so I hope you don't think I'm drunk
. He erased
drunk
and substituted
don't think I've forgotten Miss Ladu's—Mrs. Keast's, rather!—penmanship lessons
.

So I'd better say good-bye for now. I will write to you again, though. Say hello to the plum trees for me. Your friend, Benji
.

P.S.—How is your little gray kitten? Maybe a cat by now
.

He put the letter in an envelope and wrote decisively,
To Miss Flora Rosser, Plum River, Illinois
, then laid his hand on the envelope. Her fingers would touch where his had been. Maybe she would think of that, though probably not.

Mrs. Weber had packed food for the journey—corned beef sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, corn bread, coconut cake. While he was eating, the man across from him woke with a snort, rubbed his small, bloodshot eyes, then stared at Benji as if he were the continuation of a dream.

Benji smiled and introduced himself; then, since he felt a rude question coming on, he added, “I am Japanese by heritage, but I have lived in America for many years, so I am also an American.”

“You see all kinds, riding the rails.” He was Homer Skakle, he said, a farm-equipment salesman from Omaha, on his way home after three months, but it had been worth the outlay of time and money. Farmers were lulu over the new McCormick thresher. He began eyeing Benji's food. “I'll give you ten cents for one of those eggs.”

“I might be needing it,” Benji said. “It's a long way to Denver.” Mrs. Weber had advised him to take a hotel in Denver, to get at least one good night's sleep.

“You can get anything you want in Omaha. Train stops there for an hour. Chicken pie, venison.”

“I can't buy chicken pie for ten cents.”

Skakle reached in his coat pocket, jingled his change. “All right. I'll give you thirty cents for the egg and some cake. Haven't eaten since before Dubuque.”

“Fifty,” Benji said.

“You Japs drive a hard bargain. That's how you beat those Russkies, I guess.”

“Japanese,” Benji said. “Russian.” Ignoramus. He quickly repacked his food into the lunch box and moved to another car. He leaned against the seat with his eyes closed, imagining shoving a whole egg into Skakle's mouth. It was the kind of thing he used to tell Kuro. His eyes stung, thinking of Kuro, but he'd be damned if he would cry.

In Omaha he changed to a faster train equipped with Pullman cars. Though he could afford only coach, he walked through the train after it got under way to see the sleeping cars and the fancy parlor he'd heard about. The parlor was decorated with flowered carpets, painted ceilings, and chandeliers that swayed side to side with the movement of the train. There was a group of men at a table playing cards; their cigar smoke filled the room. One of them gave him a hard look; he turned and headed back to his seat.

In the next car he was startled to see a Japanese man sitting alone, smoking a cigarette and gazing out the window. He was a thin, balding gentleman in expensive-looking clothes.

Benji walked slowly past him, hoping the man would glance his way, but he continued to look out the window. There was an open book in his lap, the pages written in what must be Japanese. At the end of the car, Benji pushed open the door and stood for a few minutes on the platform between the cars, enveloped by the exciting turmoil of the train's sounds
and smells. This was no time to hang back; he hadn't met a Japanese person except Tsuneo in all these years. Quickly, before he could change his mind, he went back into the car, stood beside the man's seat, and said, “Excuse me, are you from Japan?”

The man looked up at him, not speaking for a moment. “I am Japanese,” he said, “with my home in San Francisco.”

“That's where I'm going!” Benji said. “San Francisco, then Japan. May I talk to you?”

The man nodded at the empty seat across from him.
“Dozo,”
he said.

Benji removed his hat and sat down. His heart was hammering.

The man handed him a card:
Yasunari Matsumoto, Purveyor of Fine Tea and Silk, 1633 Dupont Street, San Francisco, California
.

“I have not seen Japanese east of Denver,” Mr. Matsumoto said. “You are not pure Japanese, of course.”

Benji looked at his reflection in the window, his shoe-polish-blackened hair, streaked in some places he hadn't noticed with the hat on, his eyes like his mother's, and his nose, pickle shaped, like Frank's. He felt a burst of anger at Frank.

“My mother was from a samurai family,” Benji said. “She's no longer living, but I'm going to Japan to find my relatives.”

“Ah.” Mr. Matsumoto smiled and put aside his book, so Benji continued, telling him he'd grown up on his American father's farm and had just left to go to San Francisco. As soon as he made his fortune, he was going to Japan.

Mr. Matsumoto folded his hands beneath his chin. “How shall you make your fortune?” he said with a little smile.

Benji glanced down at Mr. Matsumoto's card.

“I'd thought about the import/export business,” he said. “My father did some of that in Japan.”

“But already you know farming. Many Japanese in California are successful in this. Too successful for some,” he added. “The white farmers are very angry that Japanese do so well. But you can do this also, make good profit growing strawberries, lettuce, or sugar beet.”

Benji had decided he would never plow another row. Instead, he said, “That would take too long.”

“You think to make fortune in one month?” Mr. Matsumoto laughed, covering his mouth.

“No, but … I need to get to Japan as soon as possible.”

“You must have patience. I can introduce you in California. I know many people, including Hakumi, the biggest grower of strawberries.”

“Thank you very much,” Benji said. “I'm experienced in business too.”

“How can this be, on a farm?”

Benji told him about working as cashier and bookkeeper for Red Olsen.

“
Ah so?
But this is difficult way to make a fortune. I think you had better work hard on a strawberry farm, then become manager and owner. That way you can make your money.”