Domo Arigatou, Chutney Yamato

By Courtney Takabayashi

After the death of her mother, protagonist Chutney Yamato leaves her native Hawaii to teach English in her mother's homeland, Okinawa.In a country known for its social decorum, Chutney manages to say and do the wrong thing at almost every turn, as she courts both disaster and the man of her dreams, a fellow Hawaii transplant. With only a limited Japanese vocabulary and an unforgiving guide, Chutney faces the challenges of meeting her grandparents for the first time, managing a chaotic life in an unfamiliar place and coping with the loss of her mother.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Courtney Takabayashi
• Release date: May 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781452474939

Courtney Takabayashi

I am a thirtysomething Japanese-American gal born and raised in Hawaii. I lived and worked in Japan, served as a writer for a governor and am now a full-time writer. I possess the gift and the curse of obsessiveness. I have a nice husband, a wonderful best friend and an evil stepmother. My favorite medium of self-expression is playwriting, and in 2007, I won a local playwriting contest held annually by Kumu Kahua Theatre and the University of Hawaii at Manoa. The one novel I wrote, Domo Arigatou, Chutney Yamato, was a labor of love, and if I find the energy and motivation, I will continue Chutney's adventures for two more books. When I'm not updating my blog, I'm working on first hand accounts of Hawaii's paranormal for Spooky Kine Investigations. I believe that everyone has a story.

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Domo Arigatou, Chutney Yamato

by Courtney Takabayashi

Published by Courtney Takabayashi

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 978-1-45-247493-9

Copyright 2012 Courts AUTHORity

Cover art by Tom Leupold

All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedicated to:

Jan Kunimura

CHAPTER ONE

When Aloha Means Goodbye

As I surveyed my half-empty bedroom, I wondered if Samsonite could handle twenty-two years of baggage. Weary from months of preparation, I tried on an outfit and scrutinized myself in the mirror. My stretchy black top paired with a denim skirt combination seemed to accentuate every bulge on my 5’4" frame. Disgusted, I peeled off the clothes and flung them into the Goodwill pile.

Scanning the remains of my depleted closet, I selected a blue floral dress. My mother had sewed the dress for my high school graduation. I ran my fingers over the worn fabric and remembered how we’d gone to Kuni’s Dry Goods in Mo‘ili‘ili and spent hours selecting the perfect material and dress pattern. We giggled over the ugly, "auntie aloha" prints that boasted psychedelic shades of orange and purple. We admired the pretty blue material that would eventually become my favorite dress. Many years have passed and Kuni’s is now Kinko’s and my dress is faded and a little snug. I folded the dress carefully, placing it into one of the two huge Samsonite suitcases lying open on the floor.

The door to my room flung open. CHUU-CHUU! screeched Cassandra, also known as the stepmother, my father’s second wife.

Cassandra! I yelled, scrambling behind the front flap of nearest suitcase. Please knock before you come in. While you’re working on improving yourself, I thought, try practicing the pronunciation of my name. It’s Chutney. Not the sound of a child imitating a train.

KNOCK KNOCK WHO THERE YAH YAH, said Cassandra, cradling a creepy Bud-Light frog lamp in her arms.

The stepmother’s English isn’t exactly the greatest. Well, it’s good for someone who had recently been Sing-Ming Ong from Malaysia. She came to Hawai‘i in search of the American Dream. And perhaps a husband. She found both at Club Don’t Tell Momma. It was one of those poorly lit bars on the infamously skeezy Kapi‘olani Boulevard that reeked of cigarette smoke and desperation, where men bought watery, over-priced drinks and more importantly, the company of women. It took a special kind of woman to work at a buy-me-drinkie bar. Typically she spoke little English, wore a lot of makeup and was an expert in seduction. Gross. But hey, to each their own.

I’d met my stepmother for the first time just a little over a year ago at her and Dad’s elopement ceremony in some judge’s chambers. My dad had told me that I needed to sign important papers for his construction company. Imagine my surprise when a judge, my father, and an Asian woman wearing a white spandex dress and three-tiered tiara ambushed me.

What’s going on? I asked, frozen in the doorway of room 247.

Chutney, my father, the stoic Carter Yamato said, This is Cassandra. He waved towards the man. And Judge Ching is performing our, uh, marriage ceremony. You’re our witness.

I stared at him. Is this a joke?

I KNOW PLENTY JOKE! KNOCK KNOCK WHO THERE? Cassandra bragged. She, with her splotchy tanned skin and heavily-lined eyes, hugged me roughly. I smelled the sour stench of wine on her breath as she continued, I GONNA BE YOU MUDDA! She dragged me towards my father and the judge.

The judge gave me a thin-lipped smile and asked, Are you okay, young lady?

Yeah, I replied, glaring at my father as he studied the floor. I’m just surprised.

WE HAPPY TOO! shouted Cassandra, hugging my father, kissing him repeatedly on the face. YAH CAHTA? YAH!

As CAHTA nodded, my stomach churned. Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I demanded.

He shrugged, his typical response to my pesky questions.

YOU GONNA START NOW NOW NOW! Cassandra demanded, hitting the judge hard on the back.

Judge Ching coughed, pulling at his white collar. All right, let’s begin, he managed to say.

During the ceremony, I thought about how much I resented my dad for forgetting about my mom by marrying a loud, rude immigrant woman. I hated Cassandra because I knew she’d take what little relationship I had with my father away. When the judge asked the required, Is there any reason this man and woman should not be joined together in holy matrimony? I forced myself to remain silent, not wanting to cause a soap opera-like scene.

As soon as Dad and Cassandra signed their names on their marriage license, my new stepmother went to the car to get SOMETING. After the still-struggling-to-breathe Judge Ching excused himself to get a drink of water, Dad pushed the certificate towards me. I hesitated at signing my name above the Witness line.

I looked at him, pen in hand. Why? I asked.

Just sign it, he said, coughing his thick smoker’s cough.

But she squawks, I complained, putting down the pen.

Itʼs better than silence. He shoved the pen back in my hand.

Even though I disagreed, I signed the document. Even if I didn’t sign it, they’d find someone else who would. Just as finished writing the o in my last name, Cassandra returned holding a plastic baggie filled with uncooked rice. She shoved it my hand. YOU THROW US WHEN WE GONNA LEAVE, YAH?

She hoisted herself into my father’s arms so they resembled newlyweds crossing the threshold of their home for the first time. As I watched them leave, I threw the rice at them as hard as I could.

***

CHUU-CHUU!

Cassandraʼs ear-piercing voice snapped me back to the present.

Huh? I asked.

Cassandra pinched my ear. YOU EAR CAN WORK OR WHAT?

Ouch! I cried, waving her away and rubbing my ear. What do you want?

She leaned in towards me and yelled even louder, YOU FADDA GOTTA KNOW WHEN GONNA LEAVE TO AIRPLANE!

Um, I said slowly, mentally deciphering her Cassandra-speak. Dad wants to know when we should leave for the airport?

I SAID, I SAID! Cassandra plopped down the Bud-Light frog lamp on my desk and placed her hands on her hips. TELL ALREADY NOW!

I don’t know. I glanced at the clock. It was a few minutes until 8:00am. All of the Japanese TEA participants had been instructed to meet at the airport at 9:30am, where we’d all check in together and get prepped for our big adventure abroad. Before I could explain this to the stepmother, she ran down the hall screaming, CAHTA! DAUGHTA DON’T KNOW! DAUGHTA DON’T KNOW NUTTING!

I closed the door and leaned against it. I knew things. I knew that no matter how much she grew her black, stringy hair, it would never be long enough to hide the pooches of fat protruding from the waistband of her too-tight Lucky Brand Jeans. I knew that the day-glo, spandex tube tops she loved wearing did nothing to enhance her barely-there A-cups. I knew from her frosting-thick makeup and gooey black eyeliner that Tammy Faye had better cosmetic sensibilities.

Feeling drained, I grabbed the handmade quilt my mother had made out of souvenir t-shirts from our favorite Broadway musicals like Les Misérables, Beauty and the Beast and Phantom of the Opera. I smiled and folded the quilt, tucking it right next to my favorite blue dress in the suitcase, remembering how much fun we’d had.

Next, I boxed up the clothes from the Goodwill pile. Giving away the things my mother had sewn for me so many years ago and seeing how one of the last things she’d ever made, a pink sweatshirt, was tattered and too small for me, made her absence even more difficult. Since she’d been born and raised in the small town of Shisagawa in the heart of Okinawa, she would have been delighted by my placement in her hometown. When I was younger, Mom and I had spent hours planning our trip to Okinawa. I’d get to meet Baba and Jiji, who’d cook traditional Okinawan meals for their daughter and granddaughter. Weʼd go hiking up Tachu on Iwa Jima and snorkel around the reefs of Miyako. Part of me felt that going to Okinawa now would somehow make up for the fact that our trip never happened.

My father, on the other hand, had been disappointed with my placement. When I’d flounced into his office, proudly showing him my acceptance letter, he leaned back in his leather executive chair and puffed on his cigar. What kind of program is this? he asked, eyeing the letter.

Well, I said, clapping my hands together, it’s a really good opportunity to live and work in Japan. I gave him a colorful brochure from the thick packet of information sent by the Japanese consulate. As he looked at the pictures of smiling blond men surrounded by uniformly happy Japanese children, I explained that I’d teach high school students English.

And the best part, I said, clapping my hands, is that I’ll be in Okinawa!

Okinawa? He rested his cigar in an ashtray. Thatʼs not real Japan. Itʼs more like Hawai‘i if anything, but worse. They don't speak English.

Oh, I said, taking back the brochure. I didn't think of it that way.

What’s the point of going to Japan if youʼre stuck somewhere just like home? he asked as he swiveled around to face his computer, indicating our conversation was over. He began typing on his computer.

But Mom was from Okinawa, I said to his back.

He didn’t reply. The only sound in the room came from the clicking of keyboard keys. I had no choice but to leave.

Even after 22 years, my father’s negativity still stung. It was about the time I was in elementary school when I realized he’d stopped listening to Mom’s stories about Okinawa. Whenever she would close her eyes and reminisce about her happy childhood, Dad would mumble something about going to smoke. I, on the other hand, would close my eyes too, picturing a world so far away.

***

Back in my room, I picked up a framed picture of my mother holding a can of beer. Long ago, Mom told me that the summer before she turned nineteen, she and her friends dressed up in traditional Okinawan attire for the annual Orion Beer Festival. As she wandered through the festival wearing a large, red, orb-shaped hat and bright yellow kimono splashed with blue, red and white, a photographer shoved a can of beer in her hand and took her picture. She claimed that picture became famous, making Mom the unofficial face of Orion Beer. Since she’d left Okinawa shortly after the festival, and had eventually lost touch with her family and friends, she’d often wondered what had become of that picture. I took the photo out of its frame and tucked it safely into my photo album.

Mom had sprinkled my childhood with stories of Okinawa. She’d work at her sewing machine while recollecting the past, and then at the end of her story, Mom would hold up a brand-new creation and say, Chuto-chan, this is for you. Made with love.

As I packed several of her homemade bunny-decorated shoe holders into my suitcase, I wished she had been able to last longer than her handiwork. I sat down on my bed, chest burning with anxiety. How could I go to Japan without her?

Closing my eyes and taking deep breaths, I tried not to panic. But what if my decision to participate in Japanese TEA was a mistake, a horrible miscalculation? What if the only roots I’d find were the ones in my hair? I stood up, ready to call the whole thing off.

In a panic, I grabbed an armful of clothes from my suitcase about to throw them back into my closet when my door swung open again. Cassandra rushed in, holding a giant gold vase in the shape of a frog wearing a crown. YOU FADDA SAY WE GO EIGHTY FOUR OH FIVE YEA! OKAY?

We’re leaving at 8:45? I guessed, eyeing the vase. Whereʼd you get that?

I GIVE YOU I GIVE YOU! Cassandra chucked the frog prince into my suitcase and ran down the hallway screaming, CAHTA! WE GOTTA STOP BY CHINATOWN! YOU DAUGHTA TOOK MY BEST FROG!

I threw the armful of clothes back into my suitcase and took the vase out, placing it on my windowsill, noticing the dark clouds forming atop the Ko‘olau Mountains. Time to go, I said to myself. I was finally ready.

***

Fifteen minutes later, I wrestled an overstuffed suitcase into the hallway and realized I couldn’t bring it downstairs by myself. Observing various pieces of frog paraphernalia lining the hallway, I went downstairs to look for unwanted, but much needed, help from my dad. I passed the closed door of my mom’s sewing room. Every week for the past ten years, I’d placed a fresh floral wreath on the door. I worried the tradition would die as soon as I left for Japan.

I followed the strong sent of smoke to Dad’s office. He sat at his computer, puffing on a cigar, playing Solitaire. I announced my presence with a bombardment of sneezes.

You getting sick? Dad asked, scrutinizing the screen.

No, I said, wiping my nose. Allergies.

He put out his cigar in the overflowing ashtray and stood up. I’ll get your suitcases. They’re probably heavy.

Yeah, I said, studying my toes. Sorry, I—

CHUU-CHUU! Cassandra interrupted, sashaying towards me, holding a stick of incense. I BURN THIS TO MY GOD FO CHASING EVIL SPIRIT AWAY!

Then I must be evil, I snapped, my voice nasal from all the sneezing. "Because it makes me want to go away."

YOU WELCOME! She waved the stick like an evil witch.

My head hurt and I couldn’t breathe. I’ll meet you guys outside, I choked.

OKAY OKAY, Cassandra yelled, blowing the tip of the incense, creating more smoke. WE TAKE CARE YOU BIG HEAVY BAG!

Right, I said, stumbling out of the room.

On my way out, I paused at Mom’s sewing room. I pressed my nose to the wreath, inhaling the soothing scent of pikake and tuberose, so refreshing after the harsh smell of cigars and incense.

"Aloha Mama, I said to the wreath. Take care."

I walked outside to wait in the car.

Chutney! cried a familiar voice.

I turned to find my best friend and lifelong neighbor, Lehua, jumping the fence that separated our families’ properties. I thought you were working! I said, hugging her.

Lehua, tan as usual from surfing, smoothed her blue scrubs. I switched schedules with another nurse so I could say good-bye.

I’m gonna miss you, I said, feeling homesick already.

She shook her head. I’m gonna miss you more.

But I’ll keep in touch, I said, I promise.

You better, Lehua said, tugging my hair. Because Harry isn’t very good company.

Don’t be mean to your boyfriend, I scolded, At least you have one.

Lehua rolled her eyes. Because I’m not as picky as you. Maybe I should be.

No way, I said, shaking my head. That’s why I’ll end up a barren spinster and you’ll have many chubby little babies.

That’ll be the day, Lehua scoffed, waving her hand dismissively. Oh, before I forget, this is for good luck. She handed me a blue box with a white ribbon.

Aww. I said, clutching the box. Lele, you didn’t—

CHUU-CHUU! interrupted Cassandra, still waving her stick of incense. WE GO!

Dad had loaded up Cassandra’s BMW SUV with my stuff. The stepmother calls, I said, giving Lehua one last hug.

Stay out of trouble, Lehua said, squeezing my hand as I pulled away.

Always! I called, hopping into the back seat.

From the front passenger seat, Cassandra turned around. WE GONNA VISIT TO YOU MUDDA BEFORE WE DRIVE TO THE AIRPLANE!

Visit my mom? With the stepmother? I shook my head. No. She’d never once left flowers at my mother’s hakka. Neither had my dad since he’d married Cassandra. The thought of going there, the only place not desecrated with smoke or frogs, with the stepmother hugging and kissing my father, made me sick.

I shook my head. There’s no time.

Dad started the engine and through the rear view mirror I saw him frown. No time?

Shrugging, I opened the box from Lehua and found a heart-shaped necklace from my favorite jewelry store. I put it on and rolled down the window. I love it! I called to Lehua, who stood by the fence, wiping her eyes. She smiled and waved.

I sat back in the seat and whispered, "Aloha, Hawai‘i."

CHAPTER TWO

The One Man Sumo vs. the Suitcase Snatcher

Standing in front of the mirror, I admired my teased hair piled on top of my head, my oversized white t-shirt, and black tutu. I smeared the bright-red lipstick I’d swiped from Mom’s bathroom all over my lips and pulled on a pair of lacy black gloves. Then I grabbed my makeshift microphone, Mom’s favorite vase made out of special glass from Okinawa, and flicked on the boom box. Madonna’s voice filled the air.

Like a virgin! I sang along, closing my eyes and dancing, envisioning myself performing in my elementary school’s talent show.

Chuto-chan!

Startled, I opened my eyes and dropped the vase. It fell to the ground and shattered, sending pink shards of glass everywhere. Mom stood in my doorway, her hand covering her mouth.

I’m so sorry, Mama, I said, stepping carefully to avoid the remains of the vase, turning off the stereo.

Mom shook her head. What were you doing?

Practicing, I said, making my way over to her. I’m gonna win first place.

What a mess, she said, leaving my room, shaking her head.

Maybe we can fix it! I called after her. I got down on my knees and surveyed the pink glass, finding it broken beyond repair.

Mom returned with dustpan and brush in hand and knelt next to me. Chuto-chan, what did I tell you about the talent show? she asked, sweeping the glass into a pile.

I held the dustpan. But I really wanna be in it.

She grabbed a tissue from my nightstand and wiped my lipstick away. Seven years old is too young to wear makeup.

I scooted away from her. Lehua’s mom lets her wear Bonnie Bell lip gloss.

Mom sighed. You are not Lehua.

I wish I were, I muttered, crossing my arms.

Mom resumed sweeping the glass. My favorite vase. . .

I wrinkled my nose. Sheez, I said I was sorry.

She picked up one of the larger pieces and studied it. I made it in high school.

Really? I said, starting to feel bad. How?

By glass blowing, an Okinawan specialty, Mom said, placing the piece of glass in the dustpan. Maybe we can take a class together one day.

No, I said, standing up and taking off my tutu. I wanna take singing lessons.

Mom shook her head. "Iie, Chuto-chan, no."

If I don’t need lessons, I reasoned, freeing my hair from the ponytail, that means I should sing in the talent show.

"Dame, no good, Mom said, sweeping up the last of the glass. You will be hitori zumo."

I sat on my bed. I’ll be what?

Mom hesitated. I don’t know how to explain in English. It is complicated.

Just let me sing in the talent show! I said, heaving a great big sigh.

Then choose another song, Mom reasoned, pouring the broken glass into my Hello Kitty rubbish can.

No! I sing that song the best! I said, pounding a fist into the bed.

"Hitori zumo, Mom repeated, standing up. You cannot win."

You think I’m that bad? I started to cry.

Mom rushed over to hug me. "Iie, no Chuto-chan, you are very talented."

I continued crying.