“The day Evita died, he came to see you when he knew I was en la finca.”
“You know I don’t like to remember that day.”
Vicente said, “You were alone with him.”
“And the children.”
“They were babies.”
Valentina sat to put on her shoes. “Why ask me this now, Vicente? After all this time?”
“Why? Why did he come see you?”
“I don’t remember, Vicente. It was so long ago—and then—”
The sounds of guitar playing came from the Puerto Rican camp; the party had begun.
“The way my father looked at you,” Vicente said. “I should have known he was up to no good.”
“We were having such a lovely time, Vicente. Why do you have to go spoil it?”
“Did you let my father fuck you?”
Valentina turned to look at him. “All these years you thought—”
“It was in the back of my mind but I didn’t know it.” He didn’t take his gaze from her face.
She stood up and smoothed down her dress.
Vicente reached for her hand. “You know my father.”
“And you know me.” Valentina pulled her hand away. “I’m going to the party. You can stay here with your suspicions.”
He watched her run until she was only a flash of white.
La gente were sure to gossip about Valentina at the party by herself on the day her husband came home from jail; los puertorriqueños liked a good bochinche. Valentina would be with the women talking, maybe even drinking. She did what she wanted here in Hawaii, though she couldn’t dance with another man without Vicente’s permission, not when he was around, anyway: although she might be willing, no man would take such a risk. He made his way to the party because it was, after all, a fiesta held partly in his honor. Besides, why shouldn’t he go to the party and enjoy himself? He hadn’t done anything wrong. The breeze wafted the sweet smell of sugarcane, which he could live without smelling. He plucked a red orchid from a bush and touched the red petals with the tip of his fingers; it was delicate and soft the way Valentina had been when he first knew her. But now she was strong; she’d had to be. He had to forget whatever might have happened with his father. And he would. He just needed her to say just once—that there was nothing to tell.
He smelled the freshly cut grass before he saw it. That morning, the older boys in the Puerto Rican camp had cut the grass with machetes to prepare it for dancing.
There she was, his wife, talking and laughing with the other women. She didn’t bother to look in his direction. Somebody passed him a jug of okolehao and asked him about jail. What had the malditos americanos done to him? He told them about the chain gang.
“We’re men, not cattle,” somebody said.
Vicente smiled, remembering Valentina thinking it was “cow.” Eugenio passed him a cigarette, the first cigarette Vicente had had since Puerto Rico because he had promised Valentina not to charge anything that wasn’t a necessity at the plantation store. He held the cigarette in the palm of his hand and marveled that something of such scant weight could bring such pleasure.
“We’re screwed and the Americans know it,” somebody said. “There isn’t anything we can do about it.”
“We can refuse to cut cane.” Vicente rolled the cigarette between his fingers. “We can go on strike.”
“¿Huelga? ¡Huelga!” passed from man to man.
“We can set down our machetes,” Vicente said.
“Huelga,” Eugenio said.
“We’re men, not cattle,” Vicente said. “No man has the right to raise his whip to us.”
The men drank.
“Promises were made,” Vicente said. “We must demand that they be kept.”
“Huelga,” Eugenio said again.
“Huelga.” The men drank.
“We need to get together with the Japanese,” Vicente said.
“The Japanese?”
“We’ll organize with the Japanese in the other camp,” Vicente said. “We’ll strike together, then we’ll have more bargaining power with los americanos.”
“We don’t know anything about the Japanese,” Eugenio said.
“We’ll learn.”
“Do we even know any Japanese?” Eugenio refilled Vicente’s glass.
“We will.”
“Japanese and Puerto Ricans working together,” Eugenio said. “Can it be done?”
“We didn’t come from the other side of the world to become slaves in this one,” Vicente said. “We have to try.”
They drank as they considered it.
“The Hawaiian Sugar Planters’ Association won’t want the cane to rot in the fields,” Vicente said. “We have that in our favor.”
“But they have guns,” Eugenio said.
They drank as they thought about guns.
“They wouldn’t be able to arrest all of us,” Vicente said. “Or kill all of us. They need us to cut the cane.”
“But nobody talks Japanese,” Eugenio said.
“That’s a problem,” Vicente said.
Somebody began to play the cuatro guitar, Valentina’s favorite, then a woman took up a güiro, another shook el shekere. Somebody sang. People began to pair off. When her husband asked her to dance, Valentina walked away, and everyone watched him follow her.
“I don’t want to dance with you,” Valentina said.
“I don’t want to dance with you, either,” Vicente said.
They stood next to the Portuguese oven. On its roof was a milk jug of Hawaiian moonshine. She took a slug of the okolehao; Vicente noticed that Valentina didn’t cough the way she had the first time.
“You drink okolehao como nada,” he said.
She ignored him.
“Did you dance while I was gone? Without my permission?”
“How was I supposed to get it? You were in jail.”
“I hope that you didn’t wander off with your partner under the stars.”
Valentina looked at him. “Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m the one who should be angry,” Vicente said.
“You’ve no right to be angry.” She put the jug back on top of the oven.
“But Valentina, my father—”
“Hombre, I’ve spent the last two months hoe hana and I’m not taking mierda from anyone.” Valentina placed her hands on her hips.
“I’m not anyone,” Vicente said. “I’m your husband.”
“You, either,” Valentina said.
They watched their friends laughing and dancing to the normally sedate vals; the music and the beautiful night enticed them to shake their hips a little, as they wouldn’t have back home.
“I don’t want to fight,” Valentina said.
“I don’t want to fight, either.” Vicente moved closer to her.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she said.
“You’re different,” Vicente said.
“Hoe hana will do that to you,” Valentina said.
“I don’t mean that.”
“What did you mean, then?”
“I don’t know. Different.”