Gratitude trumps misplaced resentment

By Thomas C. Cummings Jr.

My Elder Brother's Keeper

"He came again — your elder brother," my wife snapped. "Pulled kalo this time. I saw him. Bearing your hard work away in bundles ... "

"Hah! Even waved at me as he passed. Can't he at least ask permission?"

The hard edge in her voice brought a squeeze to my stomach. This time I didn't want to explain my feelings, to argue. Besides, she was right. Why didn't he tell me he need kalo before pulling? Why doesn't he ever tell me he's in need of anything he takes from my farm? I would say yes, of course — but we could at least agree to the amount.

As if my wife had read my thoughts, she continued her tirade, "Husband, he never tells you. You know that. He just takes. Yet you never do anything. Why not? And why would he need so much? He is alone in his house."

"I'll speak with him when the time is right," I said, hoping to restore her to that friendly person that I had come to love — though, even angry, she was still handsome.

"When the time is right?" she fumed, her face grim. "Then tomorrow will be the day of telling."

I said nothing, thinking it best to escape out the door into the safety of the approaching night, to be calmed by the shapes of the lush cliffs and the hushing sound of the stream nearby.

But early morning, I walked through the tall stands of coconut trees lining the path to my brother's place on the beach. Now, at last, without wavering, I fixed my mind to speak candidly to my elder brother and be rid of this singular displeasure my wife and I had for his conduct.

"Aloha, brother. How are you?" I asked, stepping into his work halau. I sidestepped his array of nets, draped and drying on two post-racks. The sea smell was strong and hospitable inside his unwalled hut.

I sat next to him on his lauhala mat, where he was replacing the broken hau floats on a long net.

He answered, "Very well, little brother. For an old man, I have no want. And I'm grateful to you for that, in large part." The loose skin under his arms and thighs, and especially the wrinkles on his face, told me he was old, getting older.

"Is the fishing good for you?" I continued my courtesy, poised to begin the true purpose of my visit.

"Yes, the sea is generous," he answered as he always did when I asked the question.

I waited, knowing it was his turn to remark about my well-being, which he promptly did. "Mother was right: You are fine looking ... still," he teased. "Your good wife, is she well?"

"You needn't ask. She'll live a long life," I answered. Now I was ready, as ever I would be, to tell him about his visit the day before, which would lead to an honest recounting of all his other foraging excursions, and at last a settlement agreeable to us.

"She saw you yesterday, coming from my kalo patch," I continued cautiously.

"Ahhhh! Yes, indeed," he said, stretching the stiffness out of his arms, cheerfulness in his voice and eyes as always.

"Did you pull enough kalo for yourself?" I asked, preparing to leap to the subject.

"Yes, yes. You are an excellent farmer, little brother. Everyone marvels at your many breadfruit trees and your patches of kalo ... and sweet potatoes and yams and bananas."

"Well, if you should need anything, ask me. I'm always pleased to help." I felt I did put the proper emphasis on my words. But when I looked into my elder brother's eyes, hoping he would know my meaning, I was disappointed. All I saw was his genuine smile.

I decided then to be direct with him. Be quick and firm, I coaxed myself.

"I would like to ask — humbly — if you would ... "

I meant to end with: Get my permission before you take any food from my farm. But I was stuck with fear, unable to mouth those harsh words. I was bothered by the spirit voices of my parents and grandparents swirling in my mind, telling me that I must defer to any elder — that it was "the customary way for all of us." So I finished instead by saying, "honor us at our evening meal on the morrow?"

After all my seeming resolve, I couldn't be disrespectful to my elder brother — risk shocking him and hurting his feelings. What if he never spoke to me again? I realized that enough had been said. I would just tell my wife, when reaching home, that he and I had come to an understanding.

"Yes, I would be pleased to enjoy a meal with you and your wife," he said, although he must have sensed my discomfort, for he paused, with a quizzical expression, before continuing, "But is ... "

I didn't let him finish. "Tomorrow then ... farewell," I said tersely, standing and turning to begin my upslope walk home.

"My dearest brother," he called. "Is there something more you want to tell me?"

I looked back, not into his eyes, but at his knees. "No," I lied.

"If father and mother were alive, they'd approve of your respect toward me ... and kindness. Indeed, you're a good younger brother," he said with a sincerity I could not miss.

Later, entering our house, I told my wife all that had happened, and I forbade her to complain about him anymore. It was difficult for her — myself as well — in the beginning. But we came to tolerate his entering and harvesting freely from our farmlands from that day forward.

A year later, my elder brother died from pain in his stomach, which lingered for weeks. We fulfilled his wish, a desire he repeated every day as he was dying: "You and your woman must take my body to my wife's village." The tiny village was far away, in a remote and barren part of the island. He wanted to be buried there beside his wife.

I remember well the days of the funeral. Everyone was overly attentive to us, though my wife and I had never before visited the village.

In the high heat of day at the funeral service, as we sat at the place of honor in the meeting house, an elderly woman tapped my wife's arm, saying, "Here, take my fan. Thank you, thank you for everything." Tears filled her eyes and those of others around her.

Later, as we stood beside the grave under the hot sun, about to lower my brother's kapa-wrapped body into the hole, two boys moved toward us and held a large lauhala mat over our heads for shade. The older of the two said, "My father sent us." The other youth added, "He thanks you very much for all you've done." Then he touched my arm and that of my wife tenderly.

They must be thanking me for returning my brother's body, I assumed.

In every instance, in simple and extravagant ways, those folks of the poorest condition were hospitable to us. It was understandable, of course, that they should love my brother, which we saw that they did. But we, whom they knew not at all, were treated with great respect as well — even with the same love they expressed for my brother.

Then, as in a long-forgotten dream whose meaning had not been understood, it became clear at last to me and my wife the day we took our meal with the village chief and his family. At the eating mat, he said, "All the love that our hearts can hold, we give you. Thank you both."

"Tell me, Sir, we must know: Why is everyone so good to us?" I asked.

"You don't know?" he responded, the lines on his face showing surprise.

"Know what?" I pressed the chief, who was the uncle of my elder brother's wife.

"Aue, your brother always — without fail — brought food to give to his wife's family here, which are most of us. He did so on every visit he made."

A sensation swept over me that included a large measure of shame and warm relief. I could tell by the sudden alert look on my wife's face that she felt as I did. Clearly, the dark shadow that nagged at me all those years evaporated — for of my wife, too, I'm sure. We both wept.

The chief continued, "Yet, when we thanked your elder brother, he always said without fail, 'My younger brother and his good wife provide the food. You should thank them.'"