Free Honolulu by Alan Brennert

was something to be “packed,” I thought it might be some article of clothing, so I began rooting about in the bedroom closet, hoping something would present itself as being particularly bento-like. But my husband just looked at me quizzically and said, “What are you doing over there? I told you to pack me a benro.” I swallowed, apologized for my ignorance, and told him I did not know what that was. He blinked at me, then conceded, “No, I suppose you don’t. Back home we call it a do-sirak”-a box lunch. “There’s a denim bag in the kitchen. Pack me a water bottle and something to eat.”
    Relieved, I thanked him for his explanation and went into the kitchen, which was another problem altogether. The pantry was poorly stockedsome uncooked rice, tinned salmon, another tin of sardines, a jar of fermenting kimchi, a bottle of rice wine. I found a loaf of bread that had not yet gone stale and sliced off a few pieces. The kimchi seemed ripe enough and I poured some into a smaller jar. I filled the water bottle, threw in the tinned salmon and a pair of chopsticks, and hoped it would suffice. Mr. Noh took his lunch, said offhandedly, “You can wash my work clothes while I’m gone,” and left for work.
    The minute he was gone, my legs buckled under me and I sank into a sitting position in the middle of the kitchen floor. Where was I? What world was this? What had I done? I cursed myself for a fool and wept, trying desperately to think of a way out. But the reality was, I was now married to this man-and even if there were some escape from that, how would I get back to Korea? And what would I do once I got there? There was no returning to my father’s house. Surely this one could be no worse-could it?
    After long and careful consideration, I decided that the only thing to be done was the laundry. And so I got up off the floor.
    I found Mr. Noh’s clothes easily enough-they were piled high as a burial mound in the bedroom-and could just as easily see that they were encrusted with the blood-red dirt that seemed to permeate everything on the plantation, even the air itself. Korean soil did not stick to the shoe even when dry, like this did. Each pair of trousers was so stiff with dried mud that I was tempted to see if it could stand up on its own legs. I took the clothes behind the house, where I washed a pair of pants in a cement sink, then wrung them out. But no matter how many times I rinsed and wrung, the pants continued to bleed into the sink.
    After half an hour of this, my plight was noticed by a woman in the adjoining yard, a young Spanish housewife with flowing black hair named Marisol, who hurried over to set me straight. “No good, no good,” she told me in a kind of English that was not quite English, “too duro-hard. Mo’ bettah this way.” From under the sink she produced something I’d never seen before: a steel scrub board. She draped the dungarees over the board, then pounded them with a wooden paddle not unlike our laundry bats back home. She alternated the pounding with a hard brush, and now when she rinsed out the pants I could make out the blue of the denim for the first time.
    “You see difference?” she asked.
    “I see,” I told her. “Thank you.”
    “No mention,” she said with a smile. “You like flan?”
    “What is that?”
    “It’s ono, you like. I bring.” Minutes later she carried over a bowl of delicious custard unlike any I had tasted in Korea. I thanked her again, then spent the next several hours scrubbing, pounding, and wringing my husband’s work clothes until the last drops of red were squeezed from them and I was able to string them out on the clothesline to dry.
    In the midst of this I heard the piercing blast of a steam whistle, but thought nothing of it; I merely assumed a train was passing by and continued with my washing. Not long afterward, my husband returned from the fields. I quickly learned that the workday ended at four-thirty in the afternoon and,