Fast Backward

by David Patneaude

  “That is only speculation. But fueling it is a report that National Guard and Coast Guard units have established check points around the perimeter of the city and harbor. They are allowing survivors to leave, but no civilians are being allowed into the area of the blast or even under the shadow of the mushroom cloud, which is now dissipating and moving out to sea. Besides the dangers of crumbling buildings and downed electrical wires within a two-mile radius of the blast’s epicenter, there is talk of poisonous air and water.

  “The government remains tight-lipped. But if the conjecture on the part of our civilian sources proves to be true, if the Nazis have such a weapon, the so-far favorable course of the war may have changed in the blink of an eye.”

  None of the bomb talk is news to us, but still, coming over the radio in the newsman’s authoritative voice makes it seem more ominous. This wasn’t a test. This wasn’t an uninhabited stretch of land in the New Mexico desert. This was an unbelievably powerful weapon used in a real-life situation. This was a real city. These were real people.

  This was us, taking one in the balls.

  And on the other side of the Atlantic, Hitler and his crew of sadistic Nazis are no doubt raising their steins, smirking and giggling and pulling on their wienies like nasty little boys cheering on the schoolyard bully.

  What’s next? When?

  The announcer goes on, mostly repeating himself. At one point, he mentions the possibility that a U-boat was involved, a U-boat on a suicide mission.

  “Stay tuned,” he says.

  But I’m ready to spend some time around our animals. I get up, hoping Cocoa will follow me outside.

  She does.

  I hope she’ll take my hand.

  She doesn’t.

  Someday I’ll do more than hope.

  An hour later we’re in the kitchen and my stomach is growling nonstop when the sounds of an approaching vehicle grumble through the screen door. I step outside. Coming down the driveway is an Army truck towing an Airstream trailer. Low rays of sunlight glint off the rounded corners of the trailer’s aluminum shell as Pete maneuvers it to a spot near the house. For at least part of the day it will be shaded.

  Cocoa comes out and helps me supervise Pete and Captain Nelson while they unhitch and level the trailer. Then all of us, including Mom and Dad, inspect the inside—bunks, sink, icebox, table, all arranged to save space. I could live in it, but two grown men?

  “I hope they like each other,” Dad says.

  “Better than a tent,” I say.

  “Or a dumpster,” Cocoa says.

  In the truck bed are several sturdy cardboard boxes filled with canned goods, coffee, sugar, flour, bread, corn on the cob. In a big wooden box, under a layer of dry ice, are packages of ground beef, ham, and bacon, and in another is a baking pan. Pete lifts the lid, revealing a huge pot roast surrounded by assorted vegetables, swimming in brown gravy.

  “Courtesy of Doctor Bainbridge, and our fine Army cooks,” the captain says. I picture Eddie and Lard-Ass, the two cooks I met on the morning of the test. Have they heard the news and put two and two together?

  Cocoa’s fears about the captain or Pete pressuring her don’t materialize while we’re putting away the food or setting the table or eating or cleaning up. Nobody brings up Norfolk or the bomb or the direction of the war. Someone has turned off the radio, and we leave it off.

  Finally, we all move to the living room with a big bowl of popcorn and a pitcher of lemonade. Cocoa raises the subject that everyone has been avoiding.

  “I am sorry I could not—” she begins.

  Captain Nelson cuts her off. “Look, Cocoa, you don’t need to apologize. There isn’t one person who blames you for what’s happened. Nobody will blame you for anything that may yet happen. When they’re not feeling overcome with wonder, everyone is completely impressed with your knowledge and your willingness to share it. We’re certain you’ve done your best and you’ll continue to do so.”

  I’m back in my spot, sitting close to Cocoa on the sofa. It feels comfortable. And it’s nice to have Mom sandwiching her from the other side. Saturdays and Sundays are the only days Mom is home with us in the evenings, and tonight I’m extra grateful. Dad is sitting next to her, and Pete and the captain are across from us. The captain is in Dad’s chair. Pete knows better.

  “I’m still trying,” Cocoa says. “Too late, memories are returning. I recall that a Nazi submarine delivered the bomb. I recall that it was a suicide mission, because the crew of that submarine are—will be—famous war heroes in Germany. I know more attacks are coming. My problem—everybody’s problem—is the fucking details.”

  “The captain and I have been talking, Cocoa,” Pete says.

  This time it’s Cocoa’s turn to interrupt. “Chuck’s situation is the same,” she says. “I know something bad is going to happen to him and his peace movement friends. But I don’t know what.”

  Neither Pete nor the captain says anything, and I wonder if they know something.

  “I already lost jobs over it,” Dad says. “I’ve been bruised and bloodied. What else can they do?”

  Plenty, I think.

  “Anyway,” Pete continues, “we thought there might be ways to help you remember.”

  “And he’s not talking about browbeating or torture or anything disagreeable,” the captain says with a half-formed smile.

  “We’d like to drive to Albuquerque tomorrow, visit the library, and study photos and maps of coastal cities and states,” Pete says. “See if something jogs your memory. Also, we’ve called the owner of the biggest movie theater in town. He’s agreed to let us view his collection of newsreels. He’ll close down the theater long enough to show us any we want to see.”

  “How does that sound, Cocoa?” Captain Nelson says.

  “Can Robert come with us?” she says, turning me warm all over and bringing a grin to Pete’s face.

  “Of course,” the captain says. “We were planning on inviting him.”

  “Good,” Cocoa says. “Yes, that will be good.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Monday, July 23

  I’m pulling on a T-shirt and shorts when I hear someone in the bathroom. A moment later there’s a knock on my bedroom door.

  “Is it okay if I go with you this morning, Robert?” Cocoa asks. There’s only one dim lamp on in my room, but I decide she looks troubled. From yesterday, I tell myself.

  “Sure.” I try not to sound too enthusiastic. “The customer count is back up, so I can use the help.”

  A spark of amusement flickers in her eyes. And I know why: I’m a bad liar, and the real reason I want her to come along isn’t the increased customer count. But I’m only slightly embarrassed that she’s seen through me so easily. More important is that for an instant, at least, the troubled look disappears.

  Outside, Cocoa turns to me. All that’s left of the moon is a faint glow above the western horizon. Her face is nearly invisible.

  “During the night, I woke up with a memory, Robert.” We’re a good distance from the house, but she keeps her voice to a murmur. “No longer cloudy.”

  “The next attack?” I say, matching her volume.

  “The government’s plans for people in the peace movement,” she says. “For Chuck.”

  “You remember what happened? What’s going to happen?”

  “They call it ’relocation,’” she says. “’Internment.’ What they did to the Japanese Americans. They’re going to round them up and ship them off and lock them up. Concentration camps, although they don’t call them that.”

  Fresh in my mind: Dad and John McCloy butting heads and Dad mentioning Japanese Americans getting locked up and McCloy saying it was ironic Dad should bring up the Japs.

  McCloy’s words made me fear something like this, but Cocoa saying it with such conviction and sadness makes it real. “How can they?”

  “Truman has signed an order.”

  “Effective when?”

  “Today is the twenty
-third?”

  My head is a wasps’ nest, buzzing angrily. “It is.”

  “Tomorrow,” she says. “The roundup starts tomorrow.”

  “I should warn him.”

  “Let him sleep. A few hours won’t matter. Maybe I’ll be wrong.”

  I have no faith in her being wrong, and she’s right about letting him sleep. What difference will it make?

  The trip to the shack seems to go faster with my mind elsewhere and Cocoa riding beside me, even though we barely talk. Maybe it actually does go faster, because Leo doesn’t show up until we’re there for several minutes. He angles his car so the headlights are on the shack, and us. He gets out holding a newspaper.

  “Hello, Cocoa,” he says, handing me the Journal. His voice is friendly but serious, an unsettling combination. “Big news, Bobby,” he says. “You’ve gotta read it. Now.”

  “We heard all about it on the radio last night,” I say. “Nazi skunks.”

  “Open the paper, Bobby,” Leo says.

  I do. Giant headlines shout NORFOLK BOMBED. An aerial photo—buildings turned to rubble, smoke rising, boats tossed ashore—and an article take up the rest of the space.

  “Page two,” Leo says. “Any other day, front page stuff.”

  Cocoa squishes closer as I turn the page. I can sense her anxiety. Part of me wants to go back and read about the mayhem.

  At the top of page two is another, smaller headline: TRUMAN SIGNS ORDER TO LOCK UP PEACE MOVEMENT ADVOCATES.

  I swallow. I try to fight off the chill.

  Cocoa was right.

  McCloy’s threat was more than a threat.

  In the glare of Leo’s headlights, we begin reading. There are words—disloyal, dangerous, cowardly, unpatriotic, inflammatory, seditious, subversive—that I race past, seeking the meat of it—when? Is Cocoa right about that, too?

  Leo paces. Cocoa takes my hand, which should make me melt, but I’m focused. Finally, I get to where the article mentions detainment and relocation and internment. I get to the part where it says The actions are being taken for the safety of those involved in the peace movement. I get to the part where it says President Truman’s Executive Order 9598 will be implemented beginning Tuesday, July 24.

  Tomorrow.

  Cocoa wasn’t wrong. About anything.

  I re-read the article, searching for who and where and how long. But all it says is that relocation centers already exist, inhabited by people interned earlier in the war.

  “Sorry, Bobby,” Leo says, giving me a slip of paper. “My home phone number. In case you need to talk to someone. You know the work number.”

  “Thanks, Leo,” I manage.

  He opens his door and hands me my stack of papers. “Sorry,” he says again, then gets behind the wheel and drives off.

  With the headlights gone, darkness has returned, but the stars and a hint of dawn over the hills make it easy to sit on the bench and roll papers.

  “The relocation option has been considered for a long time,” Cocoa says. “The concentration camps are occupied, but room remains, and they can be enlarged. The sinkings, and the public reaction to the marches, and now the bombing, have provided the government with an excuse to imprison another class of citizens.”

  “You’re remembering more stuff?”

  “Continually. Like acorns dropping from dying trees.”

  “They’ll arrest all of them?”

  “Anyone who has made their stand public,” she says. “The FBI has records. Conscientious objectors and members of religious groups like Quakers and Mennonites are the easiest to finger. Some conscientious objectors are already in work camps and workplaces, performing alternative public service. Sitting ducks. But everyone who has been vocal or marched or written an article or letter to the editor is in jeopardy.”

  “Dad’s done it all.”

  “As McCloy said, he’s vulnerable.”

  “What about me? Mom? You? If they send us away, what about you?”

  “I don’t recall if families went. Japanese American families did. But almost all members of the Japanese American families have one troublesome thing in common. Their race.”

  She hasn’t said anything about herself, but how would she know? “I can hardly imagine Dad behind barbed wire.”

  “He will have company. The camps will be crowded. It will take time to build more shacks. But at least the groups will be compatible. Chuck’s church, and others, have worked to ease the burden on Japanese Americans.”

  They have. I wonder if Dad ever thought he’d end up in the same boat as the internees he was helping.

  I shoulder the bag. We head out. The breeze is cool, but I sense heat coming. And heartbreak.

  “You think Leo would get me a bag so I can help carry?” Cocoa says.

  “Probably. But we may not be here much longer.”

  “They won’t put me in a camp. I am the precious goose. So far, my eggs haven’t been golden, but only because they arrived late. The general and the assistant secretary of war and the men above them are going to continue keeping close tabs on me. Why do you think Captain Nelson is living in your yard?”

  “You’re all they have.”

  “They will want to keep me happy, Robert.”

  An early-morning wind kicks up. I can taste the desert. “You’re right.”

  “Which means you’re not going anywhere.”

  Maybe the wind is playing tricks with her words.

  “What?”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” she repeats. “They have a bone to pick with Chuck, but not you. So, I will tell them. Robert stays, or I will be unhappy.”

  I don’t know what to say. I can feel water in my eyes, but I tell myself it’s just the wind. I’ve been trying to decide what she thinks of me, and now—

  “Unless you want to go with Chuck, and maybe Dottie, too.”

  “No.” The word doesn’t come fast enough. “I want to stay here.” Should I say “With you”? “With you.”

  She’s pedaling a couple of arm’s lengths off to my left, and darkness is still fighting the arrival of dawn, but I sense a smile.

  The sentries wave us through. We ride into the dark camp.

  Cocoa insists on throwing half the newspapers. Luckily, her accuracy has improved. We whip through the route, leaving extra copies where new arrivals have begun working or eating or sleeping. There’s a lot of activity—walkers hurrying from place to place, lamplight edging past blackout curtains, voices behind the locked doors of the ranch houses and newer buildings. Until today, the slapdash structures have never reminded me of people living their everyday lives in backcountry prison camps behind plywood walls and barbed wire fences.

  Light shines through the kitchen window of our house. Even though I’m only bringing home two copies of the Journal, suddenly my bag is heavy.

  I resist the temptation to wake up Pete or Captain Nelson to be my backbone when we walk through the door and I hand Dad his paper. I can do this. If I blubber, I want as few people as possible to see the tears.

  Dad and Mom are at the table. Steam rises from their coffee cups, but it doesn’t begin to mask their expressions—bravery, false cheer, despair—and I know they know. Lolly is lying at Dad’s feet. He doesn’t move. He has a job to do.

  I set the papers on the table. The one Leo gave us is open to page two. “You’ve already heard?” I feel the tears building up in the back of my throat. I swallow them.

  Mom slides the paper closer to her. I’m looking at the headline upside down, but it hasn’t changed: TRUMAN SIGNS ORDER TO LOCK UP PEACE MOVEMENT ADVOCATES.

  “A fellow from church called,” Dad says. He glances at the headline. Mom is already reading the story. Her head is already shaking. “He heard about it from a cousin who’s with the FBI.”

  “When?” I say. “The article says the relocation begins tomorrow.”

  “’Start packing,’ my friend said.”

  “What about Dottie and Robert?” Cocoa says.

>   “They’re not involved,” Dad says.

  “How can you say that, Chuck?” Mom says. “The last time I checked you were my husband. Bobby’s father. They’re going to lock you up and we’re not involved?”

  Dad answers her with silence, with his big fingers tightening around his coffee mug until they lose some of their color.

  “Maybe the radio will have more information?” I say.

  “I’m beginning to hate that radio, Bobby,” Mom says. “But turn it on.”

  I do. At first all the news is Norfolk. Dad unrolls the second copy of the Journal and starts reading the article under the familiar headline: NORFOLK BOMBED.

  Cocoa and I sit. The news from Norfolk is chilling. The city is still off limits to civilians, and nobody’s saying much, but some word has leaked out. A four-mile-wide circle of ruin. Tens of thousands dead and dying. Tens of millions of dollars in property loss. Infrastructure ruined. Leadership gone. Naval facilities destroyed. Personnel decimated. Countless Navy and merchant vessels sunk.

  President Truman has declared a heightened state of emergency. National Guard units are on alert everywhere. Those closest to Virginia have been mobilized to help.

  Cocoa’s face is haggard with guilt, and I want to tell her that this isn’t her fault. I wonder if just mentioning it makes her feel even more guilty.

  Finally, after the story has been repeated and the newscaster has run out of statements and opinions and wild guesses, the broadcast switches to the page two news.

  Once again, the words roll out. Pacifists. Truman. Executive Order. Relocation. Internment. Anti-war. Collaboration. Morale. Disloyalty. Public outcry. For their own safety.

  Missing are the important words: Where? Who goes? Who stays?

  “I am not going,” Cocoa says. “The government men will want me here.”

  “You’re right, Cocoa,” Dad says. “There’s no reason to drag you into my troubles, anyway.”

  “Robert is also not going.” Cocoa says it in a way that doesn’t leave room for disagreement.

  “No,” Dad says, allowing himself a small grin. “I’m the only one who’s going anywhere.”