Within These Lines

by Stephanie Morrill

  I hurry around the deli counter to the back. Daddy is combining ground beef and veal for meatballs and Mr. Esposito slices onions beside a simmering pot.

  “How was school, honey?” Daddy asks as there’s a knock on the back door.

  He starts to pull his hands out of the meat mixture, but I say, “I’ll get it!” as I rush for the door.

  Daddy shuffles over to the sink to wash his hands. “You’re a gem, Evalina.”

  I whip open the back door and find Taichi holding a crate of eggplant, asparagus, onions, and tomatoes. He has on his flat cap, and he’s wearing the blue plaid shirt I gave him for his birthday. Behind him, Mr. Hamasaki pulls another crate out of the back of their truck and turns toward the door.

  Taichi’s smile is warm and familiar, but he says a very professional sounding, “Hello, Miss Cassano.”

  My face heats as I open the door wider. “Come on in.”

  Taichi’s elbow brushes against me as he enters, and I smile at Mr. Hamasaki. “Hello, sir.”

  He nods at me, same as always, but doesn’t greet me with words. I want so badly to connect with him, to make him like me, but my small attempts at conversation over the last year have all fallen flat.

  Mr. Hamasaki offers a slight bow to my father and Mr. Esposito. “Good day, gentlemen. How are you?”

  “We are well, Katsumi.” Mr. Esposito dries his hands on his apron. “And you?”

  Mr. Hamasaki sweeps his hat off his head. “It is a time of challenge for us, as I’ve discussed with you before.” His voice is as steady and soothing as the sound of the bubbling marinara. “This will be the last delivery my son and I make. Next Monday, there will be others from the farm who bring your order.”

  Daddy and Mr. Esposito regard Mr. Hamasaki with grave faces.

  “We are very sorry to hear that,” Daddy says. “You’ve been wonderful to work with.”

  “The produce you receive will continue to be high quality from our own farm. Just delivered by different people.”

  Taichi stands several feet behind his father with his hands clasped behind him. A corner of a folded piece of paper peeks out of his fingers. A letter for me, and a reminder that I have one for him in my coat pocket. And my coat is hanging up front . . .

  “We’re not as concerned about the produce as we are about what’s happening to your family, Katsumi,” Daddy says, and I want to throw my arms around him and squeeze. “Are you being evacuated already?”

  I lean on the counter near Taichi, where the crate of produce will give us cover for him to slip his letter to me. I only wish I could tell him that I wrote one for him too.

  “We do not yet know when we will be evacuated, but we have moved in with my wife’s sister. She lives here in the city and has been lonely and scared. She does not speak very good English. However, being by the water, we think we will be asked to leave soon.”

  It’s as though his words have wrapped around my throat and squeezed. A noise emerges that earns me a glance from my father.

  “Is there anything we can do to help you?” Mr. Esposito asks, and his face is earnest and caring. So reminiscent of the way his son, Tony, has regarded me when I express a struggle or hardship.

  Without looking at me, Taichi pushes the letter into my hand, and for the briefest of moments, our fingers clasp each other in the privacy the crate of produce offers them, and then we must pull away.

  I push the letter into my sweater pocket for reading later.

  “No, we are very fortunate, but thank you. A good family has taken charge of our farm in our absence, and we know this is the most helpful thing we can do for our government in a time of crisis.” Mr. Hamasaki bows his head. “Thank you for your business. Come, Taichi.”

  The bells on the front door jingle, which isn’t necessary because I can hear the raucous chatter of boys from here. Daddy flicks an expectant glance at me. I want to soak up every second I can of Taichi’s presence, but lingering will only cause suspicion. I allow myself only a peek at Taichi—he flicks a smile at me—and then I go up front to the counter.

  The group of boys is just Tony and his friends, who often stop by for Coca-Colas. Tony is already behind the counter, helping himself.

  “Hey.” He offers me a bottle. “What was Gia carrying on about after school?”

  I hear the back door close with Taichi and his father’s departure.

  I scowl at Tony. “You’re supposed to let me know that it’s you so that I don’t stop what I’m doing to come help. I thought you were a customer.”

  Tony’s eyes widen. He makes a show of looking at the empty tables. “Were you busy?”

  “And if you cared about why Gia was crying, you should have come over to ask instead of just going back inside school.”

  Tony only laughs. “I didn’t want to get dragged into that mess. Lemme guess. Lorenzo?”

  His buddies settle into a table with loads of loud chatter and chairs scraping across linoleum.

  “Of course, Lorenzo. Same thing as before. He’s not calling. She feels needy. She thought they would get married. What does this mean? Etcetera.”

  Behind Tony, the Hamasakis’ truck rumbles by. I catch a flash of Taichi looking at the restaurant, searching for me through the windows, and then they’ve passed.

  Tony looks over his shoulder and then back at me. He reaches over and pops open my bottle of Coke too. “You okay?”

  There’s a part of me that wants to break into tears and tell him everything. But this is Tony. My old friend, yes, but also my ex-boyfriend. I can’t do that to him.

  “Fine.” I push a smile onto my face. “Just worried about G, that’s all.”

  Tony clanks the neck of his bottle against mine in a strange sort of commiserating toast, and then he joins his friends at their table. I drink my soda and count the minutes until I’ll be home and can read the letter from Taichi.

  I push my remaining meatball across my plate, watching the trail of sauce it leaves behind. I just want tonight to be over so that I can wake up tomorrow, go to the market, and then meet Taichi at Lafayette Park.

  Beneath the table, Gia kicks my foot. I startle and find the adults at the table—my parents, Mr. and Mrs. LaRocca, and Mr. and Mrs. Esposito—blinking at me with polite smiles.

  Mama swoops in. “You’ll have to forgive Evalina. She didn’t sleep well last night, I’m afraid.” She smiles at me. “Mrs. Esposito asked how you think the yearbook will look.”

  “Oh. I think it will look fine.” I offer an apologetic smile to Mrs. Esposito. “We expect it back from the printer any day now.”

  “I’m sorry you didn’t sleep well, honey. Is it end-of-the-year stress?” Mrs. Esposito looks at Tony, who sits on the other side of me. “Tony has been working so hard to prepare for the end of the year. It’s a shame that such a momentous time as high school graduation has to be shrouded with stressful exams.”

  I wish my stress was as simple as concerns for my final exams.

  “I’m not stressed about school,” Gia says as she scoops herself another helping of eggplant parmesan.

  “I think a little more stress would be good for you, Gia.” Mrs. LaRocca shakes her head at Mama and Mrs. Esposito. “I cannot get her to care about her finals. Zola, you are so lucky to have a daughter who has worked hard enough to earn a scholarship. You would never know from Gia’s grades that she’s so smart.”

  “A girl as pretty as Gia doesn’t need good grades,” Mrs. Esposito says as she reaches for a bowl of olives.

  Mrs. LaRocca is unsuccessful at hiding her pleasure over this comment. “Still. I never would have dreamed of doing less than my very best in school.”

  The mothers fall into conversation about their school days, leaving Tony, Gia, and me alone to talk as we please.

  From across the table, Gia flashes a wry smile at both of us. “What will they find to talk about at Friday night dinners when we’re gone?”

  “No Friday night dinners at Alessandro’s,” Tony says with a sigh.
“I can’t even imagine it.”

  Gia checks her watch. “I need to go. I’m meeting Lorenzo.” She pauses and then cuts a look across the table at me. “He did call me by the way. After school today. Not that you’ve asked.”

  “Gia . . .”

  But she’s already carrying her plate back to the kitchen without a glance over her shoulder.

  “She’ll be fine,” Tony says in his rich, soothing voice. “Easy to injure but quick to heal.”

  “I know.” I eat my last meatball even though there’s no room in my stomach for it. “I’m more worried that she’ll actually marry Lorenzo. He’s not good enough for her.”

  Tony’s smile seems grim. “We rarely want what’s good for us.”

  I feel my face flush, and duck in embarrassment. Dating Tony had seemed like such an obvious next step, like the way our life stories should naturally progress, but I just couldn’t get my heart to toe the line. Now I wish more than anything that we had just stayed friends.

  “I’m not talking about you, Evalina,” Tony says in a rush. “Gee, I didn’t even realize . . .” He pulls at the collar of his shirt. “I wasn’t talking about me and you. Honest.”

  “Okay,” I say to my lap.

  “Actually . . .” Tony winds linguine onto his fork, and then lets it unravel. “I wasn’t sure if I should even tell you this, but—”

  My ear catches on Mrs. LaRocca’s use of the word “Japs,” and I turn away from Tony.

  “I know I’ll feel a lot better when they’ve been cleared out.” Mrs. LaRocca pours herself another half-glass of Brunello. “Not that there aren’t nice Japs among them, but why risk it?”

  How can she even ask that question?

  “Because most of them are American citizens, that’s why.”

  I don’t realize that it was my voice that spoke with such loud indignation until the eyes of the mothers and Tony fasten on me.

  “Evalina!” Mama wields my name like a whip.

  I lower my gaze to my plate, but my heart continues to race. This kind of thinking—that the theoretical risk to our safety is worth the sacrifice of their actual freedom—is why Taichi’s uncle was taken away to prison camp for merely being a fisherman. It’s why Taichi has been forced out of his home and off their farm. It’s why I’ll have to say goodbye to him.

  Mrs. LaRocca waves away Mama’s concern. “No, it’s fine, Zola. Evalina has a right to her opinion.”

  “Well, it should be expressed with respect.”

  I look up and find Mama’s face holds a threat. Be nice, or else.

  I take a deep breath and hope my voice won’t wobble when I speak. “Well, respectfully, I disagree that it isn’t worth the risk. Frankly, I disagree that there’s any risk at all.”

  “Truly, Evalina?” Mrs. LaRocca leans back in her chair. As much as she seems to loathe Gia’s combative tendencies, Gia is an apple and Mrs. LaRocca the proverbial tree. “You think all of them are loyal to the United States? You think none of them would be tempted to spy for their mother country?”

  Beneath the table, my fingers tighten around the hem of my pleated skirt. Is she deaf to the hypocrisy of her own questions?

  “Are you loyal to the United States?” I try to ask this gently, but I’m not sure I succeed. “Would you not be tempted to spy for Italy? See? I could just as easily apply the questions to you, couldn’t I?”

  “Evalina, that’s quite enough.” Mama’s eyes are wide and her mouth an angry slash. “You will apologize to Mrs. LaRocca, and you will stop this right now.”

  Even the fathers have ceased their conversation and for the first time in my lifetime of memories, our table is silent.

  I swallow. “I know you’re loyal, Mrs. LaRocca. I only meant to point out that our situations are similar. You’re a second-generation Italian, just like my parents. And just like most of the Japanese Americans who are having everything stripped away from them.”

  I clench my jaw, but it doesn’t quell the trembling. The shocked faces of my parents, the Espositos, and the LaRoccas grow blurry.

  I push back from the table—“I’m sorry, excuse me”—and rush out the front door. The bells jangle with my exit.

  Outside, I lean against the brick and gulp deep breaths of cool, foggy air. If only they could see the Hamasakis’ life up close, then they would understand what Executive Order 9066 is costing loyal Americans who happen to be Japanese.

  “I see what you’re saying, Zola.” Mrs. LaRocca’s voice floats to me through the open window. “Are you certain this is just stress about the war? I’ve never heard her speak so passionately.”

  “Tony, honey, where are you going?” Mrs. Esposito calls.

  “I’m just going to check on her.”

  I wipe my cheeks with the sleeves of my sweater as Tony emerges from the front door, my trench coat in his hands. He checks to his left, and then spots me to his right.

  Tony holds up my coat for me, and I slip my arms into the sleeves. “Thank you,” I murmur.

  We look at each other a moment. A trolley rolls past us, clanging its bell.

  Tony gestures down Broadway. “I’ll walk you home.”

  “Thanks.”

  The sidewalks on Broadway are busy with couples and families out for Friday night. We pass a rowdy group of sailors just as we turn onto Kearney and start up the steps of the sidewalk.

  I don’t feel like talking, but I also feel like I should say something. “Are you worried about being drafted?”

  “Not especially. The government won’t want to interfere with me while I’m getting an engineering degree.” His chuckle holds no humor. “I’m sure it’ll be the hardest I’ve ever studied in my life.”

  When we reach the next block, we wait for a car to pass. I’m always grateful for the chance to catch my breath after so many stairs, but Tony never seems winded.

  I open my mouth to comment on this, but Tony has a serious look on his face that makes me swallow the words. Instead, I ask, “Are you okay?”

  He looks at me and takes a noticeably deep breath. “What I started to tell you at dinner is that I’ve been seeing Mary Green. I know you felt guilty about us breaking up. I really don’t want you to. It was the best thing for both of us.”

  I nod, but I still have to clamp my teeth together to keep from apologizing yet again. “I’m . . . happy to hear that. I don’t know her well, but Mary seems like a nice girl.”

  Happy and nice seem like trite words, but I can’t find anything that works better.

  “She is.” Tony’s gaze is heavy on me. “Now will you be honest with me about who you’ve been seeing this last year?”

  The car we had waited for is well past us, but we just stand there and stare at each other.

  I open my mouth. Close it. Why can’t I make the words come out?

  “Do your parents know?” Tony pitches his voice low even though we’re the only ones on the corner of Kearney and Vallejo.

  I shake my head, but still can’t seem to make myself speak.

  “I won’t tell anyone.” Tony pushes his hands deep into his coat pockets. “You know that, right?”

  I nod.

  He holds my gaze a moment longer, and I know Tony well enough to see that he’s thinking through what he might say next. He’s calculating my potential reactions.

  Tony pivots toward the street, takes hold of my arm, and we continue on our way home, the words unspoken.

  At my door, I find my voice again. “Thank you for walking me home.”

  “Of course.”

  I shift my weight from foot to foot. “I’ll apologize to Mrs. LaRocca.”

  Tony shrugs. “I’ve always liked that fiery side of you. I wish you would show it more.”

  A laugh scuffs out of my throat. “When the evacuation finally happens, I think you’re going to get your wish.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Taichi

  Saturday, March 28, 1942

  The sight of Evalina striding purposefully through the pa
rk, her evergreen trench coat cinched tight and her curls springing with each step, makes me smile for the first time in days. I didn’t exactly doubt that she would be able to get away, but I had spent the morning reminding myself that she might not be able to make it. I stand from the park bench, and her gaze connects with mine.

  “What are all these signs about registration?” Evalina greets me. Worry has drawn a line on the bridge of her nose. “They’re on every telephone pole.”

  I should have expected that question. Yesterday, the government posted signs all over the Japanese neighborhoods that families needed to register.

  “Nothing to be alarmed about,” I say. “I think they’re just trying to get a good estimate of how many they’ll be evacuating from each neighborhood.”

  Her face takes on the pinched expression of one trying to not cry. She swallows hard as she sinks to the bench.

  I sit beside her. “We will be fine. Don’t let it ruin our time together,” I say softly.

  She nods and takes a labored breath before saying a tight, “How are things at your aunt’s place?”

  That question I did expect. “Fine. We’ve been able to help her a lot.”

  My aunt had done absolutely nothing to prepare for evacuation. The last few days have been spent trying to pack her suitcases, find a place to store her valuable possessions, and unsuccessfully trying to sell whatever we can. But everybody is trying to sell their belongings. Father couldn’t get any more than twenty dollars for our truck because of how many vehicles are being sold and decided to just give it to the Medinas.

  “Oh, here.” Evalina pulls two folded letters from her coat pocket. “I had one of these on Thursday, but I’d left my coat up front. And then the other I wrote in response to yours.”

  I take them from her, and then let my knee fall against hers.

  “I can’t stay long.” Her voice is husky as she holds in tears. “Daddy asked for my help during the lunch hour.”

  “A little time is better than no time, right?”

  She nods, and I follow her gaze to a nearby telephone pole. To one of the many black-on-white notices about “alien and non-alien” Japanese needing to register. As though even the War Relocation Authority couldn’t bear to recognize that I’m a U.S. citizen.