Within These Lines

by Stephanie Morrill

  Lillian coughs again, this time even wheezier. “How is your uncle doing? I’ve been meaning to come by, but the wind has been so bad.”

  I hesitate. Lillian notices.

  I can’t un-hesitate, so I say, “He’s fine. He’s adjusting.”

  I think both of these are true statements.

  “And your aunt?”

  “The same. She’s fine. She’s adjusting.”

  Lillian frowns at this. “Okay. If I can help in any way, let me know.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  When she coughs once more, she smiles, “I suppose it’s good that we’re at my place. I think it’s time for me to head indoors.”

  “Tell Ted I say hello next time you write.”

  “Of course.”

  I dawdle the remaining yards to my barrack and find Uncle Fuji is outside, puttering about his garden. He offers me something reminiscent of a smile but doesn’t say anything as I head inside.

  When he first limped off the bus two weeks ago, a cane aiding him down the steep steps, I hadn’t been able to move. Uncle Fuji had never been a large man, but he’d been as strong as well-woven rope, always quick with a grin and a funny, if crass, comment. The man who got off the bus looked twenty years older than my father, rather than just two. His voice had a grainy quality to it, and his shoulders a stoop.

  Aunt Chiyu had just stared at him, her eyes wide and welling, her teeth clenched tight. When Uncle Fuji looked at her, his face softened, and he spoke her name in his new graveled voice. “Chiyu.”

  My aunt choked on a sob as she wrapped her arms around him, a shocking display of affection for the two of them. In his two weeks at Manzanar, he’s done little else but fiddle with the Japanese garden and eat the meals Aunt Chiyu brings to the barrack for him.

  Though the barrack provides relief from the beating sun and wind, inside is airless and stuffy. I crack open a window, tuck myself into the modest privacy of my cot, and withdraw Diego’s letter.

  Dear Tai,

  I don’t know how to write this letter. I’ve been trying to ever since I saw Evalina, but you know I’ve never been good with serious conversations.

  Evalina came to my farewell party, and I was shocked to hear that you broke up with her. I thought it was some weird joke at first, honestly. I wish you could have seen how much she cried when she told me. I think then you would know—if you don’t already—what a mistake this is, but if not, hopefully I can make that clear in my letter right now.

  I know you love her. I’m guessing you’re scared. You don’t know how long you’ll be there, or what life will be like when the war is over. You don’t want to be a burden to her. Maybe your pride stings a bit too, after having her see you there in the camp.

  If this is an accurate description at all, it’s only because that’s the way I think I would feel if I were in your shoes. And if I were in your shoes, and you were in mine, here’s what I would need to hear: letting fear and pride make your decisions is only going to lead to regret.

  She loves you, and you love her. I think there will be rewards for persevering.

  You can thank me by naming your first child after me.

  Diego

  I stare at the letter, cycling through a range of emotions. Convicted. Shamed. Indignant. Thankful. Lonely. Regretful.

  But Diego only has half the story. He doesn’t know that I’m saving Evalina from a life like Mrs. Yoneda’s. From a life of being married to someone who looks like our country’s enemy. From the pain of trying to raise children who aren’t Japanese enough or Caucasian enough to belong anywhere.

  This isn’t about my pride or my willingness to persevere. This is about protecting Evalina.

  Right?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Evalina

  Saturday, October 3, 1942

  “We figured we would lose you to the market this morning.” Mama scoops scrambled eggs onto my plate. “I’m surprised you’re still here.”

  “Surprised, but grateful,” Daddy says as Mama adds eggs to his plate as well. “Thank you, Zola.”

  I didn’t know just how much I love my mama’s cooking until I had to go without it for a month. Poor Taichi hasn’t had home cooking since April. The thought lands like an unexpected punch. If I’m homesick after just a few weeks at a university that I chose to go away to, how much worse must it be for Taichi?

  “Are you okay, Evalina?” Mama frowns at me from across the table.

  “Yes.” I shake away the clouds of my thoughts. “I was just thinking about my plans for the day. I’m going to the market this morning—”

  “Shocking.”

  I raise my eyebrows at my father. “I was about to ask if you need anything while I’m there, but maybe I won’t.”

  Daddy grins. “Fennel and tomatoes. Oh, and lemons. I forgot to order those from the Medinas on Thursday.”

  The clock in the living room chimes eight o’clock. I push my last bite of eggs into my mouth. “They’ll be scraping the bottom of the barrels by the time I get there if I don’t leave now. Mama, you want anything for dinner?”

  Mama reaches into the pocket of her robe and hands me a neatly written list. “What time will you be back home?”

  “Probably mid-afternoon. I’m meeting Gia at the restaurant for an early lunch.”

  “Have fun, honey,” Daddy says as I drop a kiss onto his thinning hair.

  My heart soars as I tighten my wool trench coat and coast down the hills toward the choppy, gray bay. Even though I arrived last night and slept in my own bed for the first time in over a month, now it feels like I’m home.

  I lock my bike and head into the bustle of the market. The Medinas are in the middle of multiple transactions, so I go to Mrs. Ling first. She’s no longer hanging the WE ARE CHINESE banner on their stand. I suppose because everyone knows the Japanese are all gone.

  Mrs. Ling bustles around the table to give me a hug. “Miss Evalina, I am so happy to see you! How is school?”

  I hate that the first thing I think of is Professor Blake, because there are so many wonderful things about school. “Mostly good. I’m adjusting. How has business been?”

  “Our tomato crop is very good. Your mother came to buy from us last week.”

  “Today she sent me. Do you mind if I choose my own?”

  “Of course not. We are always happy to do anything for our Evalina.” Mrs. Ling hurries around the table and pushes the large crate of tomatoes my way. “Here you are, my dear. Oh, this is a nice one.”

  She takes one from the top, places it in the bag, and then steps back to let me take over selections.

  “Have you been in touch with the Hamasakis recently? How are they?”

  I swallow. “I haven’t heard from them recently, Mrs. Ling.”

  Her sunny smile falters. “No?”

  I shake my head. “Not since June. The Medinas will have more current information for you, I’m sure.”

  I can feel Mrs. Ling looking at me as I pick through the tomatoes for the ripest ones. I’m so self-conscious, I nearly add a subpar selection to my bag.

  “I imagine they are very busy in their new community.” Mrs. Ling kindly offers me an excuse.

  “They are.” I should leave it at that, but Mrs. Ling watched me hang around the market for a year so I could be close to Taichi. I’m embarrassed to think she might assume the affection was all one-sided. “Taichi and I wrote some. But . . .”

  I don’t know how to finish the thought. I never should’ve started it. Stupid pride.

  “Such a difficult time for the Japanese Americans. And those who care about them.” She nods and smiles, as if to encourage. “They are strong, and so are you. You will both endure.”

  I roll shut the paper bag of tomatoes. “Thank you, Mrs. Ling.”

  I hand her the money, and she offers me an orange. “For luck.”

  “Thank you.” I push away memories of the last orange she gave me for luck, which I enjoyed with Taichi. “Why are orange
s considered lucky?”

  “I’m not sure,” Mrs. Ling says. “I have always thought they were the perfect fruit because they are the easiest to share. There’s something lovely about that.”

  Another potential customer is browsing tomatoes, and I step away. “Thank you, Mrs. Ling.”

  “Always a pleasure, Miss Evalina. Thank you for your business.”

  I turn toward the Medinas’ stand and find Mrs. Medina has been anticipating me. Her smile has the same breadth and warmth as Diego’s, and my heart lifts up a prayer for his protection.

  Mrs. Medina grasps my hands between hers. “You are home this weekend?”

  “I am. How are you, Mrs. Medina?”

  “I am good. Very busy. Always very busy. What can I get for you today?”

  “Daddy needs fennel and lemons to tide him over until Monday’s delivery.”

  Mrs. Medina pulls out a paper sack to fill. “You want to choose your own?”

  “Yes, please. Have you had any news from Diego?”

  “News is slow. Some weeks we get no letters. Other days, three arrive.” She laughs at this, despite the way concern flits over her face.

  “I imagine the inconsistency is normal.”

  “He is being sent to help in Guadalcanal.” She says the word slowly and purposefully. “We had to look on a map. My geography . . .” Mrs. Medina shakes her head and laughs in a self-conscious way. “But he seems happy.”

  I smile and hold out the money. “Diego always seems to be happy.”

  “He is my good boy. Came into the world laughing, that one.” Mrs. Medina counts out my change. “Thank you for your business.”

  “Of course. How are . . .” I swallow as a flutter of nerves takes over me. “Have you heard from the Hamasakis at all? Do you know if they’re doing okay?”

  “Si, si. I had a letter from Mitsuno yesterday. She says they are all very good. Much to keep them busy.”

  “I’m happy to hear that.” I make myself smile. “Has there been any mischief at their house?”

  “Not one bit. We keep a close eye on it.”

  We exchange several more niceties about the weather and business at Alessandro’s, and then I pedal over to the restaurant to meet Gia.

  Mr. Esposito is there when I come in the back door, working his magic with the mozzarella and whistling off-key. “Buongiorno, Evalina. How are you this morning?”

  He angles his face for me to kiss him on the cheek.

  “Good, but busy.” I settle the two bags onto the counter. “How are you? How is Mrs. Esposito?”

  “We don’t know what to do with ourselves now that our nest is empty. At night, we just stare at each other. It’s terrible. I don’t know why all my children insisted on growing up.” He winks at me. “Gia is up front waiting for you.”

  “Okay, thank you.” I glance at the door that will take me out of the kitchen, but I don’t move. Ever since Gia got married, she’s been in such a blissful, lighthearted mood, I’ve struggled to not pull away from her. Conversing with her has felt like trying to drink the bubbles of a Coca-Cola; there’s nothing of substance to enjoy.

  Maybe today, with the space we’ve had from each other, will feel different.

  I put on a smile and head out to the seating area, where several tables are occupied and my father is making sandwiches.

  When Gia spots me, she squeals, runs, and throws her arms around my neck. “I’m so happy to see you! I’m pregnant!”

  “. . . and then it turned out that she was just mad because she thought I had never sent a thank you card for the wedding gift. I said, ‘Aunt Brunella, you know me. How could you think I had forgotten a thank you card? Obviously it was just lost in the mail.’ Since then she’s talked much more kindly about the baby.”

  Gia runs a hand over her stomach as if there’s any indicator that she’s three months pregnant. She beams at me across the table. “I think that’s everything going on with me. How’s school? How’s you-know-who?”

  She gives an exaggerated wink.

  My laugh sounds forced to my own ears. I glance toward the counter, where my father and Mr. Esposito work hard to keep up with the lunch line that’s formed.

  “School is fine. I’m one of three girls in my Comparative Politics class. That’s a bit uncomfortable.”

  “Lorenzo thought I was joking when I said you’re majoring in political science.” Gia laughs brightly. Pregnancy really seems to agree with her. “He doesn’t understand that with all the men away at war, we need women to step up and work.”

  “Does he not think you should work?”

  “He was fine with the idea until we found out I was pregnant. You know how protective he is. He doesn’t want me doing anything that might be remotely stressful. Are you having any fun at college, or just studying?”

  “I’m not just studying.”

  Gia arches her eyebrows expectantly.

  I tweak my water glass. “I’ve joined a Future Leaders of America club. We work on creating opportunities at school for those who are marginalized.”

  “Well, then. I stand corrected. You’re definitely having some fun.” Gia grins at me. “And how’s your boyfriend?”

  “Fine.” The word pops out easily, just like it did the few times over the summer when Gia thought to ask about Taichi through the haze of her newly wedded bliss. “The camps are still terrible of course, but he’s enduring.”

  Her smile morphs to the no-teeth, sympathetic variety. “The separation is awful, isn’t it?”

  The diamond chip on her ring happens to glint in the light, and I swallow the jealousy that rises up bitter in my throat.

  “It’s the worst.”

  “I lie awake at night wondering if Lorenzo will come home.” Gia’s hands settle on her stomach as her eyes grow misty. “At least you know Taichi is safe.”

  With a shudder, I think of all those guards and all those guns. “Yeah.” My words come out as an unintentional whisper, “At least, I hope he is.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Taichi

  Wednesday, October 14, 1942

  The secretary, who looks as dried up as the Manzanar ground in the middle of summer, speaks in firm, efficient sentences. “Mr. Campbell cares very much about the concerns of individual camp residents. That’s why you have block leaders. Just take your concerns to your block council, and he will bring them to Mr. Campbell.”

  “Most of my block council is gone to harvest sugar beets, and they’ve already discussed the issues with Mr. Campbell—”

  “There you have it, then.” Her smile is thin. “It’s practically resolved.”

  “But that was weeks ago. And there’s still flags on the garbage trucks. There’s still rumors about camp sugar being stolen.”

  Her thin smile presses into an even thinner line. “We have very little control over rumors. And even if someone were to steal something, where would they go? Even if they somehow managed to get through the fence, we’re in the middle of the desert.”

  Does she think this is comforting to me, to be reminded of how trapped I am?

  The angry words I flung at the Kitchen Workers meeting this morning, about being a U.S. citizen, suddenly seem naïve and foolish.

  Harry Ueno had called the meeting to discuss the benefits of organizing a union of mess hall workers. “After all, whoever controls the kitchens”—I had been close enough to the front to see his wink—“controls Manzanar.”

  Apparently, Mr. Ueno had found that many other block kitchens were short on sugar, and at the meeting publicly accused Ned Campbell and the mess hall Chief Steward of the theft. I didn’t particularly like Mr. Campbell when I met with him and Ted, but the evidence presented against him didn’t seem convincing enough.

  Not everyone agreed with me, though. Many other kitchen workers spoke with frightening intensity about what they would do if they ever got their hands on Mr. Campbell.

  About halfway through the meeting, James materialized in the seat beside me, alre
ady dressed for our baseball game.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “You don’t work in the kitchens.”

  He shrugged. “You know me. I can’t resist a crowd.”

  A few times, he joined the others with some boos and hissing, but then punctuated them with a wink at me.

  “You should be careful,” I said in a low voice as the meeting broke up. “I think they’re really serious. And it can’t be good for your job in the dispatch office, right? If they find out you’re encouraging those who are pro-Japan?”

  “I’m not pro-Japan. I’m pro-deep-fried rice rolled in sugar.” James’s gaze skimmed my blue jeans and collared shirt. “Why aren’t you in your uniform? Our game starts in forty-five minutes.”

  “Go on without me. I just want to speak to Mr. Ueno real quick.”

  I elbowed my way up front where Mr. Ueno spoke in a high, excited voice to another cook about the need for all the kitchens to stand together, that it didn’t matter if sugar had been stolen from each one or not. As I waited, the back of my neck prickled, and I turned to find Raymond Yamishi standing beside me, along with another boy I had seen playing baseball on their team. I didn’t know his name, but I often saw the two of them together.

  “Hello, Taichi. I’m surprised to find you here.”

  “Why? I work in one of the mess halls.”

  Raymond Yamishi just smirked and turned to speak to his friend in low Japanese. I caught the phrase inu paired with Ted Kamei.

  “Ted Kamei isn’t a traitor.”

  Raymond’s eyebrows raised. “I’m pleased that your parents at least taught you the language of your home country. A sad number of Nisei know Japanese.”

  “I know some Japanese, but we spoke English in our home. And Ted Kamei isn’t a traitor.”

  “Ted is a stool pigeon with confused politics.” Raymond spoke this casually, as though he just told me the most obvious of facts. “You should be careful what you share with him. He does not care for the people of Manzanar the way Mr. Kurihara does. Those like Ted care only for themselves.”

  “That’s not true.” I heard my voice rising, but couldn’t seem to stop it. “He’s trying to work with the administration for change. To benefit all of us.”