“I have to go to school.”
“I’ve got your number.” Daisy laughed and turned to Mom. “You want me to scrub the kitchen floor? These boys tracked in a whole lot of mud. Boys!”
Carl looked at Dad, then Mom, then back at Dad again. “Daisy’s pretty snazzy for a Japanese girl,” he said uncertainly. “We grew up in Los Angeles. She likes to jive.”
Dad laughed, and when Mom nodded at him, he said, “That’s fine, Carl. She’ll do.”
Carl and Daisy exchanged glances, and Daisy began picking up the breakfast dishes. “Oh, you can wait on that, Daisy,” Mom said. “You might as well have a cup of coffee with us first. The boys always do. I’ll show you how we fix it.” Dad told Mom to sit still, but Mom waved him off and stood up. “Women are the only ones who can brew a decent cup of coffee. Men!” She said it the same way Daisy had said “Boys!”
Dad slid a glance at me, and I grinned at him. We both thought Daisy was okeydokey.
After Mom showed Daisy the way she rinsed the pot with hot water, and how she measured the coffee and boiling water, Dad helped Mom back to bed. When he returned, Dad told me, “Your mother’s an easy touch.”
“No such a thing!” Mom called from the bedroom.
FROM THE BEGINNING, DAISY made us glad she was there— me especially, since every morning when she showed up, I was grateful I hadn’t had to quit school. She arrived with the boys, full of jive talk, and chattered until she left. But when one of the Jolly Stitchers called, Daisy went outside and hung up laundry or washed out the fruit cellar or cleaned the chicken house. If there was nothing else to do, she just quit for the day and went on back to the camp. Mom said she didn’t like the idea of Daisy going across the fields on her own, but Daisy said she could take care of herself.
One afternoon, Mrs. Smith called with a butterscotch pudding the color of hog wallow. Daisy took it from her, but I could tell Mrs. Smith didn’t want to give it up. “Girl, are you honest?” Mrs. Smith asked in a loud, slow voice.
Daisy blinked at her and said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“That pudding’s for Strouds, not for you.”
Mrs. Smith spotted me. “You make sure your mother gets that.”
Daisy put the pudding into the icebox and whispered, “Even if I was the Thief of Baghdad, I wouldn’t steal this.”
I studied the pudding. “I wish you would.” We giggled, but I felt sorry for Daisy, thinking how awful it was that somebody would treat her like a thief just because she was Japanese.
Daisy put on her coat and went out the back door, while Mrs. Smith watched her from the bedroom. Then she told Mom, “I couldn’t rest easy with the enemy in my house.” She sat down on the edge of Mom’s bed, making the springs sag.
“It’s nice to have somebody to talk to, almost like having Marthalice around.”
“What about the old lady? You can talk to her.”
“Granny’s mind isn’t there so much now. She doesn’t know who Mrs. Roosevelt is.”
“Well, I wish I didn’t,” Mrs. Smith said.
Mom ignored her, because we thought Mrs. Roosevelt sat on the right hand of God, and God, Dad said once, was Mr. Roosevelt. “When I mentioned the war this morning, Granny told me it was about time we freed the slaves. She was a little girl in time of that war, you know.”
Mrs. Smith sighed. “It’s a burden you carry with Mr. Stroud’s mother, Mary.” Mom always called Mrs. Smith a “foul-weather friend,” because she liked to talk about troubles.
“Oh, I don’t mind. She’s a dear soul. But it is nice having a young person around during the day.”
“At least Miss Evelina speaks English. That hired Nip girl, it’s a wonder you can understand her.”
Mom had gotten tired of explaining that Daisy spoke English, and that in fact, Daisy understood only a little Japanese, so she smiled and said, “We manage.”
Mom and Daisy did a lot better than manage. When I got home from school, I’d find them at the kitchen table drinking Postum and playing bridge or listening to “Portia Faces Life,” which was the only soap opera Mom turned on.
“That poor girl,” Daisy would say, shaking her head, sometimes wiping a tear from her eye.
“It’s only make-believe,” Mom would tell her, but she’d sigh and take a handkerchief out of her pocket and blow her nose, then say, “Now Rennie, don’t you dare tattle to your father that we’ve been listening to this.” I wouldn’t, because I liked to listen to it, too.
Daisy borrowed my Nancy Drew books to read at the camp and brought me her movie magazines when she was finished with them, and we talked about our favorite film stars. “Why, it isn’t anything to see famous people when you live in Los Angeles,” she told me. Daisy and her girlfriend had stood outside a movie theater in Hollywood during a premiere once and seen Clark Gable and Carol Lombard. Daisy knew somebody who’d sold razor blades to Andy Devine and nail polish to Marion Street. And one time, she’d been waiting for the streetcar when Velma Burgett drove by in a Cadillac convertible. “She was wearing a diamond engagement ring the size of a Chiclet,” Daisy said.
When Marthalice sent me records, Daisy put them on the windup Victrola and taught me the fox-trot and the jitterbug. She brought us her high school yearbook, which the principal had sent to her at the camp, to show us a picture of herself. She was jitterbugging with a partner in the school gym, a crowd of kids gathered around them, clapping. Most of the kids were white. So was Daisy’s partner.
6
AFTER SCHOOL WAS OUT, Mom and I took the train to Denver to visit Marthalice. The coaches were jammed with servicemen filling the seats and standing in the aisles—“sad sacks,” Dad called them as he helped us up the steps, then set our hags down inside the car. Some of the men did look tired and lost, as if they had been riding the train so long that they didn’t care where they were going or whether they got there. But others were excited, just like Buddy had been when he’d left us after his December visit. Several stood up and offered us their seats. I sat next to a soldier who told me I reminded him of his sister and gave me half of his Mr. Goodbar. I told him about Buddy, and the soldier said he’d keep an eye out for him.
In the afternoon, when the air in the compartment grew stale from too much cigarette smoke and sweaty uniforms, we stood outside on the observation platform and looked out over the prairie. You could see about a thousand miles. There wasn’t anything prettier than a prairie in the late spring. We passed a little farm, where a dozen hens scratched in the dirt, and Mom told a soldier standing next to us, “Chickens always remind me there is a God.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He lighted a fresh cigarette from the butt of an old one. “They always remind me God’s got a sense of humor, too.” He looked at Mom out of the corner of his eye, not sure whether he’d offended her. But when she laughed, he grinned and told us he was from a farm in Nebraska. “I guess there’s a God, ’cause somebody’s got to look out for chickens. I never saw anything so dumb as a flock of hens.” Mom loved chickens, but she’d never said they had brains, and she laughed at that, too.
We changed trains, traveling all day, and arrived in the evening at Denver’s Union Station, which was about the size of downtown Ellis. Negro porters pushed baggage carts through the tunnels that ran under the tracks, then took them into the waiting room, which was busier than a county fair midway. Soldiers, sailors, and marines lined up two and three deep at a soda fountain that charged a whole dime for a Coke. They slept on the high wooden benches that filled the room—back to back, in long rows—or sat on their duffel bags, slumped over with their elbows on their knees. Some lounged against the walls near a sign that said Uso — ALL SERVICEMEN WELCOME, talking to pretty girls who wore rayon dresses with short skirts and sling-back, high-heeled shoes.
A few people, most of them older folks, stood in front of a booth that advertised war bonds, and there were long lines at the brass grilles, where men wearing green eyeshades and garters on their sleeves sold railroad tickets to anyplace you wanted to go— t
hat is, if there was room on the trains. A drawn-out voice announced trains that were arriving or departing and the number of the tracks they were on. The voice boomed across the room, echoing back and forth.
We went out onto the street, where two newsboys were yelling the names of the papers they hawked, chanting in a kind of rhythm—a long “Rocky Mountain News,” then a staccato “Post.” “Rocky Mountain News” “Post” Over the sound came a drawn-out “Mare-eee.” Both Mom and I swung around, and there was Cousin Hazel. She came up to us and said, “Mary, my dear, welcome. Even after that tiring ride, you look merry as a marriage bell.” Cousin Hazel embraced Mom, then turned and held me at arm’s length so she could study me. “Dear little Rennie. Marthalice will be so happy to see you. She drew the evening shift this week, but she has the weekend off.” Cousin Hazel smelled like violets. “Does everyone tell you how much you favor your sister?” I loved Cousin Hazel for saying that, because I favored Marthalice like ducks favor wild swans.
“I knew you’d be tired, so I brought the car. I’ll take you on the trolley another time, Rennie.” Cousin Hazel pointed to the big yellow streetcar that had just roared past us on its tracks, its bell clanging, the long pole attached to overhead wires making a prickly scat sound.
Cousin Hazel picked up one of our suitcases, and as she led us down the sidewalk, a Japanese man dressed in a suit and tie touched the brim of his straw hat to her. “Good evening, Mrs. Dunn,” he said, so softly that if she had wanted to ignore him, she could have.
“Hello, Mr. Hayashi,” she replied. The man went on his way, and she explained who he was. “The Hayashis own a jewelry store on Larimer Street. It’s not far from here. We used to trade there. We still do.” When Mom didn’t say anything, Cousin Hazel added, “I’m not altogether sure how you feel about the Japanese, Mary, although I know you employ some of them. But the Hayashis are nice folks. It hasn’t been easy for them, what with the way people feel. Someone smashed their front window last spring.” She cleared her throat and said, “Why, here’s the car. You can see why I take the trolley. This thing burns more gasoline than a Sherman tank.”
She stopped in front of a Packard as big as a combine and put the suitcases into the trunk. Mom got into the front seat, and I started to climb in, too, since I always sat up front in the truck, which had only one seat. But Mom told me to get into the back. There was room enough in there for me and all the Dionne quintuplets.
“Marthalice wanted you to stay with her, but she has just a single bed,” Cousin Hazel said as she pulled the big car into traffic and started up Seventeenth Street. I didn’t see what difference that made, since Betty Joyce and I shared the sofa when I stayed overnight with her. Heck, when I spent the night with the four Willis girls once, we slept five in a bed, end to end, three with our heads at the top of the bed, two with their heads at the foot, like clothespins mixed up in a bag.
Cousin Hazel drove us to a big brick house two miles from the station, where Cousin Walter was waiting for us. He kissed Mom on the cheek and shook my hand and said, “How do you do, young lady? They told me you were a little girl, but I can see that you’re all grown up.” I got along fine with Cousin Walter. He taught me to play Chinese checkers and took me to the movies at the Hiawatha Theater, and gave me the olives in the martinis he and Cousin Hazel drank each evening.
We sat in the living room for an hour while our cousins drank their martinis and were not struck dead, as some of the Jolly Stitchers, who said liquor was the drink of the devil, might have prophesied. Mom and I had apple juice. After we finished, Cousin Hazel led us into the dining room. “This won’t be as tasty as that good farm food you brought, Mary,” she said. “You should see it, Walter—chicken and steak. You wouldn’t know there’s a war on.”
“I brought butter, too, if you don’t mind,” Mom said.
“Mind?” Cousin Walter said, slapping his knee. “Your homemade butter’s better than the creamery kind any time of the day.”
By the time supper was over, I was so tired that I barely made it up the stairs to my bed, which was covered by a quilt just like one of Granny’s. That was because it had been made by Cousin Hazel’s grandmother, Mattie, who was Granny’s sister. I slept until late the next morning, when a voice said, “What’s up, snooks?” It was Marthalice. She was sitting on the bed next to me.
MY SISTER HAD BECOME a woman. When I opened my eyes and looked up at her, I suddenly felt shy, because she was so swell. It wasn’t just the lipstick and the hair that hung over her face like Veronica Lake’s, except that Marthalice’s hair was black. Her face was heavier, her eyes deeper. Her figure was fuller, less like a high school girl’s. But she was still Marthalice, and I hugged her as hard as I had Buddy when he came home on furlough.
“Hey. You’re going to bust me wide open,” she said. She laughed, and her voice was richer.
I sat up in bed and folded back the ironed sheets.
“Can you believe this room?” Marthalice asked. “It sure is a lot sweller than anything in Ellis. That’s for sure.”
“Then how come you moved to your own apartment?”
Marthalice shrugged. “I like Hazel. I love Hazel, but I wanted my own place. Nobody tells me what to do there. Of course, it isn’t anything like this room. My room is a dump compared to it, if you want to know the truth. But I like it. Besides, Hazel didn’t invite me to live here forever.” Marthalice stood up. “And while you’re here, we’ve got all kinds of things planned. Maybe I can show you Elitch’s. I go there dancing sometimes.” She lifted her arms in the air and spun around. “It’s an amusement park, too. I’ll bet you a nickel you throw up on the roller coaster.”
“I never throw up.” It was one of the things I was proudest of. The minister could say that about me in his eulogy.
“We’ll see.”
“How come you call them Hazel and Walter} Mom will kill you if she hears you.” We’d been taught that calling grown-ups by their first names was rude.
She shrugged. “They told me to. Besides, I’m an adult. Now get up. I’ll wait in Mom’s room.” She started for the door.
“Marthalice,” I said.
She stopped.
“We saw a Japanese man yesterday. He was walking down the street just like anybody. Cousin Hazel said he ran a jewelry store by the depot.”
“So?”
“Do the Japanese here live anywhere? Don’t they have to live in camps?”
“They can live wherever they want to.”
“Aren’t you scared of them?”
Marthalice shook her head.
“Don’t you know about Susan Reddick, about what happened to her?”
My sister turned and came back to the bed. Her face was sad. “I know about her.”
“Everybody thinks one of the Japanese men did that to her.”
Marthalice sat down on the edge of the bed again and took my hand, putting her palm against mine, spreading my fingers against hers. She was wearing nail polish, but she had bitten her fingernails down to the tips of her fingers. She’d never done that before. “What do you think?” she asked.
I pressed my hand against hers. “The Japanese who work for us, they’re great. I like them as much as anybody. But since the camp went in, I don’t feel as safe as I used to. Sometimes I hear noises in the night and can’t sleep. I go downstairs and make sure the door’s locked. I don’t like to go into the barn by myself after dark, because I’m scared that whoever killed Susan might come after me.”
Marthalice looked down at the bedspread. “Maybe you should be afraid of white people instead of the Japanese. Don’t ask me why, but I just know.” She gave a short laugh, more of a snort really. She added quickly, “I mean that when you live in a big city like this, you get to know a lot of people, and some are good and some are bad, and you can’t tell which is which just by looking at them. I know that much.”
MOM RESTED ON HER bed with an afghan spread over her while Marthalice and I took the Colfax trolley to Grant St
reet. Marthalice’s apartment was called a studio, which meant it was one room. There was barely space for a single bed shoved against a wall, a chair, a bureau, and a table. She shared a bathroom with three other girls, but she had a corner sink in her room and a hot plate, which was good enough to fix hen scratch, she said. She showed me the rest of the house, a mansion built by a silver king. “Sometimes I pretend I’m one of the rich ladies who owned the house in the old days,” she said, and looked away, embarrassed. But I thought that was swell, because if I lived there, I’d have pretended to be the maid.
We left the apartment and walked to the Pencol Drug, where we sat at a little table and ordered grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch.
“Helen Reddick works at the fountain at the Lee Drug. She’s Helen Archuleta now. She has a baby,” I told Marthalice.
“I know. She married a beet worker. He’s no good. Mom wrote that her folks were pretty mad.”
“They were so mad, they threw her out of the house. The Jolly Stitchers brought her a charity basket. She almost wouldn’t take it.”
“Even girls like Helen, who’ve been ditched, have their pride.”
“She wasn’t ditched. Bobby Archuleta got drafted.” Ice cream from my soda got stuck in the straw, so I sucked it out of the bottom.
Marthalice cocked her head and studied me. “I don’t think he got drafted, honey. I think he just took off.”
“Can he do that?” I held the straw in the air, and melted ice cream dripped onto the table.
“Men can do anything they want to, especially after a girl gets in the family way.” I looked startled, and Marthalice gave me a sad smile.
“That’s not very nice. The sheriff ought to go after him,” I said.
“Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t.” She picked up a pickle chip and bit off a tiny piece of it. “Men don’t think it’s such a big deal. They aren’t always so responsible, especially beet workers. Bobby Archuleta got his draft notice, so he left out. Helen knows it. Everybody in Ellis knows it. I guess she’s trying to save face by saying he’s in the army. I bet she doesn’t have the least idea where he’s at.” Marthalice finished her drink and shook the ice in her bulb-shaped Coke glass. “Helen’ll be all right. He was a jerk. She’s probably glad he’s gone. Maybe I’ll write her. There are lots of jobs for women in Denver, and she can find somebody to take care of the baby.”
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