House of Ghosts

by House of Ghosts (epub)

  “Dewitt wouldn’t trust his grandmother if she put her eyeliner on a slant,” McCloy grunted. “The Four-Four-Two isn’t going to the Pacific. They’ll be going to Italy.”

  The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Meiklejohn is here,” Mrs. Higgins said.

  Alexander Meiklejohn was the former president of Amherst College and longtime acquaintance of McCloy. Meiklejohn in his position with the American Civil Liberties Union was a monitor of government policy concerning Japanese Americans. “Send him in. Florence, be a love and scurry up a pot of coffee,” McCloy said.

  At seventy-one, Meiklejohn smashed across the threshold with his bowler hat, silver tipped walking stick in hand, and a black wool topcoat draped over his arm. His high forehead rose to a brownish gray splash of hair parted down the middle. Gold wire rim glasses perched on a nose that accentuated his gaunt face.

  McCloy met Meiklejohn in the middle of the office. “Dean Meiklejohn,” McCloy said deferentially. “What a pleasant surprise.” He led his visitor to the “setup room.” McCloy wasn’t surprised by Meiklejohn’s call, requesting an appointment—military intelligence reported Meiklejohn’s appearance in the city the day before. The ACLU was on the subversive watch list. “Come sit.”

  McCloy made the introductions. “I attended your lecture at Princeton during my sophomore year,” Preston said. “One of my fondest college memories.”

  Meiklejohn placed his hat and coat on one of the chairs, taking the adjacent seat. McCloy took the opposing chair. Preston stood. “November, 1939,” Meiklejohn said without hesitation. A champion of free speech and civil liberties, his address covered the necessity of open discourse in a free and democratic society, no matter how offensive and controversial. Meiklejohn added fuel to the fire for Clark Johnson and the debating club demands for a say in booking campus speakers.

  Florence Higgins carried in a carafe of coffee and a tray of doughnuts, putting them on the Stanton table. “Captain Swedge, a cup of tea might be better for your throat.”

  Florence Higgins was military through and through. Her father fought at Gettysburg, losing a leg on Little Round Top with the Twentieth Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment. Her lawyer husband was serving in the Pacific Theatre on the staff of General MacArthur. The sixty-four year old keeper of the flame had let Preston use a bedroom in her Georgetown home while he looked for an apartment in the over-rented city.

  “Not necessary,” Preston said, trying not to look uncomfortable. There was the issue of daughter Margaret. Three years younger than the dashing Princeton man, Peggy had fallen head over heals and into his bed. Florence wasn’t buying his incessant traveling as an excuse for avoiding her daughter.

  McCloy eyed Preston who wasn’t the first officer Florence Higgins tried to fix up with her daughter. “Thank you Mrs. Higgins.” He waited for her to exit. “What brings you across the river?”

  “ACLU representatives in California tell me your people are working on a plan to furlough Nisei,” Meiklejohn said. “They feel the conditions are as unconstitutional as the relocations.”

  Preston poured three cups of coffee, handing a cup and saucer to Meiklejohn and McCloy. He took his own cup and walked toward the windows, giving McCloy room to operate.

  “As luck would have it, Captain Swedge has just returned from the coast where he’s been working on the very program your representatives are concerned about,” McCloy said. “Nothing is set in stone. We want to be fair to those interned.”

  “I’ve heard snippets,” Meiklejohn said. “Perhaps if I have the entire picture, the organization’s fears can be allayed.”

  McCloy cleared his throat. “Captain…”

  Preston put his cup and saucer on the window ledge. “Three kinds of passes will be issued: short-term emergency passes; restricted passes for work gangs to be employed outside of the camps; and indefinite furloughs.”

  Meiklejohn dropped three cubes of sugar into his cup. “What are the conditions for the indefinite furloughs?” He stirred the coffee and tapped the saucer twice with his spoon.

  “References will need to be obtained, preferably from Caucasians, and each internee will be asked to sign a pledge of allegiance to the United States and agree to serve as an informant regarding any subversive activity, both in the relocation camps and in the communities they will resettle,” Preston paused to blow his nose. “In addition, they will be instructed to stay away from large groups of Japanese and to develop American habits that will help them to be accepted into American society. Finally, those wanting out of the camps will be asked to furnish proof that they have always been loyal to the United States.”

  Meiklejohn finished his coffee. McCloy and Preston waited for his reaction. The silence was broken by a teletype machine behind McCloy’s desk spitting out paper tape. The machine, linked to bases around the world, kept the Assistant Secretary of War on top of breaking events.

  Meiklejohn wiped his lips with a silk handkerchief. “Although the conditions placed on furloughs are extensive, they are, I think, essentially reasonable limits arising out of the evacuation situation. I will recommend to the board and the national committee not to mount a direct constitutional challenge.”

  McCloy wanted to clap his hands and jump for joy. “These are difficult times for everyone.”

  “I appreciate your predicament, John,” Meiklejohn said, gathering his things. “Next time I’m in town, we need to get together to talk about the days of yore.”

  Preston escorted Meiklejohn through the outer office to return to find McCloy at the teletype machine. “Son of a bitch!” McCloy exclaimed. “There’s been a riot at Manzanar— two dead, eight wounded. Read it!”

  Preston took the printout with trepidation. Since his last stop at Manzanar, the atmosphere of passive resistance had changed to outright defiance. Demonstrations that ended in battles with MPs brought Washington’s permission to engage in deadly force if warnings to disperse went unheeded. He didn’t know the name Heideki Nikajima, but Tommy Shikiro jumped off the yellow grained paper.

  Chapter 24

  WESTFIELD, NJ SEPTEMBER 2000

  JOE SHOVED SIX EMPTY BUDWEISER cans across the dinette table. The air hung heavy with the remains of a pack of Marlboros floating in his morning coffee. He closed the second installment of the Swedge diaries, giving the leather cover a tap with his knuckles. Under the table, Roxy placed her head in his lap. “The old guy was one calculating, cold-hearted bastard,” he said, scratching Roxy behind her ears. “I’m sure of one thing—Paul Rothstein was the main character in his nightmare.”

  Roxy cocked her head to the side, yawned and rolled onto her back. Geopolitical Systems was long over. He’d push the decision back another day whether to stick it out or put his tail between his legs and slink away. Joe searched his wallet for Dr. Headcase’s card. A picture of his grandfather wagging his finger came up in the shuffle. “Screw you.” He turned the picture face down. “Every family has its designated fuck up.”

  Washing the sewer taste out of his mouth with a swig from a bottle of mouth-wash kept in the cabinet housing the glasses, Joe spit into the sink. He didn’t know if a dead Preston Swedge was worse than the live one who had burned his ass for twenty years. Preston was a follower. Joe was convinced that if Herbert Swedge didn’t have a boatload of money, his son would have fallen in with hoods and other low-lifes of the Depression. Preston resisted the bile of his roommate Clark Johnson, but succumbed to the power and trappings of the office of John McCloy. Some men are born bad to the bone, others grow into the role. If Preston could participate in the imprisonment of American citizens based solely on their race and assist in keeping them segregated until the end of the war, what else was he involved with? He had questions on top of questions. And where did Jake Rothstein fit in?

  Through the window over the sink, Joe watched Roxy romp in a light drizzle. Why should I give a damn about what Preston Swedge was up to? “You’re a cop, stupid! Act like one!” he screamed at the four walls. Donations to the Westf
ield temple combined with Rabbi Balaban chanting the mourner’s prayer for the dead over Preston’s grave led him to phone the temple and hit his first roadblock— Balaban was in Israel and wouldn’t be back for three months.

  Joe pondered contacting Reverend James Miller. According to Ed Stoval, two days after officiating at Preston’s funeral, the reverend had a grapefruit size tumor removed from his colon. The septuagenarian was in re-hab trying to get back on his feet. “What the hell do I have to lose?” he said, punching in the number for the First Presbyterian Church. The secretary said Miller was up for company and would appreciate any respite from the boredom. She gave Joe an inside tip—the reverend had a sweet tooth.

  Stopping at Bremmer’s Candy Emporium in the business district, Joe picked a box of mixed chocolates and headed for the other side of town where the OptimaCare Nursing and Rehabilitation Center abutted the southwest corner of Nomahegan Park. Joe was part of the police detail at the zoning board meetings when conservationists and left-wing liberal-weenies pulled a sit down demonstration in opposition to the “big business” construction application. Driving by the facility always brought a smile, remembering the astonished faces of the committee when one of the more amply endowed female members of Preserve Our Park decided to nurse her infant in the first row.

  Shielded from the road by towering oaks and a phalanx of blue spruce, the large pane glass, rough timbers and a whitewashed stucco façade gave the impression of a mountain resort. Joe followed the arrows to visitors parking, yielding to an exiting hearse from Kerrigan’s Funeral Home. The road, barely two cars wide, forced the two drivers to slow to a crawl. Recognizing Joe, Bud Kerrigan stopped the Cadillac. “When are you coming back to the Downtown Association?” Kerrigan asked. “The meetings haven’t been the same.”

  The Downtown Association was a collection of local merchants who met once a month. Joe, an unofficial member, served as the police representative. He and the mortician shared dirty jokes, beer, and general disdain for the association’s self-importance and parliamentary rules. “I’m working on it,” Joe said. “Who’s the guest speaker?”

  Kerrigan scratched the stubble on his chin. “An attorney named…Hardon. No, Hargrove,” he said with a booming laugh. “All attorneys are hardons.”

  Joe had to laugh. “Never heard of him, but I’d lay even money he’s a prick. Might just see you there tomorrow.” He watched the hearse pull away in the Volvo’s side mirror. The more he thought about the meeting, the more he was inclined to go. In addition to Preston’s attorney being present, there were a number of members who might be able to shed some light on Preston’s past.

  Visitor’s parking was jammed. Joe parked fifty feet from the main entrance in a no parking-fire zone. Putting his Westfield P.D. credentials on the dash, he took the five-iron and candy from the front seat. The drizzle turned to a steady rain. Joe fished a hooded windbreaker nestled behind the spare tire he never bothered to return to its well beneath the carpet. The temperature had dropped into the low fifties. It felt like fall.

  Joe hesitated at the main entrance. Hospitals caused him to sweat, nursing homes made him queasy. The sight of his grandfather, swathed in a diaper and tethered to multiple I.V. lines was burned into his brain. He unconsciously took a deep breath, preparing himself for the smell of urine and the creeping death that overwhelmed him in Brooklyn’s All Saints Nursing.

  Limping into the reception area drew a concerned look from the matronly woman manning the desk. “Re-hab is down the hall,” she said, moving around the counter. “Have a seat. I’ll get you a wheelchair.”

  Plush arm chairs were grouped among towering palms and thriving rubber plants. “A patient named James Miller. Where would I find him?” Joe said, wiping water off his head with a tissue retrieved from a box on the desk.

  “I’m sorry I mistook…” she said, scurrying back to her station.

  “Not a problem,” Joe said with a wave of the box of candy. “My good buddy is waiting for his fix.”

  Checking her computer, she said, “He’s in the recreation center. End of the hall, take a left.” She handed Joe a visitor badge to hang around his neck.

  Soft indirect lighting reflected off fuchsia walls and matching Italian marble floor in the main corridor. Joe sniffed the air—nothing but the hint of lilac. Only the sound of the club clacking with each step broke an eerie silence.

  Turning left at the end of the corridor brought the glass domed rec center into view. A nurse’s aide pushed a wheelchair carting a young male Joe judged to be no more than twenty-five, his face contorted in a Halloween mask with a metal neck brace keeping a skull marked with a scar running ear to ear in a fixed position. Joe forced his back against the wall. The kid looked familiar.

  Joe, itching for a cigarette, reached into his pocket for a stray piece of gum. For a second, he thought of back pedaling before hitting a metal button marked “Automatic Entry.”

  Double-wide glass panel doors opened. Joe stood under the dome amazed at the theater size of the solarium, comparing it to the twenty by twenty dingy “family room” in the place his insurance company approved for re-habbing his leg. Tropical flowers in huge terracotta urns marked the periphery. Muted violins played through fist size speakers. Outside the walls of glass, a pond added to the idyllic feeling.

  Four women in the midst of a spirited card game broke the tranquility with a series of whoops and slaps to the green felt covered table. A pair of pre-school girls skipped and squealed around an elderly gentleman as their mother pleaded for quiet. Joe scanned the twelve other occupants. James Miller was alone at a table for two.

  An array of thank you cards was splayed before the scary thin reverend. Miller, wearing a blue sweat suit, peered over his half-frame glasses as Joe approached. “Good afternoon,” Miller said, trying to place Joe’s face. “Have we met?”

  “Not directly,” Joe replied.

  Miller snapped his fingers three times in quick succession. “The cemetery. I didn’t think anyone remembered Isabel Grabar. Nice of you to put flowers on her grave.”

  Caught off guard, Joe stammered, “A fine woman. I don’t visit as often as I should.”

  “Isabel Grabar was the first funeral I officiated. That was in 1949 in a little town outside of Memphis Tennessee,” Miller growled. The scowl on his face accentuated the gaunt lines. “What game are you playing?”

  “I knew Preston for twenty years. With the arrangements being private, I decided to stay out of the way.” Joe stuck his detective badge under Miller’s nose. “Joe Henderson.”

  Miller put down his pen. “Something amiss?” The look of concern replaced his scowl.

  “This is a private matter,” Joe said, holding the box of candy in plain view.

  “My boy, might there be some chocolate delights in that cardboard conveyance?” Miller asked. The wrapping paper was a dead give away. “You’re the…”

  “Hero cop,” Joe interrupted with a forced smile. “I heard you’re addicted.”

  Miller’s eyes twinkled as he opened the pound box, bringing the contents close to his nose. “Only my secretary knows.” He chose a cherry filled chocolate drop. “Have a seat. You look as though you could take a turn in this place.”

  “Been there and done that,” Joe said, pulling out a chair. A demure blonde in hospital togs sashayed into the room. “This is a far cry from the dump I was incarcerated for my re-hab.”

  “These nurses might look sweet, but under those smiles, live a collection of tyrants. They’re working me to death,” Miller said, savoring another piece.

  Joe watched the nurse wheel one of the patients to the door. “I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”

  “They’ll be coming for me for my afternoon workout,” Miller said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Preston lived an interesting life.”

  “Interesting but conflicted,” Miller said, checking through the box. “When Preston was a young man, he could be rough. There was an element in town
that was against many things, and he fell in with them. People change. He re-discovered God.”

  The rain intensified, pounding the glass roof. “He must’ve had one heck of a re-discovery to have Rabbi Balaban say Kaddish for him,” Joe said, staring at Miller who suddenly looked uncomfortable.

  “You’ll have to take that up with Bernard,” Miller replied, pushing the box across the table. “Have a piece.”

  “I’ll ask him when he returns from Israel,” Joe said, picking an orange truffle. “I understand you and the Swedges arrived in town around the same time and became pretty tight.”

  “Lieutenant,” Miller said with a renewed irritation, “I’ve got to get these cards done. My relationship was personal.”

  Joe reached into his jacket, removing the girl’s picture found among the scrum at the estate sale. “Do you recognize her?”

  Miller paled, taking the battered photo, holding it like it was a hand grenade with the pin removed. “Where did you find this?” He turned the photo over, running his fingers around the edges before gently touching the girl’s face.

  “In Preston’s basement,” Joe said, studying Miller’s face.

  “Preston held it to his heart when he was ill, not letting go for days.” Miller said. “I’m surprised it survived.”

  “Looks like the picture has been through a war,” Joe said.

  “Preston’s recovery was long and painful. He was fighting his own private war.”

  “I heard about his crackup. She have a name?”

  “It’s been many years.” Miller stared at the face. “Rachel. No, No…Rebecca. Yes, Rebecca. Poor thing was so young.”

  Joe leaned on the five-iron. “What happened to her?”

  Without emotion, Miller said, “Hit by a car. Lingered for a couple of days before the good Lord took her home. She was just seven years old.”

  “Queens beat Jacks!” roared from the card game.

  “I look at the picture, and I say to myself, who does she look like?” Joe said, fighting the urge to stick a Marlboro into his mouth. “Rebecca doesn’t look like Millie or Preston.” He handed Miller the photo of the Swedges on vacation. “Wouldn’t ever have guessed she was their child.”