Irish Chain

by Earlene Fowler

“Yes,” she said. We spent another half hour going through her albums with her telling the story behind each picture. I chose five more pictures for possible use for the book and thanked her for her time.

  “Come back, please,” she said, walking me to the door. “Not many people are interested in our old stories these days.”

  “Well, maybe more will be after this book comes out,” I said.

  A half hour later, I pulled my truck into the last row of San Celina’s new library. The less-than-year-old building seemed to balance precariously on a bluff overlooking a knee-deep lake in Central Park that usually dried up and made a fine soccer field in August. Since it was a Monday, the two-story, gray concrete fortress whose design couldn’t possibly inspire the urge to read in anyone except homesick ex-cons, was crowded with the usual crazed teenagers working on term papers due last Friday. With the help of a Snickers bar and two bucks, I persuaded a kid with kohlrimmed eyes to sell me his spot at one of the microfilm machines. I checked out the reels of the San Celina Tribune from September 1941 through February 1942 and settled down to read. Almost two hours later, I had a sheaf of photocopied articles and an even stronger curiosity about Mr. O’Hara and his altruism. I’d skimmed most of the articles and discovered a strange twist in his story. Until the day Pearl Harbor was bombed, according to the papers, Mr. O’Hara was indeed, as Russell Hill had recalled, at the front of the pack for relocating the Japanese. He was, in fact, the president of two civic associations who were adamant about the perceived menace of the Japanese-Americans. They were the San Celina Farm Bureau and the San Celina Association of Retail Distributors. Oddly, though, two days after he received notification about his brother, the Tribune ran a short piece stating that Mr, O’Hara had resigned as president of both groups. And according to the ledgers, it wasn’t long after that he started buying out Japanese businesses, legally guaranteeing they would be returned to the sellers after the war. Nothing I’d discovered made sense. His brother had been killed at Pearl Harbor. Mr. O’Hara was against the Japanese even before that. How could his brother’s death cause him to suddenly become the Japanese-Americans’ greatest patron? And there was something else, too, something nagging at the back of my mind. Something else about this particular time I’d heard about recently. On the way home, it occurred to me. Dr. Brownmiller’s house call. That happened right around the same time. I’d have to call Sissy and see if she could give me the exact date on the medical record. But what connection could that have with Mr. O’Hara, except that Miss Violet and Oralee were involved with it and they were involved with him? It reminded me of the remark Gabe had made about fingers pointing at fingers. There was no doubt now that the three of them had been involved in something and that particular something changed all of their lives. And unless there was a record of it somewhere, the only person who knew what connected all of them was Oralee ... and perhaps the killer. If, I said to myself, this has anything to do with their murders. I could just be making a story out of pieced-together facts because, except for Edwin, all the people I suspected were people I cared about. Even, a mocking little voice said, or maybe especially, Clay O’Hara.

  I wanted so badly to call Gabe and run all this by him. I didn’t realize until we’d started fighting about this case, how much I’d come to depend on his friendship. When we weren’t arguing, he had a comfortable gentleness about him that made it hard to believe I’d only known him three months. I hated admitting it, but it would be hard to imagine my life without him now, and that thought frightened me. I wondered if it had anything to do with his never having known Jack. He knew me only as Benni Harper, single person, not part of a couple. Jack would never be a real person to Gabe and for some deep psychological reason that I knew I’d never figure out, it made it easier to be with him.

  Not that you necessarily will be anymore, I told myself. But maybe that’s the way it was supposed to be. Like when a person gets divorced—I’d had enough friends go through it—and there’s the transition person, the person who helps you get back in the stream. Maybe that’s what Gabe was, my transition person. And those relationships never work out. Everyone knew that.

  I tried to convince myself of that as I pulled up in my driveway. I kept trying while calling Sissy and talking her into giving me the date on the old medical record—December 14th—the same day of the telegram telling Mr. O’Hara about his brother’s death. And I almost had myself convinced when I pulled out the ledgers and noted that the date of the first loan was December 20th.

  Compulsively, I glanced at the clock at eleven o’clock, Gabe’s usual calling time, cursing myself as I watched the minutes tick past. You aren’t right for each other, I told myself, you argue too much, you both want control, you grew up in completely different decades under entirely different circumstances, your lifestyles would never be compatible. Never. By eleven-thirty, I had completely convinced every part of my body and mind that it didn’t matter, that it was for the best.

  Well, every part except my tear ducts.

  19

  I STOOD SHIVERING in front of my closet the next morning in my long waffle-cotton underwear trying to decide what to wear to today’s opening of the sampler exhibit. I finally chose a new pair of blue jeans and a moss-green wool sweater. After some consideration, I pulled on my Reeboks rather than boots. Opening days usually meant a long time on my feet.

  Sure enough, I gave three impromptu tours to senior citizen groups in three hours. One good thing, it didn’t leave me much time to think about either the murders or about Gabe. I brought all my notes, photocopies, tapes and pictures and threw them on top of my desk. Once I got the exhibit underway, I intended spending the rest of the afternoon really making progress on the book. If nothing else, I was going to decide which pictures I definitely wanted to use. I was shuffling through them when the phone rang.

  “How’s it going?” Elvia said.

  “Okay, I guess. We opened the new exhibit today. Gave three tours and I haven’t even eaten yet.”

  “Hungry?”

  I glanced at my watch. It was almost noon. “I didn’t realize it was so late. Yeah, I am. What’s on Jose’s menu today?”

  “Corn and shrimp chowder. And he’s baked your favorite sourdough biscuits.”

  “Pour me a bowl. I’ll be there before it cools. Do you have time to join me?”

  “I can fit it in. Any special reason, or you just miss my brilliant conversation?”

  “You can help me choose the pictures for the book. They’re all so good I’m having a hard time deciding.” I almost brought up what happened with Gabe yesterday. No, I thought, biting the words back. Forget it. Just forget it.

  Blind Harry’s was back to normal after the weekend festivities, even though today was officially Mardi Gras. There were only four other customers in the coffee house for Tuesday’s lunch special—a couple of students drinking foamy coffee drinks and eating baskets of crispy Cajun onion rings with Louisiana hot sauce, and an older couple in matching French berets arguing over whether they should split a ham or turkey sandwich.

  I spread the pictures across the round table and tried to decide which would tell the Japanese people’s story the best. Elvia joined me at the same time Jose brought over our soup and biscuits. She picked up the picture of Mrs. Yamaoka, her friend Toshi and Toshi’s daughter, Hati.

  “Look at those shoes,” she said, pointing to the ankle-strapped platform heels both older women were wearing. “Classics.”

  “The lady in the dark skirt is in her eighties now,” I said, trying to imagine myself at that age. “And that’s her best friend and her daughter. During the relocation, they were sent to different camps and didn’t see or write to each other for four years.”

  Elvia looked up at me, her dark eyes sober. I knew what she was thinking. She and I had never been apart for more than a few weeks since we were in second grade. How would we have felt if we’d been in Mrs. Yamaoka and her friend’s position? It didn’t seem possible that something like that
would ever happen to us. But then, it probably hadn’t seemed possible to Mrs. Yamaoka and Toshi either.

  “How did these people survive?” Elvia said softly, holding the picture closer and studying it.

  “With an incredible amount of courage,” I said. “Some of them are bitter, but it’s amazing how forgiving most of them are. Maybe there’s something to learn there. It’s as if they knew that if they were bitter; it would be like losing twice. That is certainly a wisdom beyond what I can understand.”

  “Perhaps,” Elvia said. “But what happened to them seems unbelievable to me. I’d like to think I would have protested. Fought back somehow.”

  I didn’t say anything. Who can understand why we act the way we do in certain situations? And who could, or should, judge someone else’s reactions? Since talking to Mrs. Yamaoka, I not only realized it wasn’t as simple as that but, also, that each of us has to make those decisions alone. Like my fighting back when I was mugged. I made that decision and it worked out okay, but it could have just as well ended in tragedy. Each situation is unique, as is each person. How we react is a perplexing product of our genetic structure, our environment, and that special, unidentifiable spark that makes each of us an individual soul. The part of us that loves when it should hate, forgives when it should blame, survives when it should die. The part of us that scientists will never be able to corral and tag in one of their little test tubes.

  “Let’s eat,” Elvia said with a sigh, picking up her soup spoon. “As Mama says, at least when your stomach is full, you have one less problem.”

  During lunch Elvia and I perused the photographs, arguing about which ones we preferred. We were halfway finished with our meal when a familiar pair of Army boots came clumping down the stairway.

  “Ramon,” I called out. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking—”

  The boots stopped and started backing slowly up the stairs.

  I jumped up from my chair and stuck my hand through the railing, grabbing one large foot. “Hold it right there, buddy. The SWAT team’s got you surrounded. Come out with your hands up.”

  “Oh, geeze,” he whined.

  I walked around and stood at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed. “Ramon Aragon, you get down here right now.”

  He slowly descended the stairs. “Look,” he began, “I’ve been meaning to come by the museum, it’s just that ...”

  “Get over there and sit down,” I said, pointing at the table where his sister sat, a knowing grin on her face. “We have to talk about this history project that you’re supposed to be helping me on. Where have you been? How can I honestly tell your teacher you worked on this project when I haven’t seen you for days?”

  “I swear I was going to call you today. It was on my list of things to do.” He patted the pockets of his baggy jeans. “It’s here somewhere, I swear. Maybe I left it in the car—I’ll go—”

  “Forget it,” I said, pushing him down in an oak chair. “You and I have to make some plans here. I’ve got a list here of people who have agreed to be interviewed and they’re all right here in town. Now, if you can find Todd...”

  “He’s at the pier today. At least that’s where he said he was going. Hey, look at these funky old pictures,” he said, ignoring my lecture. I gave Elvia a peeved look. She just shrugged her shoulders, with the same resignation expressed by her mother a few days ago.

  “Ramon,” I said. “You have got to take more responsibility. Now—”

  “Hey, here’s one of Todd’s great-grandma and his grandma. He was real upset when his grandma died. She cooked the best noodles.”

  “Let me see,” I said. He handed me the picture.

  “This is Todd’s great-grandmother and grandmother?” I asked, looking intently at the picture. It was the one of Mrs. Yamaoka, Toshi and Toshi’s daughter. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure,” he said, looking at me oddly. “I saw his grandmother lots of times. And she had this picture on the piano at their house. Except it was bigger. She was always giving Todd money. She was really cool. For an old lady, that is.”

  “What’s wrong?” Elvia asked. “Your face looks funny.”

  “Nothing,” I said and turned to Ramon. “I want you in my office tomorrow at nine o’clock sharp. If you’re not going to help on the interviews, then you’re at least typing this stuff into the word processor.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, holding up his hands. “Can I go now, Officer?”

  “I guess,” I said, still peeved.

  At that moment, more steps sounded on the stairway. “What in the heck’s keeping you, runt?” Miguel asked. He wore his blue patrolman’s uniform and an impatient frown. “You were supposed to ask Elvia about Saturday and get back up here. I’m not running a taxi service here.”

  “It’s Benni’s fault,” Ramon said. “She’s been keeping me here against my will. Isn’t that against the law? Isn’t that kidnaping?”

  Miguel gave his brother’s ponytail a hard tug. “I’m going to get you drunk one day and cut this thing off, Señorita Aragon.”

  “The drunk part sounds good,” Ramon said, pushing his brother’s hand away.

  “What are you two up to?” Elvia asked.

  “Mama asked me to drop him off at school,” Miguel answered. “His truck blew a head gasket last night.”

  “How’s the crime business doing these days?” I asked casually, tearing at one of the biscuits on my plate.

  “Everyone’s goofing off today, as you can imagine. While el gato grande’s away and all that ...”

  “Gabe’s out of town?” Elvia asked and looked at me curiously. I shrugged and continued to make bread crumbs.

  “Got a call last night about his son. Kid apparently got mixed up in some trouble down in Santa Barbara where he goes to school. Chief was really pissed off when he left. Things have been real tense around the station lately, since there hasn’t been any headway on the murders. The mayor called the chief four times yesterday. Cleary even pulled some patrol people off street duty to run down leads.”

  “I’ve gotta go,” I said, scooping up the pictures. “Thanks for your input, Elvia. I’m going to go on home and try to paste up some kind of reasonable facsimile of a book.” Besides, I had a phone call to make.

  Elvia gave me an odd look. “What’s going on, gringa?”

  “I’ll call you later,” I said. I didn’t want to start talking about the murders in front of Miguel and put him in the uncomfortable position of being caught between our friendship and his job.

  On the way back to my house, all the information seemed to swirl around my head like cream in coffee. Passing by the city hall, a thought occurred to me and I swung into the municipal parking lot across the street. Thirty minutes and ten bucks later, I had a copy of Keiko Simmons’ death certificate. It only took me a few seconds to count back from her birth date to the time when she was most likely conceived. Right around the middle of December 1941. Before Hatsumi—Hati—was sent to the assembly camp at Santa Anita. Before she married Mr. Morita in that same camp and had the illegal picture taken by the guard. Pregnant by a white man whose genes would eventually show up in Todd. Especially in his bright blue eyes.

  20

  THE MINUTE I pieced everything together, I knew I needed to tell someone. And the most logical someone, since Gabe wasn’t here, was Mac. “He’s visiting his grandmother,” his secretary told me when I got to his office. “And then he has a meeting with the board of deacons.” She eyed me suspiciously. I couldn’t help but wonder how much she knew and how much she blamed me for Mac’s dilemma.

  I found him sitting next to Oralee’s bed at Oak Terrace. He wore a pale blue button-down-collar shirt and a brown corduroy jacket. She looked as if she’d been ill. The color in her cheekbones was high and bright, like someone who had run a fever for a long time. They silently watched a talk show on the small television atop her chest of drawers.

  “Well, look who’s come to see you, Grandma,” he said, standing u
p.

  She looked at me without saying a word, her blue eyes narrow and watchful.

  “Hi, Mac,” I said, glancing up at him, then back at Oralee. “Oralee, you know we have to talk.”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” she said, her face hardening.

  “No matter what happened, people can’t be allowed to get away with murder. You know that.”

  “Benni, what’s going on?” Mac asked, his voice low and urgent. He sat back down and took his grandmother’s hand.

  “I think I know who killed Mr. O’Hara and Miss Violet. And I think I know why.” I paused. “Oralee, you have to tell us about what happened fifty years ago.”

  She pulled her hand out of Mac’s and touched her cheek. “Oh, Mac,” she whispered. “I thought it was over. When they died, I thought it was laid to rest.”

  “It can’t be until the murderer is caught,” I said. “You know that.”

  She answered with a jagged voice. “We carried the burden for so long. Rose Ann and I never thought it would work, but it did. And justice was served. It was the only justice she would have ever got.”

  “Who?” Mac asked.

  “Go ahead, Oralee,” I said. “Tell Mac what happened, what he gave up his reputation and career for. He deserves at least that much.”

  Oralee gave a deep, bone-wrenching sigh and began. “At one time, Rose Ann and I were best friends, did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Mac said.

  “We’d known each other since we were five years old. It was funny, her and I ending up in the same room, two old ladies. We used to talk about going to live in the city—San Francisco or Los Angeles, and getting an apartment together. But neither of us ever left San Celina. It was all just girl talk. We read too many romance stories, I think.” She laughed, her eyes glazed over remembering their plans.

  “I loved him,” she whispered. “He was such a handsome man and it was me he picked. Me.” She looked up into Mac’s face, her eyes bright and wondering. In them, I caught a glimpse of the young Oralee. I felt a cool dampness start to collect on my breastbone.