Irish Chain

by Earlene Fowler

  “Who, Grandma?”

  “Brady.” Her eyes closed. “Brady O’Hara. The catch of the town. He used to bring me yellow roses every Saturday night before we went to the picture show. Yellow roses and a silver box of chocolates he had sent from San Francisco. I saved the boxes out in the barn for years.”

  Mac turned to look at me, surprised. Apparently, he’d never heard about the engagement of his grandmother and Mr. O’Hara. “What happened?” he asked.

  She opened her eyes and her face hardened. “I broke the engagement.”

  “Why?” Mac asked.

  “I was there when he received the telegram, you know. December fourteenth, 1941. I’ll never forget that day. I’d come to town because we were going to pick out our china. Me picking out china, can you imagine that? He made me feel like such a lady, me, this little old country girl.” She paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “They came to his office at the store because that’s where he always was. He was certain his brother was still alive. Other people had gotten telegrams already and he hadn’t, so he figured his brother was still alive. But he wasn’t. They didn’t even find his body. It’s there, on that ship in Hawaii. People have their pictures taken in front of it now.”

  “Mr. O’Hara’s brother was on the Arizona?” Mac said.

  “Yes. And he hated the Japanese for that. He wanted to join up himself—go and kill them all. He ranted and raved about it all afternoon. But I talked him out of it. Said he was of more use here, that he was too old to go. But it was just selfishness on my part. I didn’t want him to go. Maybe if he’d joined, his hate would have been better served. At least it wouldn’t have hurt innocent people.”

  “What innocent people?” Mac asked.

  “He started drinking. He always kept a whiskey bottle in his drawer. He would read the telegram out loud to me, then take another drink. When I couldn’t make him stop, I finally just left. I hated being around him when he drank, and he knew it. I should have told all his employees to leave so he would have to close the store, but I was too embarrassed. I figured he’d drink until he passed out. I hate admitting it, but he’d done that before. I was so giddy in love—I never really believed he would hurt anyone. I went back to the ranch and figured he’d be fine the next day. Later that night, Rose Ann called me.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She told me to get over to her place right away. The sound of her voice made me drive that old Ford pickup like a banshee over the pass. When I got there, they were both huddled on the sofa, crying. I remember I just stood as still as could be looking at them. She sounded like a bird, her head buried like that in Rose Ann’s shoulder. ‘What are you going to do about this?’ Rose Ann asked me. I just stood there. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Who was with Rose Ann?”

  She shook her head mutely.

  “Hatsumi Morita,” I answered for her, walking over to the side of Oralee’s bed. “Only she was Hatsumi Ikeda then. Everyone called her Hati. She was a pretty sixteen-year-old, excited and proud about her part-time job at the town’s only department store. The first Asian ever to be hired. Someone who was young and timid and taught to be obedient to authority. Even the authority of a drunken boss.”

  “Benni, what are you saying?” Mac asked. Oralee and I stared at each other.

  “He raped her that night, didn’t he?” I said to Oralee.

  “I didn’t know he’d do something like that,” Oralee whispered. “He was so mad at the Japanese. She was too ashamed to go home, too afraid her parents would blame her. So she ran to the only person she felt safe with, a teacher who’d been her friend since she was a little girl.” Oralee looked at me, her eyes dark in a face the color of bleached bones. “If I’d just taken the bottle of whiskey, told everyone to leave, if I’d stayed ...” Her voice trailed off.

  “Why didn’t you call the police?” Mac said.

  Oralee silently shook her head, so I answered. “Oralee called Dr. Brownmiller the night of the rape and he treated Hati, set her broken hand, prescribed pain pills. But they all knew one thing. There was no way that the word of a young Japanese girl would stand up in court against one of the town’s leading citizens. Especially when feelings against the Japanese were already escalating out of control. Think about what rape victims go through today, Mac, when our laws are supposedly in their favor. Imagine what Hatsumi would have had to endure. No, Rose Ann and Oralee knew they couldn’t get justice from the authorities, so they decided to extract their own justice, and I suppose, in a way, they did.”

  “What did they do?” Mac asked.

  “Thanks to Mr. O’Hara’s money, many of the Japanese-Americans were able to come back from the internment camps without having lost a single dime.” I looked at Oralee. “I’m curious, though. How did you get him to agree to do that all those years?”

  She gave a crafty smile, and the steel-backed Oralee that I’d always known replaced the frightened old woman. “We went to his house the next day. I held a shotgun on him while he handwrote the confession that Rose Ann dictated to him. It was one of the sweetest moments of my life.”

  “Is that what I took from the nightstand?” Mac asked.

  “Yes,” she said, disgusted. “Rose Ann, that stupid ninny, had her lawyer get it from her safety deposit box where she’d kept it all those years. She wasn’t right in the head those last few months, was getting confused about things and people. She’d memorized the whole letter and would walk down the corridors reciting it. Most everyone took it for the rambling of an old woman, a soap opera she’d mixed up with real life. Only I knew she was telling a real story.”

  “You and Mr. O’Hara,” I said.

  Oralee’s eyes widened. “When I went back to my room, I saw him there dead,” she whispered. “And her too. I didn’t think. All I could do was just get away as fast as I could. So I had to send Mac to get the confession. I couldn’t let the police see it. I couldn’t let anyone see it.” She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mac. I never wanted you to get hurt.”

  “It’s okay, Grandma,” Mac said softly. “I’m a grown man. I made my own decision.” He turned to me. “I still don’t understand how this explains who killed Mr. O’Hara and Miss Violet.”

  “Though I have no idea how to prove it, I think Mr. Morita did it.”

  “No!” Oralee said, sitting upright. “He wouldn’t have done that. He loved Rose Ann. He named his daughter after her.”

  “Yes, but he hated Mr. O’Hara. He raped his fiancée, the love of his life, and nine months later she gave birth to the only child she would ever bear, Todd’s mother, Keiko. Legally, Mr. Morita’s, but biologically, Mr. O’Hara’s. Through the luck of the genetic draw, Mr. O’Hara’s Caucasian blood didn’t show up in her. That must have made it somewhat easier for her growing up. Unfortunately, it did show up a generation later in Todd.”

  “He loved Keiko,” Oralee said, her voice harsh. “Like she was his own.”

  “Yes, he did, but I’ll bet he never stopped hating Brady O’Hara. Fifty years is a long time to build up anger. I’m guessing that with the death of his wife and his daughter so close together something in him just snapped and he killed Mr. O’Hara on the spur of the moment. He could have easily sneaked in and out without anyone seeing him...”

  “He didn’t,” Mac exclaimed.

  “You don’t know that. He could have easily ...”

  “No, I mean he didn’t sneak in. I saw him that night. He delivered fish. You saw me putting it away.”

  “Well, that places him at the scene. This is all just theory, though. But we do have to tell the police. They may have physical evidence that could link him to it. I know they always pick up a lot of fingerprints that don’t match anything. I doubt very seriously whether he spent much time, if any, planning this.”

  “No,” Oralee said weakly. “I’ll never believe he killed Rose Ann.” She collapsed back on her pillow, breathing heavily.

  “This is too
much for her,” Mac said, pouring a glass of water and holding it to her lips. “We have to stop.”

  I walked to the other side of her bed. “Oralee, I feel the way you do. It’s hard to believe that Mr. Morita would kill Rose Ann, but maybe he panicked. Grief and anger and bitterness can work on a person’s mind until they aren’t rational. You know that. Look what it drove Mr. O’Hara to do.”

  “What now?” she finally said.

  “Grandma, Benni’s right. We have to tell the police,” Mac answered. “It’s time for this all to end. This time, we have to let the authorities decide what to do.”

  “He doesn’t deserve to be punished,” Oralee said. “He’s been punished for so many years already.”

  “You need to rest right now.” He pulled the covers up and tucked them around her. “Let Benni and me take care of things. I promise, we’ll do our best to make sure Mr. Morita doesn’t get hurt.”

  Outside a dense fog was starting to move in, bringing with it the kind of dampness that seeps into your skin and makes you feel there are ice crystals in your blood. I stood on the front steps of Oak Terrace, rubbing my hands up and down my arms, shivering from more than just the cold. “Well, I guess our first stop is the police station,” I said.

  Mac leaned against the stucco wall, his face gray and exhausted. “I’m still trying to take this all in. It seems too fantastic, this blackmail plot that spans over fifty years. My mind is trying to assimilate all these facts, discern what is right, what would have been the right thing to do back then, but I can’t think. It’s a big jumbled mess in my mind.”

  “I know,” I said. “I wish I could tell you that I’ve got it all figured out. I only know that whatever happened fifty years ago, it wasn’t right for Mr. Morita to kill Mr. O’Hara or Miss Violet. Maybe that’s all we can do, look at each thing individually. Maybe that’s the only fair way to judge things.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, rubbing his face. “It says in the Bible that the sins of the father carry on to the third generation. This is the first time I’ve actually seen evidence of that. The person I really feel bad for is Todd. What is he going to think when he hears all this and finds out his grandfather is a killer?”

  “I know,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about that and I think you should go to the police station and tell them the story. Gabe’s in Santa Barbara taking care of some personal business, so you’ll have to talk to Lieutenant Cleary. I’m going to find Todd and tell him before he hears it from someone else. Or worse, on the radio or TV.”

  Mac looked at me, his face shadowed. “Do you know where he is?”

  “Yes, Ramon told me he was working out at the pier today. I imagine his grandfather is running the store, so maybe I can get to Todd and talk with him before they pick up Mr. Morita for questioning.”

  “It looks like everything I did to protect Grandma was for nothing now.” He clenched his fists at his side, looking as if he wanted to hit something.

  “Not for nothing,” I said, touching his solid forearm. “You did it out of love. That’s never for nothing.”

  “But what about truth? You want to tell me what’s more important here? Or if it’s possible to have one without the other?”

  “Oh, Mac, I don’t know. I wish I could tell you. A lot of good came out of that evil act. Whole generations were helped. I’m not saying it was a good thing it happened, but I’ve always believed that nothing happens without a reason. As a matter of fact, I think I’ve heard you say that once or twice.”

  He shook his head wearily. “I know you’re right here.” He pointed to his temple. “I’m just having a hard time understanding here.” He tapped his chest. “Good luck with Todd.”

  I watched him walk out to his Bronco, his shoulders slumped. The task set before both of us made me shudder and I desperately wished Gabe was here. My body suddenly felt as heavy and cold as iron.

  “Looks like you could use some warmin’ up,” a voice said behind me.

  “Clay,” I said, turning around. He set down the pasteboard box in his hands and put his arms around me, hugging me gently. I closed my eyes and rested for a moment against his chest, absorbing his body heat. Reluctantly, I pulled out of his embrace. He kept his hands on my shoulders. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Picking up the rest of my uncle’s stuff. I don’t think there’s anything the Historical Society would want, but you’re welcome to look through it.”

  “Maybe later,” I said. “I’ve really got to get going now.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  I bit my lip and looked away, trying to hide my anxiety. “Just an errand.”

  “Honey, seems like you’re always running away from me. You look troubled, and that guy who just left looked it too. I’m taking a wild guess here, but I’m thinking you two have figured out something about my uncle’s death.”

  I stared at the yoke of his navy shirt and kept silent. His fingers tightened slightly. “If it’s about my uncle, Benni, I have a right to know.”

  He was right, but I didn’t want him involved. “Look, Clay, it’s just a theory. Nothing concrete. I swear I’ll tell you the whole story when we verify our facts.”

  “Well, I’m not letting you go until you tell me. You have a funny way of disappearing on me and then it takes me days to track you down.”

  I pulled away from him. “I really don’t have time to spar with you.” I turned and started down the steps. He followed me across the parking lot without saying a word. When I reached my truck, he calmly walked around to the passenger side and pulled the door open. Slamming the door behind me, I turned and faced him.

  “Clay, get out. I don’t have time for this.”

  “Nope. You can tell me everything while we drive to wherever it is you’re going.”

  “You can’t come with me. I won’t allow it.”

  “You weigh, what, a hundred five, a hundred ten? I weigh one ninety. I do believe I’ll go where I dang well please.”

  “I don’t have time to argue with you.” I cranked the ignition and slammed it into gear. He didn’t speak again until we were up on the interstate heading for the turnoff to Port San Patricio.

  “Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?” he asked softly. “Brady was my uncle. If this is about him, I do have a right to know.”

  I inhaled deeply. He was right, and at that moment, my stomach rolling with worry, I knew I’d have to do something. Talking was certainly better than screaming... or crying. So, driving up the freeway, I told him the whole story. He didn’t say a word, but I felt his eyes on me the whole time. My explanation ended as I slowly maneuvered the curve right before the pier. The silvery-gray ocean lapped against the breakwater and looked as cold as a nightmare. As the pier drew closer, the fog thickened, making everything seem slower and quieter. Even the truck’s growl seemed to soften, its engine noises bouncing off air as thick as a feather mattress. In the Harbor Patrol office at the land end of the pier, a single office window shined bright yellow.

  “That is the wildest story I’ve ever heard,” Clay said. I parked the truck as close as possible to the fish market. Todd’s car was among the few that were parked in the lot; hearty souls apparently having a drink at the Blue Seal Inn. I took a deep breath, licked my salty lips and undid my seat belt. With a sharp click, so did Clay.

  “You can’t come with me,” I said. “Please, just wait here.”

  “I don’t think you should do this alone,” he said.

  “I’ll be okay. You know, it’s actually good you came. He may be too upset to drive, and this way I can take him to the police station ... or home, and you can drive his car. All of this is still just theory. They may not be able to prove anything. I’m not sure what evidence Gabe has.”

  “That’s his job,” Clay said. “Let him do it.”

  “I am. I just don’t want Todd to hear about his grandfather third-hand. He’s just a kid.”

  “Well, I’ll be here if you need me.�
� He leaned over and kissed my forehead. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  The air was pungent with a dank, brassy smell the ocean usually had only after an oil spill. As I walked across the damp wooden pier, listening to the bottoms of my Reeboks squeak, I pictured a tanker somewhere in the fog gushing oil onto the cold turquoise of the ocean floor. It reminded me of the Arizona and the members of the 442nd and all the young boys on both sides who never grew up, of the stupidity of war, of the futility of hatred. It reminded me of the blood pumping that minute in my heart, pumping rapidly out of excitement and sorrow and fear. The masts of docked sailboats were barely visible through the thick gray air. Off in the distance, a foghorn squalled a warning.

  The blue neon RESTAURANT-BAR sign shined cheerfully over the entrance of the Blue Seal Inn. Next to it, the fish market was closed up tight. I knocked on the metal door and tried to peer into the filmy window. All the fish-cutting tables and deep sinks were clean and bare. Giant metal fish hooks dangled empty from the ceiling. I walked around the back to the ocean side of the building. Sea gulls and plump brown pelicans huddled on the knee-high railing waiting for a handout, their chests expanding every few seconds like feathery balloons. The concrete platform next to the back door of the fish market was slick with water. I stepped in a deep puddle and water soaked my Reeboks. The back door was locked too. I stood for a moment, hands on hips, trying to figure out what to do next. Todd’s car was definitely here. Where was he? I looked up to the second floor of the wooden building. One of the small windows was lit. Those were probably the offices. I started toward the steep outside staircase, when the door at the top opened and Todd stepped onto the landing.

  “Todd,” I called out.

  He peered down into the fog. “Benni? What are you doing here?” In seconds, he was at the bottom of the stairs. He carried a box full of loose metal objects. Whatever it was rattled like silverware in a drawer.

  “I have something important I need to tell you about your grandfather. I’m sorry, but they—”