Incommunicado

by Randall Platt

  Mr. Kaye is fiddling with a dial.

  “Is that like a ham radio or something?” I ask.

  “Sort of. I’m trying to listen in, hear what they’re saying.”

  “Who? Why?”

  “Because civilian planes aren’t allowed in this airspace,” Mr. Kaye says.

  “They found us.” Mom points off in the distance. “Didn’t take them long.”

  “Who?” I ask again, thinking, we are going to get shot down!

  “Let’s not panic yet,” Mr. Kaye says. “Just stay on course. That plane off the left wing is probably reconnaissance. They may be just the Civilian Air Patrol.”

  Our plane takes a huge dive and I grab for the IV bottle.

  “Alice!” Mr. Kaye barks.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I don’t know who that idiot is, but it’s like he’s challenging us.”

  She soars way up then and I got to grab onto the bulkhead. I feel my stomach somewhere around my feet.

  I look into the cockpit and cripes! There’s the other airplane coming right at us! “Mom! What’s happening?”

  “Everyone wants to be a hero!” she shouts. “Hang on!”

  We take another dive and I think I got to puke. Mr. Kaye looks back at me. “Don’t worry. She knows what she’s doing. Come on, Alice. Put the pedal to the metal. You can outrun that old tin can.”

  “Well, we could play a nice game of tag if we had a full tank of gas, but . . .” She looks around. “All right. He’s in our wake. He’s backing away.” She catches my face. “Honey, you all right?”

  “I think I’m going to puke.”

  She looks back at me and you know, in her leather cap and all, she could pass for Amelia Earhart. She smiles and says, “Don’t you dare puke in my plane. How’s Rex doing?”

  “I don’t know. He’s asleep. The IV stuff is almost gone,” I say, looking at the bottle.

  Mom looks at Mr. Kaye and smiles. “Just like old times, huh?”

  CHAPTER 41

  “Do you think Portland Columbia is best? What about Swan Island? I can’t remember where Multnomah Hospital is in Portland. It’s been so long,” Mom says. “Pearson Field in Vancouver might be closer?”

  “Can’t you just use that radio to call someone?” I ask, going from Rex’s side to the cockpit bulkhead. “And won’t we need an ambulance once we get there?”

  Mr. Kaye and Mom look at each other. “She’s right, Alice. We need help once we land. We’re going to have to break radio silence to get an ambulance waiting for us.”

  He reaches for the handset. “Don’t,” Mom says. “Let’s think this over. We’re still about a half hour out.”

  “Alice, they’ll need that long to get an ambulance no matter where we land.”

  She glances back at Rex, then at me. “God only knows who’ll be waiting for us down there. That spotter reported us; you know he did. They run our numbers and you know who’s going to show up.”

  “So we’re in trouble either way. I’m calling for an ambulance.”

  “Uh oh, look who’s back, and he’s brought a few of his friends,” Mom says, looking around the plane. Mr. Kaye and I plaster our faces against the windows and sure enough, now there’s three planes trailing us. One on each side and one behind. “That sure didn’t take long.”

  “That’s not some civilian Great War retread,” Mr. Kaye says, looking at the plane to our left. “I see they’re sending in the big boys. DC-5.”

  “The United States Army Air Force. I’m honored,” Mom says. “This is going to look great when I write my memoir. Hopefully not in some prison cell,” she adds, sort of under her breath.

  The radio sputters on. “Twin Beech 34211, identify yourself. Over.”

  Mr. Kaye reaches for the hand piece. He pulls a card out of his jacket pocket and speaks into the piece. “Twin Beech 34211 here. Requesting ambulance at Portland Columbia. Over.”

  “Identify. Over.”

  “Requesting you contact,” and he reads from the card, “Special Agent Herman Boothby, FBI Portland office. Main 5 4545. Over.”

  “Identify yourself. Over.”

  Mr. Kaye looks over to Mom while he says, “Tell him Isao Kiramoto is turning himself in. Over.”

  “Who? Repeat. Over.”

  Mr. Kaye takes off his headset, cap, and sunglasses and shows his face to the pilot on our left.

  A long silence, then, “Stand by. Over.”

  Then a click.

  It’s a long time before the radio comes back on. Then, “Twin Beech 34211. Hello, Mr. Kaye. Herman Boothby patched in here. How was Canada? Over.”

  “I have terms,” Mr. Kaye says. “Alice Stokes is flying this plane. Her son is seriously ill. We need an ambulance to Multnomah County Hospital. We have surgeons on call for a punctured lung and request several units of O Negative blood. Over.”

  “I assume all this is in exchange for you? Over.”

  “Affirmative. Over.”

  “You know I have you anyway. Look around you. Over.”

  “Yes, Herman,” Mr. Kaye says, sort of laughing. “You have me anyway. One more thing. Over.”

  “You aren’t in much of a bargaining position, sir. Over.”

  “Mrs. Stokes and her children are held blameless. Over.”

  Mom and I look at each other.

  “Blameless covers a lot of territory, sir. Over.”

  “I put them up to everything. Are we clear? Over.”

  Another long pause on the other end. Then some static. Finally, “We’re clear. I’ll arrange the ambulance. Over.”

  “Thank you. And thanks for the escort,” Tommy says, looking around us. “Good to know I’m the only Jap up here. Over.”

  “Just doing my job, sir. Over. Out.”

  I hear a big sniff. “Mom, are you crying?” I ask, reaching for her.

  “Don’t be silly, Jewels. I’m flyin’ a darn airplane. Be quiet and let me alone. This takes concentration. Flyin’s one thing. Landin’s another.”

  Mr. Kaye says, “Don’t worry. You’d be amazed the landings your mother pulled off in her wild, unfettered youth.”

  “Well, that wild, unfettered youth was a long time ago,” Mom mutters. “Go back and buckle yourself in, Jewels. We’ll be landing in about twenty minutes.”

  I get into the seat and look down at Rex. His eyes are open and he’s looking around. “Hi,” I say. “Ol’ Malice Alice is going to land this thing.”

  “I heard.”

  “I don’t know if this is a dream or a nightmare,” I say, looking around the plane. “It can’t be real.”

  “It’s just a dream, Jewels. Pretty soon we’ll wake up and be in our cruddy old cabin, wondering how the heck we’re going to pay the grocery bill.”

  We fly in silence for a while. Just the steady hum of the airplane. I sort of like this. Except for that dip! I feel it in my ears, then in my stomach. There’s that shimmy like maybe the plane is shaking the sky from her wings. We dip down. Lower, lower, lower. I’m not breathing. I reach over and grab Rex’s hand. He grabs back. My eyes are closed and I’m hoping that St. Christopher under Rex’s pillow is pulling for us.

  Finally, bump! Screech! Bump a little up, bobble a bit down.

  “Alice! Pull back!” Mr. Kaye hollers. “Easy on that wing!”

  One more bump and squeal and I can tell our wheels are on the runway and we are slowing down. Rex and me lock eyeballs. His weak smile tells me she did it—Mom did it. I see Mr. Kaye grin at Mom as he says, “And the great Alice of the Air does it again.”

  “Alice of the Air?” I ask.

  But I will have to wait for the answer because right now, in front of us, a man on the ground with flags is signaling Mom where to go. Our three escort planes are landing one, two, three behind us. We go toward some huge hangars. One of the doors is open and there, inside, is an ambulance. I see three policemen on motorcycles along with some other black cars parked nearby. And there, standing out larger than life, is Herman Boothby, Special Agent in
Charge.

  • • •

  “Multnomah!” Mom shouts at the ambulance driver as Rex is loaded into the back. Mom climbs in after and off they shoot with two motorcycle policemen in front. They all leave me standing here and I don’t even know where here is!

  I look around for Mr. Kaye, who is being loaded into one of the big black cars. We don’t even get to say goodbye or anything. Will I ever see him again?

  “What about me?” I whisper.

  “Need a lift?”

  I whirl around and have to admit I’m glad I see a familiar face, even if it is from the FBI.

  I’m scared, worried, and feel like I need to puke, but I’m determined that Agent Boothby will not see me cry.

  “Come on,” he says. “I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

  He opens the car door for me and we get our own motorcycle escort. It’s kind of exciting, seeing other cars having to screech on the brakes just to let us through the streets. This is the fastest I’ve ever gone on land. It’s like my whole life has gone into super-speed in one day.

  I look over at Agent Boothby and try not to grin at how funny he looks with his knees nearly to the dashboard on either side of the steering wheel.

  I got to get this said before we get to the hospital, though. “Um, I got to tell you something.”

  “A confession?” he asks. His big face holds a big smile.

  “Sort of.”

  “Careful, Jewels. Everything you say can and will be held against you.”

  “For real?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twelve.” I wonder what age they start sending little girls to the big girls’ lock up.

  “So, what’s your big confession? Don’t worry. It’ll be off the record.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “That means you’re just a kid in the middle of something you don’t know much about but with people you care for a lot. And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I have kids, too. So go ahead, say what you want. I’m not taking any notes.”

  I look out the window and wonder where to begin. “It was all my idea.”

  “What was your idea?”

  “Hiding Mr. Kaye. I made him do it.”

  “You hid him? Where?”

  “In the basement of the Catholic church.” I look down at my hands and mutter, “Mom, Rex, and Father Donlevy had nothing to do with it. It was just me.”

  “Mr. Kaye said it was all his doing,” he says.

  “Well, he’s lying. It was me—just me thinking sanctuary.”

  He sort of nods his head like he’s putting it all together. “Sanctuary, huh?”

  “Like in that Hunchback of Notre Dame movie. Anyway, it was all my idea. No one else had anything to do with it. Not even Mr. Kaye, and I’ll sign or say anything to help him.”

  He smiles, nods, and says, “Sanctuary. Clever.”

  “Yeah, except there’s no sanctuary anymore.”

  “Nope, I guess not.”

  “Am I going to jail?”

  He shakes his head, keeping a smile on his face and his eyes on the road ahead. “Here we are,” he says. The siren buzzes down and we pull into a parking lot acrost from the hospital.

  “What about Mr. Kaye? What’s going to happen to him?”

  “That’s not for me to decide.”

  “Who’s to decide?”

  “The United States Attorney General.” That sounds pretty darn serious—an attorney and a general to boot. Then Agent Boothby adds, kindly, “Come on. Let’s get you inside and see how your brother is.”

  Mom pulls me to her for a hug the minute she sees us enter the waiting room. “Thank you for bringin’ her, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Boothby,” I remind her. “Where’s Rex?”

  “They had two doctors waitin’ and rushed him right in through those doors. They’re goin’ to operate.”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Stokes,” Agent Boothby says, his long fingers fiddling with the brim of his hat. “He’s in good hands. Come on, let’s sit down.” He indicates some chairs.

  “I’m just relieved there are any doctors left,” Mom says, pulling a hankie out of her bag. “I don’t mind rationing food and gasoline, but I’ll be darned if I am going to ration my son’s life!”

  “I don’t blame you for being angry. A lot has changed, hasn’t it?” he says.

  She sinks into a chair and starts to cry. I cannot tell you the last time I saw Alice Stokes cry like this. I mean, head in hands, out-and-out bawl. I sit next to her and put a hand on her leg, and Agent Boothby folds himself into a chair nearby. He seems sort of awkward, being so big and in such a small chair and with Mom crying and all, but there he sits, waiting with us.

  Just waiting. It’s hard to be so still, so quiet, after what we’ve been through. Agent Boothby brings us lunch from the café acrost the street and gets Mom cigarettes. I get a comic book. He lights her cigarettes, smiles kindly at me, makes sure we have coffee. One, two, three—it’s been almost four hours now.

  “I don’t know how we’re goin’ to pay for all this,” Mom says to me.

  I’m seeing those Japanese books stuffed with money sitting in the basement of St. Bart’s, waiting for me to flap them free of cash. But Agent Boothby probably doesn’t need to know that so I just squeeze Mom’s hand and say, “Mr. Kaye wouldn’t want you to worry, Mom.”

  Her head comes up. “Oh, Tommy . . .” She looks around the room like maybe she’s trying to find him. Her eyes land on Agent Boothby. “What’s going to happen to him?”

  He gives a big sigh. “It’s all going to be very complicated. We put quite a premium on a man with his, shall we say, his ‘qualifications’?”

  “What’s that mean?” I ask, grateful at least he doesn’t say anything about a jail cell and throwing away the key.

  “That means Mr. Kaye is a very valuable man.”

  I look toward the emergency room doors where somewhere beyond my brother is on an operating table, his chest wide open.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I already knew that.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Rex is still in surgery. It’s been more than five hours now. Mom and Agent Boothby are down the hall, getting an update. How long can it take to fix a few ribs? A janitor comes by and pulls all the blackout curtains together and that leaves just those florescent lights overhead, making this place look even scarier and colder than it already feels.

  “Well?” I ask as Mom comes back into the waiting room.

  “They had to get a specialist from another hospital,” she says. She’s looking so tired, so worn. I wisht there was something I could do. Was it just this morning we were home in Sea Park?

  Agent Boothby looks at his watch. He’s looking tired, too. “I’m afraid I have to leave, Mrs. Stokes.”

  Mom looks up. “Of course. It’s late. Your wife must be worried.”

  He smiles and says, fingering his hat again, “No, she’s passed on. My kids, though. Well, you know about kids when left alone too long.” He winks down at me.

  “You’ve been very kind,” Mom says.

  “I’ve made arrangements for you and Jewels at the Hillside Motor Court. It’s just down the road. Nothing fancy, but clean and within walking distance.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Well,” he says, “I know what it’s like to sit and wait in a place like this.”

  He says good evening, puts on his hat, and it’s like he’s a giant shadow as he walks down the darkened hall and disappears around the corner.

  Mom looks after him. “I guess you never know about a man until there’s an emergency,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “And I thought he was going to arrest me.”

  She takes my hand.

  • • •

  “Mrs. Stokes?”

  I pop awake.

  “Yes?” Mom says, rising to meet the nurse, a hospital blanket dropping from her shoulders.

  “Your son is i
n a special care unit right now.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s very normal after surgeries like this. He’s had a hard time. Don’t worry. We think he’s going to recover.”

  “Fully?” Mom asks.

  “That’s hard to say. But he’s out of the woods now.”

  “When can I see him?”

  “We’ll come get you when we move him to his own room. Let’s give it another hour.”

  Poor Mom is this close to melting into a puddle of tears. “Thank you,” she says. And as soon as we lock eyes, talk about melting! It’s funny, I never remember us crying together. One or the other, yes, but never both at the same time, especially while hugging. Us Stokes don’t get good news very often, but when it comes, well . . .

  “Come on, honey, let’s get us some fresh air.”

  The hospital is on a hill overlooking the Willamette River. But here, in the total darkness, you’d never know there’s a city as big as Portland out there somewhere.

  “Kind of spooky, isn’t it?” I say.

  “It all is.”

  “Mom? Are you going to tell me?”

  “About what?”

  “About how it is you and Mr. Kaye, I mean, the flying and the airplane and everything?”

  “Well, I was going to wait until you kids were older.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not exactly proud of some of my past.”

  “But being a pilot, Mom, that’s something to be proud of!” I say. “I mean, a man pilot is pretty cool, but a woman pilot? You’re like Amelia Earhart, only not lost.”

  “Back in the day, maybe I could have been like her. There’s lots I could have been.” She looks to the sky and sighs. “There was a lot of money to be made during Prohibition.”

  “What’s that got to do with—”

  “Well, I met your father and fell in love. I think I broke Tommy’s heart. But, really, he’s Japanese and I’m white and, well, you know . . . it isn’t . . .”

  “But what’s my father got to do with Prohibition?”

  “Well, for a very short period of time, the four of us— your father, Tommy Kaye, Edna Glick, and me—well, we were very successful in the trades.”

  “What trades?”

  She looks at me and gives me her goofy smile, the one I haven’t seen in ages. “The rum trades.”