“I’m so sorry,” he muttered.
“Oh, what’s going to happen?” Sophie asked the question that she knew neither of them could answer.
“No one knows,” he whispered. “No one knows where this will lead.”
And for a brief moment, he wondered if they were speaking of the war at all, or perhaps speaking of themselves?
“It’s already led to war!” Sophie spoke the last word with a shudder.
Mr. Oto let out a silent breath. For Sophie, theirs was only a friendship. For him, much more. But he must remain silent. So he quickly reminded himself that, at least, she still thought of him as her friend—despite Pearl Harbor.
“Yes, war again!” Sophie added.
The wound her words brought to him went very deep, and almost all the pain he felt was her pain. And another pain, as well—knowing that the leaders of his father’s own country were responsible for this, her very visible grief.
And what can they be thinking, those leaders?
She spoke again, so suddenly that he was unprepared. “He was much taller than you,” she said. “And I was very young and maybe even a little bit pretty. And he never came back.”
“Who?” Mr. Oto whispered the word.
But she had turned away from him and was staring at the river, at the deep, black, ever-moving water. So that he stood silently, gazing at the plane of her back and with his hands hanging large and helpless by his sides. But the urge he felt to comfort her was as unyielding as the certain surge of the river sliding past the banks, and as if in a dream, he moved toward her, both afraid of her strange grief and yet compelled to share it with her.
He stood directly behind her at last, with his hands coming up to touch her shoulders. But before he could do that, she turned to face him again, and she seemed not the least bit surprised to find him standing so close to her.
“Henry,” she said. “I lost him in the war. World War One.”
At first, he could say nothing. Nothing that he knew would help her. Then, “That is a very, very painful thing,” he said. “I know, because I, too, lost someone.” He heard his own voice, but until he heard the words, he didn’t know what they would be.
“In the war?’’
“No. Not in any war. But a loss nonetheless.’’
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sophie said.
“I lost the young woman who would have been my wife.’’
“And I lost the one who would have been... my husband,” Sophie said, though her voice belied a complete conviction in the words. “The one I believe would have been my husband,” she amended.
“Oh, he would have been,” Mr. Oto said. “I’m sure of it.”
His quiet pronouncement took her by surprise. But instantly, she knew that he was right. That’s exactly what would have happened.
Yes. He would have been my husband.
It was so sweet a thought that when she looked again into Mr. Oto’s deep eyes, she almost expected them to be Henry’s eyes. Sparkling and blue and with silent laughter in them. But the eyes that looked back at her were the color of the black river. And just as fathomless.
“How did you lose her?” Sophie, too, did not know what the words would be until she heard them.
“She was from... my father’s homeland,” Mr. Oto said. “And she died of a fever on the ship, coming to this country. To marry me.’’ He did not add, And even in the midst of this madness of war, there could have been meaning to my life, because of her. But now, it is not her face I see. But yours.
They never did get around to painting that day, but sat by the river together well into the early afternoon, sometimes speaking, but mostly just watching the river. A man and a woman who, at last, had shared their griefs and who were closer for the sharing. And two memories—one a tall young man with blazing blue eyes and unruly hair the color of the sawgrass. The other a doll-size young woman wearing a richly embroidered red kimono.
When at last Sophie sighed, stood up, and brushed the grass from her skirt, he felt that he would die on the spot. But he was careful not to let his face show his agony.
“Promise me you will be careful,” Sophie said, looking full into his eyes.
“I will be careful,” he promised, bowing.
“And promise me that you’ll come next Sunday,” she added.
He hesitated for a moment, and then he said, “I will come, if I am able.” And he did not add, But I will not be able, for I will be protecting Miss Anne and you—my dear Sophie—in the only way I am able—by going far away.
And the unspoken words tightened his throat.
Sophie nearly reached out to take his hand—not by design, but only because it seemed to be such a natural thing to do. But at the same instant, she shunned the impulse.
Mutely, Mr. Oto noticed the slight movement of her hand toward him and its immediate retreat. And he found it to be a completely endearing gesture that almost tore a sob from him.
He knew that their last Sunday together would be a memory for him to carry in his heart for the rest of his life. It glowed from his chest and radiated upward to his eyes, so that all of the colors of the river and the trees and the sky seemed more brilliant than he had ever seen them before.
And her face in the center of all the colors. Her glorious, beautiful, wounded face!
So that when she turned and left, he watched her openly, watched as she turned and lifted a hand toward him before she disappeared.
He stayed by the river for a long time, and when at last he started to return to Miss Anne’s house, he took a long and careful route, so that he would not be seen by any of the townspeople.
Sophie!
When Mr. Oto returned to his gardener’s cottage that day, there was a sheet of paper in the seat of his chair. It had words scrawled on it: GO AWAY, DIRTY JAP!
Shaking, he tore up the paper; then he bathed thoroughly and dressed in his best clothes, before he walked across the garden toward Miss Anne’s back door.
Chapter Fourteen
When Mr. Oto came up on the back porch, he noticed the gallon-size cans of begonias that he was to plant, and at the same time, he heard Miss Anne on the phone in her hallway.
“Of course he’s Chinese,” she was saying. “You don’t think I would have him on my place if I thought he was one of them, do you? One of those Japs?”
In what was almost a dreamlike state, Mr. Oto stood on Miss Anne’s porch, stunned and angered at the same time. Could this, then, be what the crane had come for? To remind him of his heritage? To warn him to protect Miss Anne?
“Yes, well I’ll talk with you tomorrow,” Miss Anne was saying into the receiver, and when he heard her hang up, he swallowed hard and knocked on the screen door.
When Miss Anne appeared, he could see most clearly the remnants of the overheard conversation still on her face. For even his dear Miss Anne looked at him differently than she had before Pearl Harbor. And now, knowing what he had to tell her—what he respected her far too much to withhold from her any longer—he felt his heart throbbing ominously beneath the clean shirt.
“You startled me!” Miss Anne said from the other side of the screen. “And where have you been, anyway? I told you to stay out of sight, and you’ve been gone somewhere almost all day long!”
“I know. I am sorry.” Then he added, “Please, may I come in and speak with you?” He phrased his honest question so that, as he intended, she would be reminded of the full authority she had over whether or not he would be allowed to enter her house. Because, after all, everything was different now.
“Yes, come in,” she said, after some hesitation. “I’m sorry. I have something on my mind.’’
‘‘I know,’’ he said as he entered the kitchen. He remained standing beside the sink while Miss Anne pulled out a chair from the table and sat down. Clearly preoccupied, she made no gesture for him to be seated.
“What is it you need to talk about?” she asked.
Now, it was his turn to hesitate.
“I know that people are being critical of you for letting me stay here,” he said.
Miss Anne looked up at him, surprised that he knew. “What I do is none of their business,” she snapped, arguing more with herself than stating a fact.
“But I have deceived you,” he said simply, and at his words, Miss Anne stood, facing him squarely and with startled eyes.
“Exactly how have you deceived me, Mr. Oto?” Her voice was low and there was a faint glitter of something like fear in her eyes. Dear God, she was thinking, Do I know this man? Do I really know him?
“My family...” he began, “My family is not from China, as I have allowed you to believe.’’
“Where are they from?’’
“They are all in California, as I told you. But my father—long ago—came to this country from Japan.’’
“You’re Japanese?” her eyebrows shot up in alarm.
“No, Miss Anne,” he said in a soothing tone. “I am American. I was born in this country.’’
“But your people came from Japan?’’
“My father came from Japan. That is true.’’
‘‘Then why did you go on letting everyone think you were Chinese?”
“I never said that, Miss Anne.” His tone was only slightly defensive.
“But I did, and you didn’t bother to correct me,” she argued.
“I apologize for that,” Mr. Oto said simply. “I didn’t want to talk about my past, as that may have led to more questions than I was prepared to answer.” And before he could stop himself, he bowed.
“Stop that!” Miss Anne spoke to him in a tone she had never used with him before. “I can’t believe it!” she muttered, and sank back into the chair. “You... Japanese! One of them!’’
“No, Miss Anne,” he persisted. “I am American. I am just as American as you are.”
At that, he drew her full rage. “As American as I am?” she sputtered. “I’ll have you know that I am a member of the DAR!” But his puzzled expression told her that he didn’t know what that meant.
“The Daughters of the American Revolution.” She released the words like cannonballs. “That means that I am descended from a true patriot who fought for the independence of this country. Fought against England for it.’’
“That is very honorable, Miss Anne,” he said.
“Are you making fun of me?” she shot back at him.
“No, Miss Anne,” Mr. Oto protested quickly. “I meant only the greatest respect for you and for your ancestor. I have never spoken to you with anything but respect, and respect is all I mean now.’’
She studied him for a long moment. “That’s true, what you say,” she finally conceded. “You have never spoken to me except with respect.’’
“I am the same man now,” he said carefully, “as I was before Pearl Harbor.’’
“But you are Japanese?” she questioned.
“No, Miss Anne,” he answered in the same gentle voice. “American.’’
“What about your father?’’
“My father is my father,” he said simply. “I do not know anything about war.
And I do not know anything about politics. I know only about flowers. And about friends.’’
“This is terrible,” Miss Anne said, as if she were speaking only to herself. Then she looked at him intently. “What will happen if people find out?’
“I know that some already suspect it, and I am very afraid—for you.’’
“Afraid for me?” she asked incredulously. “Why on earth would you be afraid for me?”
“People in the town will blame you. There are some who think I am not Chinese, and they will not stop until they cause trouble more for you than for me. I can always go away to another place. But you must live here.” And, he was thinking, Sophie must live here also. And he must not hurt her, no matter what the cost to himself.
“I must go away,” he said. “Back to my family. And I must go now, before I cause trouble for you.’’
“No!’’ Miss Anne’s voice was emphatic. Still, she recognized some wisdom in what Mr. Oto said. For after all, she would, indeed, be severely ostracized... perhaps even called a traitor—Dear Lord —for harboring a Japanese, even if he was an American.
“Please do not worry,” Mr. Oto said. “I will find a way to get there.’’
Long minutes of silence then, with Miss Anne looking at Mr. Oto while he gazed at his shoes. Maybe it would be better to do as he had done before—get on a bus and go away. To protect Miss Anne. Then she could honestly say that he was gone.
But would taking a bus still be possible? Only two years ago, people merely regarded him with a mild interest. Now, he would attract deep suspicion and maybe even open hatred. For although he was an American, his face and his body bore the image of the Enemy.
Miss Anne’s voice interrupted his thinking. “You can’t go away,” she said simply. “I can’t bear not knowing what has happened to you.” Then she paused and cleared her throat. “And besides, you’d attract too much attention. We’ll have to hide you, that’s what we’ll do. Tell everyone you’ve gone far away... Canada, maybe. Yes. Tell them you have family in Canada, and you are Chinese. That will do it. For both of us,” she added. “That way, I can say you’re gone—and it will be the truth.’’
Mr. Oto knew instantly that she was right. It was the only way to save them both, but especially to save her. For if he were arrested, word could somehow get back to Salty Creek, and Miss Anne would be called an enemy sympathizer, even if no one had found the letter he wrote to his father.
Miss Anne was right. Hiding was the only answer for them. But where?
“You know, I may just have an answer,” Miss Anne said, as if she had looked into his mind and seen the question. “Long years ago, my papa had a fishing cabin about three miles below the salt marsh. It’s way back in the brush, and I own the property, so I know no one’s been using it. That would be a place where we could hide you and no one would ever know. We’ll have to be careful, of course.’’
‘‘We.’’ Mr. Oto whispered the word.
“We,” Miss Anne said emphatically.
Miss Anne had been struck with two simple statements he had made to her: first and foremost, that he was an American; and, too, that he was the same man that day as he had been for the two years he had lived in her gardener’s cottage and worked for her.
So that settled it, as far as she was concerned, and she stood up. “You go gather your things, and I’ll put some canned goods and bottles of drinking water in a box—there isn’t any fresh water down there. We’ll leave before dawn, so no one will see us go. And...’’—Miss Anne was clearly rising almost happily to the challenge of the task before her—“I’ll drive on over to Brunswick right after I drop you off at Papa’s cabin. That way, when people ask, I can tell them that I took you over there to catch a more direct bus to Canada.”
“If anyone asks,” Mr. Oto added, “tell them you made me leave because I was a Jap.” His tongue almost faltered on the word. “That will help to protect you, and you and I will know the truth.”
Chapter Fifteen
Miss Anne said:
I wondered what on earth the world was coming to, when a good, solid American man like my Mr. Oto had to be hidden away like a criminal. But on the other hand, his father certainly was Japanese, no getting away from that!
I watched him walk away, out onto my back porch, and I saw him glance at the begonias waiting to be planted. He looked at them for a long time before he went on down the steps and across the back garden.
Put an awful catch in my throat, that did!
And maybe that’s when I realized just how many Americans had been so deeply hurt by that Sunday that would “live in infamy.” All those fine young men killed, without any warning! And all those other Americans—like dear Mr. Oto—suffering, too.
And me! Yes, me suffering as well.
Why, I always thought that as they got older, ladies were supposed to ha
ve peace, at least. But my peaceful days were already over, even though I didn’t know it.
So that Sunday evening, only a week to the day after Pearl Harbor, I went about gathering all the things Mr. Oto would need to take with him, and I felt almost like a spy, myself!
And what about the lie I was going to have to tell, once somebody—anybody—asked me about where Mr. Oto had gone off to?
Why, I’d never told a lie in my whole life! At least, not really. Only little white lies to keep from hurting folks’ feelings. Like the time Ruth brought back that ridiculous, ugly hat from her shopping trip to Brunswick and wore it all the time. When nobody said anything about it—trying to be polite, you see—she got to where she’d come right out and ask!
“Why, I think it’s... fine!” I said, when Ruth nailed me about it.
That kind of little white lie. Sure were lots of us had to do that about Ruth’s hat.
But an out-and-out, bald-faced lie?
Never!
At least, never before.
Chapter Sixteen
That night, Mr. Oto never went to sleep at all, but he gathered his few items of clothing—most of them still filled with the crisp aroma of sunshine from hanging on the clothesline, carefully rolled up the watercolor portrait of Sophie as the Crane-Wife, and placed it safely in the small suitcase the doctor’s wife had sent with him when he first came to live in the cottage.
Afterward, he sat on the cot and tried to imagine exactly what the hour was by the movement of the ghostly finger of silver moonlight across his floor. At around two in the morning, he heard the back gate to the garden squeak ever so slightly, and before Miss Anne could even knock on his door, he was up and ready to leave.
They tiptoed back across the garden together, and he realized then that perhaps he would not work with the flowers again. How sad to be sneaking away like a thief in the night and leaving the plants he had tended so lovingly. And leaving Sophie. Leaving her to the silent might-have-beens.
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