She scrubbed in the hard, cool water. Think positive, Wanda; maybe Mr Omi will write today and say you’ve been accepted on the camp paper. The idea was enough to carry her through the rest of the laundry.
Walking down the gravelled path through camp, she could see the post office was crowded. She should come back later. It would be considerate since this was her day off and most of these people wouldn’t have another chance to check. But she couldn’t restrain herself. As she continued, a rock skipped into her sandal and lodged between her toes, slicing the tender web of skin.
Wanda knew she couldn’t count on the mail. But it had become a kind of addiction. The promise of mail often hit her during a particularly tough time with Mama or on a very tedious typing job. Maybe there would be a letter, an escape. Maybe she would hear from Stockton Street. And then she grew fixed on the delivery truck’s arrival at 11.00. If she were at the office, she would stare out the window, sometimes contriving an excuse to step outside and crane her neck. Often she felt as if she had powered that truck all the way from town. Just seeing it lightened her morning. So by the end of lunch, it was impossible to keep away, even on days like today when it would be more sensible — and courteous — to check the mail later in the afternoon.
The line was orderly and quiet. Several people had brought books to read. Roy stood two people ahead of her. She wanted him to turn around. But it would be rude to reach past Mrs Nakashima and Mr Hata. Besides, she liked watching him when he wasn’t aware of her. She admired the broad, straight back. The dark, rich, shiny hair. The glint of gold from his spectacles around his ears. The nervous thumb tapping on his thigh. He would be late for work if this line didn’t speed up. Howard was probably already back on the construction site. Her brother would never be so impractical as to wait for mail in the lunch hour even if he couldn’t count on his sister’s compulsion to check the family file every day. Wanda considered how she liked Roy’s impractical side. But who was he writing to? His room-mates at Berkeley? Did men get as attached to their friends as women did? Of course, why not? Roy had all sorts of close buddies. Including girls. Was he waiting for a letter from one of those pretty blond sorority sisters Howard had teased him about? Wanda distracted herself, checking her wallet for stamp money, recalling with irritation that she had forgotten to bring the Sears catalogue bill. Sometimes that thing lay around the table for weeks. Mama refused to order herself a new nightgown because she felt confined by the meager selection. Everyone else would be wearing the same thing, she complained. Who would know? Wanda had asked, but Mother just sniffed and fell silent. Wanda made a note to order her another nightie before this one went to shreds.
‘Waiting for something special?’
Roy beamed down at her, a packet of letters and a parcel under his arm. He did look strangely cheerful for this time in a sweltering day with four hours of heavy labor ahead.
‘No, nothing special,’ she murmured, regretting the boring reply immediately and imagining how Moira would play coy. ‘Maybe a letter from one of my room-mates. And you?’
‘Ha. The guys at college never write. My little sister’s the one who gets mail in our family.’ He showed Wanda the letters. ‘She hears from four or five pen pals every week.’
‘Yes.’ Wanda answered stupidly, still wondering at the source of his pleasure. The package might be a care parcel from Miss College Coed. She didn’t expect to know all his comings and goings even if they were engaged. She wasn’t jealous, she told herself, only curious. There was a difference. ‘So what have you got there? Did you win the Cream O’ Wheat jingle contest?’
‘Nothing that exciting.’ He blushed. ‘Just a photography book. I ordered it months — maybe a year — ago, but what with our — social mobility — it didn’t catch up with me till now.’
‘Oh,’ she said, not wanting to appear reassured. ‘It’s great that you’re still studying. I don’t know if I’d have the discipline.’ Of course she did keep her diary, but that didn’t seem like real writing. And she’d only managed to write one article — albeit over and over again — in six months. She noticed the last shades of red in his cheeks and felt grateful for his shyness. Sometimes she imagined him as virtuous, stalwart, rigorous — completely out of reach.
‘Don’t know about discipline.’ He smoothed back his hair. ‘I like the stuff. I miss it. I mean all this camp exercise may be invigorating, but …’
‘Maybe you could lend it to me when you’re finished? Are these from Africa?’
‘No, Dorothea Lange, you know those photos. You told me about them. And I thought we might look at them together some night this week.’
‘Yes,’ she said, confused that she could be so flustered. Sunstroke, yes, it was getting to her. ‘I …’
‘Next,’ called the clerk. Wanda could feel the eyes of a dozen impatient people. ‘Yes, maybe tomorrow,’ she said to Roy quickly. ‘See you later.’
‘Nakatani.’ The woman thumbed through her file.
Wanda was surprised that the brusque Caucasian clerk recognized her. Yesterday she had heard one of the whites telling another, ‘They all look alike.’
She spotted Teddy’s spidery scrawl. And two letters for Betty, who, like Roy’s sister, had cultivated pen pals through a Quaker group. Wanda questioned this practice — it made the camp seem like an exotic outpost. She reminded herself the kids had little enough pleasure. It couldn’t be a bad thing to make genuine communication with other people. She walked to the door, checking through the letters. Another Sears, Roebuck bill. Boy, they kept track of their customers. And a baseball catalogue for Howard. Nothing from Mr Omi about her newspaper job.
Since there was no mail for Mama, Wanda stopped by the canteen to buy her some Lifesavers. And since the canteen was right next to Mr Omi’s office, she decided to drop by and ask when she could expect a decision about the job.
Mr Omi sat at the far end of a long office, his back to the door and his head bent beneath a brass lamp which illuminated his crowded desk. He hardly needed the light at this hour, Wanda thought, and wondered if this was one of his ways of protesting the government budget restrictions. Mr Omi, an older Nisei, was a complicated man. Intense, smart, very practical. He frightened her a little with his cool reason. Perhaps this wasn’t the right time. Perhaps she should just be patient. Wanda started to turn and dropped Howard’s catalogue on the floor.
‘What’s that?’ Mr Omi was startled. ‘Oh, Wanda. Come in. I was just thinking about you.’
‘You were?’ She picked up the catalogue and struggled to hold all the mail in her arms while looking like a competent journalist. ‘I mean, yes sir, I was in the neighborhood and thought I would check to see if …’
‘Yes, yes.’ He sounded more awake now. ‘Sit here young lady and let’s talk about this job.’
Wanda tried to relax, pretended she were Teddy, who would know the most sensible way to behave in a situation like this.
‘You had excellent writing samples. And congratulations on getting your article into American Mind.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She felt better now; she could feel her body cooling down.
‘And you can type splendidly.’
Wanda nodded, listening to his tone. She imagined him a doctor advising, Yes, it’s a healthy baby, with just one or two birth defects. ‘But,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘Women’s intuition. Yes, but. It’s an embarrassment of riches. We had four people apply for that paid position. The decision came down to John Takata or you.’
‘And John won.’ Her eyes were fixed on the Sears bill.
‘That’s about the size of it.’ He shook his head sympathetically. ‘You see, as a young man, he’s more likely to use the experience when he gets out in the world.’
Wanda couldn’t help the tears. She kept her eyes down so Mr Omi wouldn’t notice.
‘And a pretty girl like you, already engaged as I u
nderstand, will be raising a family soon.’
‘It’s not fair,’ she heard herself protest.
‘Fair?’ Mr Omi looked more closely. ‘No, I suppose not, Wanda.’ He stared out his window toward the sentry tower. ‘No one said life was “fair”. The choice, shall we say, was practical.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Wanda blinked back the tears. She tried to remember Mr Omi’s kindness after Papa’s death. He was an old family friend. He liked her.
‘So you’ll apply for that position at the school?’
‘Yes, that seems most likely.’ She couldn’t chase the bitterness from her voice. Oh, she wished she were going home to the girls tonight.
‘You’ll be good at that, Wanda. You have a natural talent with people, like your father.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She stood. ‘I’ll let you get back to work now.’
‘Give my regards to your mother.’
‘Yes, thank you. Good-bye Mr Omi.’
It was 4 p.m. before she got home, finished her chores and had a chance to read Teddy’s letter. The promise of this letter had carried her through the afternoon. Now if Mama would only continue napping until Betty got home. Betty would be excited by her mail too. It pleased Wanda how like her sister she was. In a time when difference meant social hardship, similarity was reassuring. It would be fun to share their letters when Betty got home. Had Betty come to think of this horrible place as home? Well, she wasn’t blind. She could see the barbed wire. She could see the guns. Sometimes it was the hypocrisy of camp that oppressed Wanda as much as the restrictions — the pretense of leading a normal American life in this abandoned crater.
Tea prepared, Wanda sank down at the kitchen table, which Howard had contrived from spare lumber. Luckily they had been given some old chairs by a committee at the nearby Hopi reservation. She put her feet up and pulled out Teddy’s letter.
Dear Wanda,
How are you? I hope the heat has calmed down. We’re moving through Indian summer now — temperatures pretty high outside. But inside the house we’re all doing OK.
Ann is really enjoying the scholarship. She impressed her professor so much that she’s skipped a class. Real brain. Still, I fret about her. She’s been awfully caught up with her mother who, sadly, isn’t any better. Ann seems to think Mama’s waiting for her daughter to rescue her. I go to the hospital with Ann every couple of weeks and, believe me, it’s enough to chill your heart. I reckon the important thing is that Ann loves this book work. She and Moira joke in Church Latin over supper. I don’t follow, but this is better than the bickering.
Wanda shook her head. She had to talk Teddy out of her constant self-effacement. Of all the girls, Teddy possessed the most common sense. She just didn’t credit that as intelligence.
Moira is also a little happier, although I don’t count on it lasting. She ran into a pal of Randy’s at a party who said Randy was missing her a lot. Who knows? I’m sure I was never fair to the fellow, but I can’t help thinking Moira is better off without him. She’s doing great stuff at the shipyard. Won some kind of morale-booster award. She has a couple of new friends. One of them — Vivian — has been over to the house a couple of times. A livewire. Hep, I guess. A lot of fun, anyway.
We’re still pulling cucumbers in from the garden. It’s been a great salad season, but then I guess I shouldn’t mention it since you’ve been getting such lousy rations. Let us know if you need anything new in the next parcel.
Wanda was still embarrassed by the parcels. Not that she was too proud for welfare. No, she was over that. With the tight supplies here at camp, they all hoped for shipments from outside friends. And it wasn’t as if she had asked for a ticket to this desert wonderland. But she worried about Teddy, Moira and Ann doing it so often. They didn’t make much money. They all had family obligations too.
Now, no objections. I can just hear your worrying. We all love to do this. Like Christmas. Anyway, Moira found some of that chili for Howard. Is there anything special your mother wants? How’s she doing anyway?
I got a letter from Angela yesterday. She loves the flying lessons. It sounds pretty exciting. The WAFs still say all her work will be in the US, that it’s too dangerous for women to fly across the ocean. Baloney, but I’m glad she’s staying Stateside.
I’ve been thinking a lot about how dumb it is for me to be typing sales reports while there’s a war going on. And as much as I’d like to go off flying like Angela, I kind of think I’m needed here with my family (Pop is having a tough time with the drink again) and with Stockton Street. But I got to talking with this woman, Dawn. Have I mentioned her before? She suggested that I ask to help with the War Bonds Campaign — The Emporium has a booth on the street floor now, did you know that? Anyway, they said yes, so that’s what I do part-time — sit on the street floor with those forms. Plan a bulletin board. I even got interviewed by two reporters from the Examiner last week. What a lark.
Otherwise, nothing much is happening. Dawn and her friend Sandra, who works in the Martinez shipyard, took me to Baker Beach Sunday. That was fun — like being a kid — at least the sand was familiar from my girlhood. Sometimes it is possible to forget about the war. For us, here, anyway. I’m sure it’s not true for you …
Wanda wondered about that. She sometimes forgot this place was an internment camp and imagined it as hell. When the sewage stench got ripe and the crowds of people blocked out any shred of privacy, she was sure she was inside one of Moira’s Catholic torture legends. At other times, walking with Roy on a rare, cool evening, she imagined Lion’s Head as a Japanese ranch. But usually the war was hard to forget. She remembered Mr Omi’s shrug when she called him unfair. She was beginning to realize how much she had wanted that silly job on the camp newspaper. Well, what could she do? She glanced around at the makeshift table and the skimpy decorations and Mama sleeping fitfully on the cot against the wall. Wanda closed her eyes in exhaustion.
‘Hi, Wanda.’ A greeting from the doorway. High-pitched, precise. She resisted the voice, resisted identification. This was her day off.
‘Anybody home?’
‘Shhh, you’ll wake Mama.’ Wanda opened one eye.
Betty was standing by the door, hands on her tiny hips, eight years old and already the châtelaine. Betty was a pretty child, taller than Wanda had been at her age, and more outspoken. Wanda found herself staring at the girl’s short, straight black hair. Mama didn’t bother with all the falderal she had done to Wanda’s hair as a child. Betty seemed grateful for this; she said she liked to feel the wind on her head.
‘No, I won’t.’ Betty hesitated, with amusement or confusion, Wanda couldn’t tell. For of course she was correct. Mama could sleep through their voices during the day. Only the dark silence robbed her of sleep. Mama was generally quiet in her suffering. But in the middle of the night, Wanda could hear her groaning and rolling over and over.
Stretching her arms back now, Wanda yawned. ‘How was your day, old pal?’
Betty smiled, sat down, her hands clasped around her knees. ‘Mr Sasaki is going to start giving piano lessons. And he said I could do it, if Mama approves.’
‘Piano.’ Wanda felt a twinge. She had always wanted to learn piano when she was little. But Papa said there wasn’t enough money yet. And besides, Mama reminded her, they could never fit one of those big horses into the house.
‘Yes, you know that instrument with the black and white teeth that makes music.’
Wanda regarded Betty closely. This was one of those horrible moments when she felt like Betty’s mother. Wanda didn’t enjoy the responsibility of knowing more, of having to restrain her feelings. Yes, she was jealous of Betty. Jealous of her youthful insensitivity. Jealous that Betty had two mothers where she, herself, only had one who hardly spoke English. Jealous that Betty would learn the piano. Wanda considered that she was jealous of a childhood in jail and she felt ashamed.
‘
So what do you think?’ Betty was on her feet now, clearing off the table, impatient with Wanda’s distraction.
‘I think it’s a good idea,’ she said. ‘And very generous of Mr Sasaki.’ She watched the grin spread across Betty’s face. Wanda would have to remember that Betty was a child. She could not compensate Wanda for the lost voices of Stockton Street. Wanda would have to rely on letters.
Winter 1943.
Howard came home late from work and hurriedly changed clothes for supper. Mama, as usual, shook her head; she could not make it to the mess hall. She sat silently on the bed, her brow tight and her jaw set. Betty offered to bring home her meal. The three of them set out across the camp together.
‘News from the city?’ Howard asked.
Wanda smiled, thinking how he, too, had grown accustomed to the regular dispatches from Stockton Street.
‘Moira’s job is fine. Looks like she may get back together with Randy.’
‘Oh, good,’ Betty said firmly.
Howard and Wanda laughed.
‘Teddy is spending more time with Dawn. And her father is on the wagon.’
‘How about Ann’s classes?’ Howard asked.
Wanda realized that she had left this news for last because she was hiding something. Just that ridiculous idea Mrs Nakashima had about her going to college. She was one of the few older women who wasn’t pressuring gently about her wedding date. Apparently the government was allowing some young people from most camps to attend colleges in the East and Midwest. Mrs Nakashima had put down Wanda’s name. You had to go where they sent you — Nebraska, Missouri, Colorado, Ohio. No, no, she had told Mrs Nakashima, she had too many obligations and no money. That’s exactly why you must go, said Mrs Nakashima. Too many responsibilities for a girl your age and don’t worry about the funds. They have scholarships. How could she leave Mama? And Roy? Would he think she had deserted him? No, it was a selfish idea and impractical.
All Good Women Page 15