by Jay Rubin
She was stunning. Her eyes lingered on his for a moment, and then the wide brim of the hat came down, obscuring her face again. He had seen enough to realize that there was a strong resemblance between the woman and Mrs. Nomura. They both had prominent cheekbones and full lips and the double-fold eyelids that he preferred to the narrower single-fold kind. But where Mrs. Nomura had begun to show a middle-aged pallor, this woman had the glow of youth. Even now, with her head bowed, the thrust of her shoulders bespoke a kind of energy that had long since spent itself in the others assembled here. The original Seattle Japanese were in their fifties, the young ones usually in their teens. But this was a woman. She might be twenty-five, or possibly a little older. She was part of the missing generation, the great age gap that had been created by the immigration law.
“…welcome Pastor Tom,” he heard Reverend Hanamori saying, as if from a great distance, and he turned to see the reverend looking up at him expectantly.
He knew he must speak, but for the moment, he had forgotten what it was he had planned to announce. “Dear beloved brothers and sisters of the Nichigo congregation,” he began with practiced sonority, “today I bring you a message of the love of God.”
Now, if only I could recall that message!
“In Psalms 126:3, we read, ‘The Lord has done great things for us; whereof we are glad!’ and how can we be anything but glad when we think back on our rich heritage? On May 28, 1900, with the Reverend Kenji Ishihama as pastor, our little church was founded, and a long and rich history of thirty-nine years witnesses to a great heritage.”
Why can’t I stop repeating myself?
“It has been a rich heritage indeed, as we remember the sacrifice and faith of those early immigrants who became Christians.”
Lord God, he prayed, lift the scales from my eyes and let me see.
“It is difficult to imagine that out of their meager means and trying circumstances, these early Christians purchased land and built buildings. Their zeal for Christ and their love for their fellow immigrants impelled them to reach out over a hundred-mile radius from Seattle, even as far as Vancouver, British Columbia.”
Pastor Tom’s panic began to lessen somewhat as he saw the looks of satisfaction among the congregation. All you had to do when you talked to the Nichigos was invoke the struggles of the Isseis—the first generation Japanese immigrants—and they would go with you anywhere. “In time,” he continued, “this permanent sanctuary was erected, and their faith was translated into the solidity of honest red brick. More amazing, they had the foresight to include a gymnasium in their plans—the center for all the youth activities of the Japanese community.”
A gymnasium! That’s it! The athletic meet and picnic this afternoon!
“Indeed, they left a legacy of untiring devotion and practical service for Christ. The challenge now is for the present generation to take up this rich heritage to ensure a glorious future.”
Look at them beaming. I could call for $100 donations now and they’d come flocking up here.
He saw the Reverend Hanamori looking at him oddly. Tom had made a point of defining precisely what his little message to the flock was going to be, and now he was wandering all over the landscape. “How my heart is moved by the love of God when I stand before you like this, and I know that you are the very chosen people who were there when it all began!” And, in fact, he was moved. What would these people have done? Where would they be today without the love and concern of God Almighty? Would they be kneeling before a golden idol? Prostrating themselves at the feet of some dreaming Buddha, damned forever to the fires of hell? How much more satisfying it was for him to work amid this benighted flock than among people of his own race, to see, in their very difference from himself, the souls that he had won for Christ. He felt the tears begin to well up, and he could feel the waves of emotion rushing toward him from all corners of the sanctuary.
“Good people,” he went on, his voice husky now. “Forgive me if I have gotten off the track. Whenever I see you, I can’t help but think of those pioneer Isseis. They gave so much of themselves that we may have this abundant life, as God gave His only begotten Son that we may have everlasting life.” He drew his handkerchief from his back pocket and, chuckling and hanging his head, he wiped his eyes behind his spectacles, then looked up, glowing and triumphant. “Please, Reverend Hanamori,” he said, his voice ringing, “please explain to them how important it is to me and to all of us in the English-language congregation that all of our Nichigos be with us this afternoon in Jefferson Park. If there are any without rides, we will provide them. Let them come to see me, personally, after your service, and even if it means delaying the start of ours, they will be provided for.”
Pastor Tom sent his smile once again to all in the sanctuary, and this time he saw the woman with Mrs. Nomura looking at him with intensity. He strode down the aisle and out through the door.
Ordinarily, while the Nichigo service was in progress, Tom would be in his office, polishing the details of his sermon, but today he paced restlessly back and forth in the broad narthex, greeting the members of his congregation as they began to arrive. When that became tiring, he headed for the darkness of the back corridors.
“Daddy!” he heard Billy’s squeaky, little shout as he passed the choir room. His son came running out with Mrs. Uchida close behind.
“He’s quite a handful for you, isn’t he?” Morton said to the old woman as she picked Billy up.
“Oh, no, Pastor Tom,” she puffed, the enormous bags under her eyes seeming to sag more than usual. “Come, Beelee.”
Billy squealed and reached out for his father.
“You must learn to behave yourself,” said Tom, starting to walk away.
“Pastor Tom, we go with you?” asked Mrs. Uchida.
“Well …” Tom hesitated. “All right.”
“You not busy?” she asked.
“No, not today. Not until the service begins.
“Come, Beelee,” she murmured again, walking ahead of Tom down the hall.
Billy loosened one arm from around Mrs. Uchida’s neck and put a finger in his mouth, rolling his eyes up as if in deep thought. Then, his forefinger glistening with saliva, he pointed down the corridor, smiling.
“Wah-tah!” he demanded.
Tom knew that his son loved the drinking fountain in the narthex and would pester anyone in sight into lifting him up to it over and over again. Poor Mrs. Uchida had probably brought him to the choir room just to get away from the fountain.
“Wa-ter,” Tom corrected him. “Wa-ter!”
“Wa-ter,” mimicked Billy.
“That’s it,” Tom said, pleased. Mrs. Uchida’s influence on the boy’s pronunciation would probably not be permanent, but he wished he could find a young Nisei member of the English language congregation to take care of Billy.
Mrs. Uchida continued on down the corridor with Billy pointing the way and squeaking, “Wa-ter, wa-ter.” In the narthex, she bent to let the boy slurp loudly at the arc of water. When Billy was satisfied, she made a circuit of the narthex, then let him take another drink.
Just then, the doors to the sanctuary opened, and the Reverend Hanamori came out. He stood in the front entrance, bowing and shaking hands as the Nichigos filed past him. Taking Billy from Mrs. Uchida, Tom joined his fellow pastor at the door.
“Remember what I said,” he announced to no one in particular, “anyone who needs a ride this afternoon, just talk to me. And be sure to come!”
Several of the grey-haired churchgoers bowed to him as they passed, murmuring things in Japanese. He recognized the words “fukuin,” meaning “gospel,” and “kokoro kara”—“from the heart”—among the syllables that Shinichi Kawamoto directed to him, but the rest of it passed him by, and Reverend Hanamori was too busy chattering with other Nichigos to translate for him.
Billy demanded “Wa-ter” a few times, but when he saw that he would have to wait for his next drink, he wrapped both arms around his father�
�s neck and laid his head on his chest.
“Pastor Tom,” he heard a soft male voice saying to him, and he turned to see the grey temples and round spectacles of Mr. Nomura. “I want you to meet my sister-in-law.”
Now the woman was standing close to him, her high, clear brow conveying a serenity that only added to his unease. She looked straight at him, the hint of a smile on her full lips. At this point, Mrs. Nomura took over. Her English was much better than her husband’s. “This is my sister, Mitsuko,” she said, pronouncing the name “MEETS-ko.” “She’s visiting us for a while from Japan.”
“Oh, I see,” said Morton, reaching out to take the woman’s hand. In doing so, he jostled Billy, who lifted his head and again called for “Water,” turning to point toward the fountain. When Billy caught sight of Mrs. Nomura’s sister, however, he wrenched himself away from his father and all but threw himself into her arms.
“Abunai!” several Nichigos shouted in unison: “Watch out!”
Mitsuko herself almost lost her balance as Billy came hurtling toward her, but she managed to catch him, and the cries of alarm turned into peals of laughter.
But Tom Morton did not laugh. He saw his son clutching at this woman with mysterious tenacity, and he wondered what it meant. “Bad boy,” he said at length. “You almost hurt the lady. Come away, now.”
He reached for his son, but Billy pressed his face against the woman’s throat and held on with increased determination. Again the others laughed, and Morton heard someone saying “skee”—Billy likes her. Mitsuko held the boy close and began pacing around the vestibule, rocking him gently and singing in low tones, her mouth next to his ear.
Morton turned back to continue his conversation with Mrs. Nomura, but there was nothing he could say when he saw the look on her face. She was watching Mitsuko with Billy, her eyes full of tears. Even Mr. Nomura, usually a stolid sort, seemed moved to see his sister-in-law and the child. Mrs. Nomura looked at her husband, the two nodded almost imperceptibly to each other, and she stepped closer to Pastor Tom wearing a doleful expression.
She spoke in a quavering whisper, and Morton had to bend down to catch her words.
“My sister lost a child last year. When I saw her holding your son, I …”
But she was too overcome with emotion to go on. Tom put his arm around her shoulder and said soothingly, “I’m sorry to hear that.” And, in fact, he was sorry, in a way that he himself could not quite have expressed.
Again he turned to watch Mrs. Nomura’s sister with Billy. The tension had left the boy’s little body. Before long, he was asleep in her arms.
Mitsuko shifted Billy until his head was cradled against her left arm. She smiled at him tenderly and brought him to his father.
“Excuse me,” she said, her voice soft but clear.
“There’s no need for you to apologize,” replied Tom. “It’s my fault. I should make him behave better.”
She smiled and shook her head as she placed the sleeping little boy in his father’s arms.
“He is very beautiful,” she said.
Tom wanted to say “So are you,” but that was out of the question. Neither could he bring himself to respond with the reply that had become almost automatic whenever anyone complimented him on Billy’s good looks: “He takes after his mother.” He did not want to talk about his dead wife just now.
“Thank you,” Tom said finally.
Mitsuko turned to her sister and said something in Japanese.
“Well, then,” said Mrs. Nomura, her usual cheery self again, “we must go now. See you this afternoon, Pastor.”
“Wonderful,” said Pastor Tom. “You’ll all be there?”
“I think so,” she replied, looking at Mitsuko, who again spoke to her in Japanese.
“Are you bringing Billy?” asked Mrs. Nomura.
“Well, of course! You know how he loves to play with the other children!”
“Then we will all be there,” she said.
5
THE NUMBER OF WORSHIPPERS was small at today’s English-language service. Most of the girls were home, helping their mothers prepare picnic lunches for the afternoon potluck outing. Even some of the young men who attended most faithfully were absent, no doubt running last-minute errands. This led to an abnormally high proportion of squirming boys to listen to his sermon, “God’s Ultimate Love and Justice.” He himself was hardly listening as he concluded, “We strive toward that day when we will finally be all that Christ saved us for and wants us to be because of what he did for us.”
It was still a few minutes before noon when he pulled out of his parking space in front of the church. Mrs. Uchida had offered to take Billy with her. Tom would pick them up and bring them to Jefferson Park after changing clothes. Driving up Broadway, where worshippers returning from the white churches were being accosted by Indian panhandlers, he silently thanked the Lord for having blessed them with such a lovely spring day.
Tom had always enjoyed these outings, but last year’s, without Sarah, had been something of a trial. Today, he felt a new kind of excitement as he imagined the crowds of laughing children, the proud parents urging them on to victory, and … yes, he had to admit it to himself, Mrs. Nomura’s sister, Mitsuko. Would her husband be with her? Why had he not attended the service? How long would they be staying in Seattle?
At home, he shed his dark suit and changed into light cotton pants, a check shirt and a windbreaker. He packed a small duffel bag with some extra diapers and a fresh pair of coveralls for Billy, and he also threw in a sweater for himself, just in case. Seattle weather in May could be unpredictable.
A few minutes later, he was driving among the decaying buildings on the waterfront edge of Japantown, heading for the old Carrollton Hotel at the corner of Main and Occidental where Mrs. Uchida lived. He had difficulty locating a place to park. The Ace Café next door seemed to attract a large lunchtime crowd on Sundays. He left the car in front of a small cigar store a block away at the corner of Washington and walked back to the hotel, trying not to look at the two drunks—a man with a black beard, a shabby woman with spindly arms—sprawling in the doorway of a shop that sold deep-sea fishing gear.
Mrs. Uchida had lived here ever since she lost her husband. She had found the room through connections in the Japanese community. Several of the older hotels in the waterfront section were run by Japanese. The Carrollton was owned by a Mr. Itoi, who attended the Methodist Episcopal Church at Fourteenth and Washington. What a catch the Itois would have been for his congregation!
“Good afternoon,” he said to the slim Japanese girl at the front desk. He imagined she was about eighteen or nineteen. “Could you ring Mrs. Uchida’s room for me, please? Just tell her Pastor Tom is here to pick her up.”
The girl nodded and made the call, speaking in Japanese.
An awkward silence followed. He had hoped the girl would ask him about church activities, but she started shuffling papers on the desk. Tom glanced around the dingy lobby. A massive man with a scruffy, red beard and wearing the checked shirt of a lumberjack was sitting in a faded, pink armchair in the corner. The stuffing showed through a tear in one arm of the chair, and the man appeared to be asleep. Tom was about to ask the girl her name when an elderly woman poked her head out of a side door and called to her. “Sumi-chan,” she said, and continued with a stream of Japanese. So the girl’s name was Sumi.
Mrs. Uchida was taking a very long time. Tom had become seriously hungry. Suddenly Billy ran up behind him and latched onto his leg. Tom turned to see poor, old Mrs. Uchida huffing and puffing with the strain of carrying a picnic basket the size of a small bathtub.
“Praise God, Mrs. Uchida! How many people are you planning to feed?”
Mrs. Uchida bared a mouthful of crooked teeth.
“Here, let me help you,” he said. He should have known that she would bring far more than necessary. Everyone always did.
He left Mrs. Uchida and Billy on the sidewalk with the basket and went for the car.
High overhead a white gull floated against the blue sky. After squeezing the enormous container into the trunk, he settled in behind the wheel for the long ride down Rainier Avenue to Jefferson Park. The closer he drew to the park, the more unsettled he felt. Again and again he found himself having to back off on the accelerator.
Soon the grays and blacks of the city were replaced by the green lawns of the Jefferson Park picnic grounds and the golf course across the road. No longer obstructed by the downtown buildings, a breeze blew in from Puget Sound, straining against the park’s tall, pliant poplars, and sending cool gusts in through the car’s open windows. Tom was glad he had brought a sweater—until he left the car and discovered how hot the sun was on this uncommonly clear day.
Everywhere he looked, the green grass was dotted with the glistening, black heads of his congregation. The playground equipment was literally swarming with children. Many of the families had already spread their blankets and straw mats and were busily emptying the contents of their picnic baskets onto the row of tables that had been set up for the potluck. “See, Pastor Tom?” Mrs. Uchida said, laughing. “Not so big.”
And indeed, by comparison, the basket she had prepared for them was quite modest. While Mrs. Uchida unpacked, Pastor Tom circulated among the colorful squares and rectangles on the ground, greeting his flock and noting the foods they had heaped on the tables. There were round disks of rice pressed together with green and pink stuffing in the center and greenish-black seaweed wrapped around the outside. They called this maki-zushi, and they included it in any packed lunch without fail. He recalled how the flaky seaweed had stuck in his throat the one time he had tried it.
The Miyamotos proudly pointed to some oozing red objects that looked like the vital organs of a toad crushed on the highway. Thank God for the fried chicken, and for the potato salad, ham sandwiches, and hard-boiled eggs that lay there among the more forbidding concoctions. And fortunately he would be able to have lemonade instead of green tea, which reminded him of the bitterness of aspirin.