by Graham Rawle
Over the course of the day, Jimmy grew increasingly anxious, particularly in open spaces: the cavernous hangars or out on the airfield where he now stood among the new recruits. No longer certain of the ground beneath his feet, he was tormented by a lurching need to clutch at something solid: a pillar, a post or a wall. He tried not to think about the distressing advice he had been given about what to do if captured, but the dreadful image haunted him. Somehow sensing his angst, Swain, who was standing next to him, met Jimmy’s troubled eye with a wry smile. He leaned over, poking his index finger under Jimmy’s jaw. “Chin up,” he said.
Though on terra firma, Jimmy felt as if he was stranded on a tightrope a thousand feet in the air, petrified and with nothing but the wire beneath his feet to hang onto. As the staff sergeant stepped up to address the group, Jimmy had to resist the urge to grab the belt of the man standing in front him.
“Now this is probably the first time most of you will have seen a man jump from a plane. In a few days’ time it’ll be you up there waiting to jump.”
The plane overhead droned by and the men raised their heads to watch a string of men being spat out of the open doorway, like some silvery sea-creature giving birth. A wisp of white spilled from each of their backpacks, billowing out into the full familiar mushroom-cap dome of a parachute. After six textbook deployments, the seventh man’s chute seemed slow to fill with air. The staff sergeant was quick to identify the problem.
“The shroud lines are tangled! She’s not going to open!”
While the first six men dangled below the safe canopy of their chutes, swaying gently from side to side as they slowly descended to earth, the seventh paratrooper was plummeting helplessly towards the ground. He accelerated at an alarming rate past his companions, a useless thin ribbon of fabric fluttering above his head.
Jimmy watched with horror, praying that some miracle would come in time, but it didn’t. Before he had time to look away, the trooper hit the ground with a sickening thud.
Some of the men in the platoon cried out; others covered their faces with their hands.
The staff sergeant calmed them. “Take it easy, take it easy. It’s just Oscar, our dummy.”
Garcia was confused. “Dummy? You mean he’s not real?”
They all breathed freely again; some chuckled with nervous relief.
The sergeant beckoned the group. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
Everyone followed him, but Jimmy couldn’t move. Suddenly finding himself alone, he felt horribly adrift. Panicked by the dizzying ocean of open tarmac around him, he instinctively fell to his knees, to make closer contact with the ground. He might have lain down, but he knew how odd that would look—his fear of humiliation for the moment superseding his fear of descending into the abyss. Even now, some of the squad had turned to see what was wrong. Swain seemed tickled at the sight of him kneeling there. “Look out, fellers. Quicksand.” He nudged the guy next to him with a gurgling laugh. Others stared with more serious concern.
The sergeant doubled back to check on him.
“What gives, Shepherd? You sick or something?”
Jimmy tried to pull himself together. What must they be thinking? What was wrong with him? What was he doing? Praying? “Sorry, sir. Bit dizzy. I’ll be all right in a minute.”
The sergeant regarded him dubiously for a moment, glancing at Jimmy’s shaking hands. Presently, he jerked his head. “Get yourself over there.”
Jimmy somehow got to his feet and joined the rest of the squad who were gathered around the fallen seventh parachutist like mourners at a funeral.
While at the far end of the airfield, the rest of the jump team were landing softly on the ground, Oscar the dummy, still posed expectantly in the prescribed landing position, was lying face down in the dirt.
Jimmy felt Swain’s hot breath on his ear. “You pay attention now. That could be you.”
Jimmy looked forlornly down at Oscar.
“Pick him up, Shepherd,” the sergeant said.
Jimmy did so. Oscar was a scale rubber model of a parachutist, less than two feet tall. The shroud lines trailed from the pack on his back to a parachute no bigger than a tablecloth.
“Hold him up so the others can see.”
Jimmy turned Oscar round to face the group.
Garcia adjusted his cap. “Well I’ll be. He’s just a little feller. He looked life-size from over there.”
The sergeant explained: “Oscar here took a dive to impress upon you men the importance of packing your parachute correctly. When the lines get tangled like Oscar’s did, your chute won’t open. We call that a Roman candle. Now, Oscar’s a good soldier but he’s dumb. He plum forgot to use his emergency chute.”
“What a dummy!” Swain had elected himself as the unit’s funny man.
The sergeant pointed at Oscar’s reserve chute. “All he had to do was pull on this ripcord and he’d have had a second chance.”
But to Jimmy this made no sense. How could Oscar be expected to pull his own emergency ripcord? He was just a dummy. Jimmy tugged at the tiny handle. It failed to budge. He tried again. Nothing. The emergency chute didn’t even work. Poor Oscar never stood a chance in hell.
TWENTY-FIVE
KAY HEADED SOUTH on a straight empty road. No cars, no nothing. The rush of air through the open windows added to her sense of liberation. Having checked her rear-view mirror anxiously for the first twenty or thirty miles, now she began to relax a little. The prison guards did not seem to be in pursuit. She took off her hat and shook her hair free. The needle on the fuel-tank gauge was almost at full.
By mid afternoon the terrain had changed and there were more built-up areas, but she was still a long way from home. The fuel-gauge needle was beyond empty now and she had no money for gas. The sun continued to beat down. Somewhere way out in the boondocks the engine finally spluttered and then cut out; the pick-up rolled gently to a halt. Kay got out, slamming the door behind her. She pulled her hair up into a knot on top of her head, and secured it with her baseball cap before setting off on foot.
There was no sidewalk so she was forced to the very edge of the roadside, stepping off onto the dirt siding whenever a car passed. Occasionally one of them would slow and pull in to offer her a ride, then, seeing her face, step quickly back on the gas. To avoid contact with anyone she veered further away from the road and headed across rough scrubland where the hot, breathy hiss of distant traffic faded into the distance.
After walking for several miles, she was parched, weary and a little lost. She trudged across the vacant parking lot of a shop selling tires. A couple of battered hydraulic trolley jacks were sitting out front. There was an old gas pump set into an island of concrete, and a little distance away was a kid with his head under the hood of an Oldsmobile.
She peered into the window of the office. Seeing no one, she pushed the door and went inside, glad to be out of the unrelenting blaze of the sun. On the wall behind a sales counter hung various advertising posters, all depicting tires with sharply emphasized deep-edged grooves, promising positive traction and safe braking in wet weather. In the customer waiting area, there was a scruffy bench seat and next to it, a low table display of well-thumbed magazines.
Seeing a wall payphone, she dipped two fingers into the coin refund slot, hoping to scoop out a rejected nickel or dime, but she was out of luck. On the wall next to it was a Cracker Jack vending machine, but she found nothing there either.
She turned her attention to the water cooler in the corner, looking round furtively before pulling a paper cup from the holder. She filled it from the faucet below, feeling the cool, squishy weight of the water in the thin paper cup. She drank it down in one, the coldness catching her breath, and then refilled it. The cooler gave out a deep gulp as the air bubbled to the top of the glass bottle. She was halfway through the second cupful when she saw a black and white police cruiser pulling off the road and heading towards the tire shop. Kay froze, the paper cup still in her hand. It hadn’t occurr
ed to her that it would be the cops, rather than the army, who would be chasing her down. Well, she did borrow the welder guy’s truck, which, she realized, they would probably classify as theft. They must have discovered the abandoned truck and tracked her down. She considered crouching, or at least facing the other way, but instead simply stood, petrified, as the cop car crept slowly past the building. The driver turned to peer in through the window, but didn’t seem to make eye contact with her; perhaps the reflection on the glass was too strong for him to see clearly. Whatever the reason, the car drove on by. She edged towards the door, just to make sure it had really gone, and was relieved to see it pulling back out onto the highway. She had all but calmed herself again when she was startled by the sudden appearance of a face at the window. It was an old man, squinting to see beyond the reflection. Catching sight of Kay, he tapped sharply on the glass with something metal: a key or a coin. She didn’t know who he was or what he wanted, but she made for the door, hoping to bluster her way past him.
“Top her up, would you, son?” he said, blocking her escape.
Beyond him, she saw an old Ford parked by the gas pump. There was no one else around. The kid working on the Oldsmobile had disappeared, as had the Oldsmobile. Realizing that the man thought she worked there (and that she was a boy), she decided to play along. She studied the pump, unsure exactly how to go about it. Having successfully unhooked the nozzle of the hose she checked the dials. There was a handle on the side; she gave it a turn and the dial reset. She unscrewed the Ford’s gas cap, inserted the nozzle and squeezed the trigger. The man leaned against his car’s hood, gazing at the highway ahead. He took out a handkerchief to wipe the back of his neck.
Kay watched the dial go round, keeping an eye on the price.
“Get the windshield too, would you, kid?” said the man over his shoulder.
Kay nodded.
She replaced the nozzle, then looked around and saw an upturned soda crate on top of which lay a rag and a spray bottle. She squirted something soapy onto the glass and wiped it off again with the rag, moving round to do the same on the other side.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Ninety-five cents.”
The customer took a dollar bill from his billfold.
“Oh. I don’t have any change,” said Kay.
“Keep it.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
As the man drove off, Kay stepped back into the office. She laid the bill on the sales desk and began to walk away. She looked back at the money, and then at the Cracker Jack machine with its big red painted price flash: 5 cents. She hadn’t eaten all day.
She peeped gingerly behind the sales desk and spotted a little wooden cash tray with a few coins in it. She plucked a nickel from one of the sections, tweezing it between forefinger and thumb, as if to prove that she was taking no more than she was rightly owed. This was her tip; she had earned it.
She made a beeline for the Cracker Jack machine, laid her nickel in the slot and slid in the lever with her thumb. It sprung back, having accepted her money. She pulled the drawer to claim her reward, but it was stuck. She tugged it hard, repeatedly jerking it towards her, but even using both hands, the drawer remained tight as a vice. She hammered on the front of the machine’s metal casing with the heel of her fist, venting her frustration on the smug-faced sailor-boy logo painted on it. The boy waved at her mockingly, a greedy armful of giant Cracker Jack boxes drawn possessively towards him. The caption underneath warned her The More You Eat The More You Want.
Walking away from the tire shop, Kay passed two kids playing in a vacant lot: a boy of about seven years old, and a girl maybe a year or two younger. The boy had fashioned himself a rifle from a long, tapering shard of wood and was taking aim at a line of birds perched on a telegraph wire, making gunshot sounds as he imagined picking them off, one by one. Kheeow! Kheeow! Kheeow!
When the girl saw Kay, she put her fingers to the outer edges of her eyes and pulled the skin taut. The boy put down his rifle and followed suit, both of them mugging at her, barely able to see through their tightly slitted eyes.
“Sayonara!”
The girl repeated what she had heard the boy say. “Sayonara!”
Kay smirked feebly in half-hearted response.
The boy took up his rifle and aimed it directly at Kay’s face. Kay instinctively cowered, raising her hands in surrender. Showing no mercy, the boy pulled the trigger. Kheeow!
Something was clearly wrong with Overland’s traffic system; vehicles were moving sluggishly and juddering on their tracks. It had taken George some time to locate the problem. One of the roadside trees north of the Overland Diner had fallen diagonally across Providence Street, blocking traffic on the East loop. The tree had been pushed aside by the traffic flow, but part of it had become detached and was caught beneath the wheels of a two-door sedan, which was now struggling to move forward along the track. Consequently, traffic sequencing had been interrupted causing a truck on the West loop to collide with a dawdling taxicab at the Main Street intersection, shoving it off the road and into one of the flower beds in the town-square gardens. Another car in its path had slipped off the track and was now obstructing oncoming vehicles. George had to shut off the power and push the truck back a little way before he could drag the car to one side. Once he had removed the tree branch from under the sedan, he restored the power and things began to move more freely. He noticed, though, that many of the roadside trees were not securely fastened and wondered for how long the system would continue to run without the regular maintenance checks it needed. He realized now how much of the smooth running had been down to the Residents keeping an eye on things. He knew he was supposed to be in Seattle but he was damned if he was going to let Overland fall apart.
Mrs Ishi wrung her hands nervously.
“Quick. Before they catch you.”
From the tire shop, Kay had headed south on Tujunga Avenue, an interminably long straight road flanked mostly by light industry, warehouses and small businesses. It was a hot afternoon so very few people were out walking. From time to time she’d pass someone working curbside on a truck, or a group of men chatting in a parking lot, but these people were too caught up in their own lives to worry about the nationality of Kay’s ancestors. It was the police and army she had most to fear; they were the ones who would be out looking for her. It was only once she reached North Hollywood, when traffic became heavier, the streets busier, that she became more vigilant. Her best strategy, she realized, was to keep her head down and keep moving; that way no one had time to notice her. She finally made it back to Mrs Ishi’s, having walked for several hours without a break. She was exhausted, but knew she couldn’t risk staying there for long. She stood at the foot of her bed, wriggling her shoulders free from her coveralls.
“I’m going. I’m going. I just want to get out of this work wear and into normal street clothes.”
“Your gray suit is hanging in closet. I pressed for you.”
“Thanks, Mrs Ishi, you’re a dear, but I need something with more color, something more, you know, American.”
Kay crossed the landing into Queenie’s room and opened the closet. Mrs Ishi followed, hovering in the doorway. She got the picture.
“Ah. Something trashy, like Queenie would wear?”
Kay reacted, surprised by the slight on her friend, but Mrs Ishi smiled back sweetly. Trashy was just a word she had picked up; it was more of an observation than a criticism.
“When does Queenie get off work?” asked Kay.
“Not until midnight. She is on evening shift.”
“Oh. Well I’m sure she won’t mind me borrowing something.”
“Queenie, she was worried,” said Mrs Ishi. “Looking for you everywhere. Someone at factory said they had taken you to camp. Nearly all Japanese have gone now.”
Kay nodded. “I know. It’s awful.”
Though she didn’t doubt Queenie’s sincerity, Kay was aware of one of the likely reasons for her concer
n. Not knowing what Queenie had told Mrs Ishi, she broached the subject carefully.
“Mrs Ishi, do you know if Queenie managed to …? She needed some money …”
“To pay doctor, yes. Bad toothache. He must take out tooth—stop pain. Appointment tomorrow. Very expensive. But she got money. Someone at factory.”
“She did? That’s swell.” Kay had felt bad about having let Queenie down.
Kay moved cautiously to the window and looked out onto the street below, but could see no one there. She returned to her own room carrying the same cotton floral print dress she had borrowed for her job interview at the factory: brazen red, pink and white flowers on a decorative leafy green background. She put it on and topped the outfit off with the wide-brimmed green hat. It was a stylish and elegant contrast to her greasy coveralls.
Checking her reflection in the dresser mirror she noticed that an old envelope had been propped up against it. Fastened through the back of it was Queenie’s shiny enamel Resident pin. Written above it, in Queenie’s loopy handwriting, were the words Go Fish! Kay took the pin and fastened it to her dress.
In the doorway, Kay hugged Mrs Ishi goodbye. Kay’s sunglasses helped to mask her emotions. She held Mrs Ishi’s face in her hands, looking searchingly into her eyes. Mrs Ishi blinked and the tears that had been welling up burst free and ran quickly down her cheeks in two straight lines. Kay wiped them away with her thumbs.
“I wish you’d come with me. They’ll send you to a camp if you stay here.”
Mrs Ishi shook her head dismissively, gently breaking free from the embrace. “No. My brother-in-law, Kiyoshi … he come tomorrow to fetch me in his car. Go live in Chicago with my sister.” She took a neatly folded handkerchief from her sleeve, shaking it loose from one corner.
“Chicago? That’s a long way,” said Kay.
Mrs Ishi nodded, smiling weakly. She dabbed at the damp stains on her cheeks.
“And the bird too?”