The Red Kimono

by Jan Morrill

  “Well, I suppose so. You see, some government men came. Said they were FBI. They didn’t tell me what they were doing, just flashed a couple of badges and said they were taking your husband and Mr. Ihara into custody. But I did overhear one of them say your husband was … an alien enemy.” There was that snooty look again. Sachi could almost swear Nurse Sherman was trying not to smile as she continued. “Anyway, they said the men were being taken to a … what was it now … a Justice Department camp.”

  Nobu rubbed his forehead. “But my father was in no condition to leave the hospital.”

  “I’m sorry,” the nurse replied. “It was out of my hands. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” She walked away, shaking her head.

  Mama gasped. Her eyes filled with tears. “What are we supposed to do? How do we know where they took him?”

  “It’s out of my hands,” Nurse Sherman repeated, not looking back.

  Hurt overflowed and had to be released. Sachi called to the nurse, “Why didn’t you call us sooner? Maybe we could have stopped them. We did not get to say goodbye!”

  The nurse kept walking.

  “Look at me! I was only nice to you because I thought you’d take care of my father. But now … now he’s gone and—”

  Nobu grabbed her and put his arm around her. “Sachiko, shh, shh.”

  She felt the warmth of Nobu’s hand when he touched her cheek and wiped the tears away. Papa wiped her tears the very same way. The morning she’d fallen off her bike. When she’d found a butterfly she caught, dead in the jar. The afternoon she’d come home from school crying because some kids had teased her.

  Trance-like, Mama moved her o-juzu beads through her fingers and chanted prayers to Buddha. She whispered as she walked away. “There is nothing left to be done here now. Let us go home.”

  Chapter 12

  Nobu

  December 26, 1941

  They’ve taken Papa away.

  How is it that the government can come without warning to take an injured man, a man who has committed no crime, to a “Justice Department” camp? Where is the justice in that?

  There are no words to describe my anger, my emptiness. Last night he was here. Now he is gone. Last night, as Mama, Sachi, and I opened Christmas gifts, there should have been five of us, but there were only three.

  As we celebrated,Papa was being taken away by strangers. Was he even aware of what was happening? Did he wonder why we were not there to protect him?

  So why did we celebrate? We told ourselves it was what Papa would want. First, we watched Sachi open the package that held her doll. For a little while, her smile made me forget all that had happened.

  Sachi gave Mama some stationery that she’d painted kimonos on. She said it was so Mama would have something pretty for her letters to Taro-nisan. She gave me this journal where I am writing now. I felt bad that I had no gift for her.

  How could we know that Papa would be taken the next morning?

  Last night when I took pictures with his camera, Mama said I looked like him. When she said that, something inside me yelled “No!” Something in her words almost swallowed me, as if they would chase away Papa’s spirit. Now, when I look in the mirror, all I see is Papa.

  I thought Joe and Terrence were my friends. I still don’t understand how they could beat up my father. Are we Japanese hated so much?

  And if they could forget we are friends, why can’t I, too, forget? Why did I hesitate to tell the police what happened at the park, like I was “ratting” on my friends? And why would I give a second thought to letting them sit in a jail cell over Christmas?

  Papa was like a shelter against the cold wind of hate that swirls around us. Now he’s gone and I shiver inside. Who will be our shelter now? Taro is gone. Will it be up to me? How can I be strong for Mama and Sachi?

  Chapter 13

  Nobu

  January 2, 1942

  Nobu picked up a towel and folded it. “I’m sure we’ll find him, Mama. Maybe now that the holidays are over we can talk to someone who can actually give us some information.”

  Mama didn’t look up, but kept folding laundry, as if the repetitive movement of picking up and folding, picking up and folding, was a meditation. She’d been too quiet in the days following Papa’s “abduction,” and Nobu couldn’t decide if it was strength or stress that caused her silence. Was she thinking of ways to find him, to get him back? Or was she doing whatever she could to survive the adversity?

  “Mama?”

  At last she looked up, as if she’d just realized his presence.

  He searched the pile for a matching sock to the one he held. “I’ll call Representative Gearhart’s office on Monday. Maybe he can give me some information. Or, at least tell me who else I can call.”

  Mama nodded her head. “Hai.” Then, she went back to folding laundry.

  The doorbell rang.

  Sachi ran past the living room and into the foyer. “I’ll get it.”

  Nobu wondered who it would be on a Friday morning. They weren’t expecting anyone. “I’ll go see who it is,” he said, tossing the mismatched sock on the sofa.

  He turned the corner into the entry hall. Sachi stood in the open doorway and turned to Nobu when he approached. “I was just telling this man I’d better get someone else to sign for this,” she said.

  Nobu’s stomach sank. Western Union never brought good news.

  His hand shook as he signed for the telegram. Even the delivery man’s expression showed that he knew it was likely not good news. He nodded, backed away, then turned to leave.

  Nobu shut the door.

  Sachi stared up at him. “What is it?”

  What could he say to her?

  Stop it. Stop it. Sure, it’s probably bad news, but it doesn’t have to be the worst news.

  “Nobu?” Sachi’s eyes were wide with anticipation.

  “It’s a telegram for Mama. Go back to what you were doing. It doesn’t concern you.” He didn’t mean to sound heartless, but if it was bad news … the worst news … he was not ready to tell his little sister.

  Mama called from the living room. “Who is it, Nobu?”

  His heart stopped then pounded hard. “Go on, Sach. I’ll take this in to Mama.”

  “Oh, okay,” she said and returned to her bedroom.

  Nobu tore open the telegram. It was addressed to Mama, but he needed to read it first, in case it was the worst news.

  THE DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE DEEPLY REGRETS

  In an instant, everything was sucked out of Nobu, and he fell against the closed door. He couldn’t make himself read the rest, but couldn’t stop himself either.

  TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR HUSBAND, MICHIO KIMURA, DIED EN ROUTE TO THE DETENTION CAMP IN SANTE FE, NEW MEXICO. THE DEPARTMENT EXTENDS TO YOU ITS SYMPATHY FOR YOUR LOSS.

  “Nobu? What is it?” Mama stood in the entryway.

  He snapped erect and crumpled the telegram, as though he could hide what he knew Mama had already seen.

  “What is in your hand?” she asked, walking toward him.

  “Mama … Mama.” He struggled to keep the tears that burned his eyes from falling. Words scattered around in his head as he tried to grasp the right ones. But there were no right words.

  “Papa is dead.” He handed her the telegram.

  She glared at Nobu and shook her head, as if she thought he’d played an awful joke. But as she read the telegram, her lips, her hands began to tremble, until her whole body quaked and she began to fall.

  As Nobu grabbed her, she screamed, “No! No! Michio-san!” and her body melted to the floor.

  Sachi came running from her room. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong with Mama?” She knelt beside Nobu and Mama.

  Nobu put his arm around Sachi, too. As she searched his eyes for answers, he thought his heart would burst with pain and a sudden flood of loneliness overwhelmed him. He had to care for Mama and Sachi, somehow make it all better for them. Papa was dead. Who was there for him?

&nb
sp; “Nobu?” Sachi waited.

  Nobu. Nobu. Nobu. Never before had he so hated the sound of his name.

  Papa’s voice echoed in his ear. Gaman, son. Gaman.

  He took a deep breath and pulled his little sister and mother closer to him. “Sach, we just got a telegram and … and it said … that Papa … he died. Papa died.”

  Sachi’s eyes widened with the weight of her tears. She shook her head as if trying to chase away a monster that frightened her.

  Nobu wrapped his arms around Sachi as she buried her head in his shirt. He pressed her head into his chest, muffling her cries. “It’ll be okay, Sach.” Why did he say that? Why? It wasn’t going to be okay. How could it ever be okay? What were they going to do without Papa? And even if he could make it okay for Mama and Sachi, it would never be okay for him.

  Taro. When would they tell Taro? Why wasn’t Taro here? He should be the man of the house now. Nobu did not want to be the man of the house.

  Mama gave Nobu and Sachi a quick hug, kissed Sachi on her head, then stood up and smoothed her hair, then her skirt. The pain that had contorted her face only a moment before had been covered by a mask of resolve. She turned and walked toward the kitchen. “We must plan your father’s funeral.”

  That night, when the unsettling silence had settled into a quiet that was normal in the house at that time of night, Nobu removed his journal from under his pillow.

  January 2, 1942

  Papa didn’t deserve to die en route to a detention center where he didn’t deserve to be. A Justice Department camp. But justice for who? Certainly not for us.

  My father always told me not to cause trouble. Keep your nose clean. Behave. Lately, he’d begun telling me not to do anything that might seem un-American. Shikata ga nai. Nothing can be done about it, he used to always say. Gaman. Be patient. This will pass one day.

  He lived his life like that. Pleasant. Patient. Polite.

  Look where it got him.

  Chapter 14

  Nobu

  January 5, 1942

  January 5, 1942

  Today we returned to school after Christmas holiday. I have to admit, it was a welcome break from the sadness that has filled our home since we found out that Papa died. Everything there reminds me of him, and though I know Mama tries to be strong, she can’t hide the faraway look in her eyes.

  At least Sachi and I have school to escape to. I wonder what Mama did today while we were gone? Could this house have felt any emptier than it does when we’re here?

  We spend a lot of time in our own rooms now. A few days ago, I peeked in on Sachi while she played in her room with the doll that Mama and Papa got her for Christmas. She was on her bed reading a book, the doll in her lap. I sat next to her and noticed all of her Geisha dolls had been turned to face the wall.

  When I asked why, she was quiet for a minute, then said, “They remind me of Papa.”

  I wish Taro was here. I don’t want to be strong for everyone. He is the first born and should be here. There is nobody to be strong for me.

  I still don’t understand how Taro thinks joining the guard is the “honorable thing” to do. Mama calls it his sense of giri—duty. But why should we have a sense of duty to a government who stole Papa out of the hospital, called him an alien enemy, probably caused his death? And what about those who call us Japs? Why should we be honorable when we see signs on stores that tell us we’re not welcome?

  Taro should return home and fulfill his role as the oldest son. That would be the honorable thing to do.

  A few of my friends came up to me to say they’d heard about Papa and that they were sorry. I could tell by the looks in their eyes, they didn’t know what else to say. Mostly I heard whispers as I walked past classmates and teachers. They’d glance at me, then quickly look down, probably hoping I hadn’t noticed. But I heard their whispers—that Terrence and Joe were in jail for killing a Jap. That it was my father.

  Happy New Year. I heard those words many times today from students passing each other in the hallway as they made their way to classes. Nobody said those words to me. A month ago, I thought this would be a good year. I’d graduate from high school. Go off to college.

  Now? Papa is dead. I hear Sachi crying at night. Mama is distant. Taro is in Hawaii. I am the accidental man of the house.

  Happy New Year? Not for me.

  Chapter 15

  Terrence

  January 5, 1942

  Jailhouse sounds jerked Terrence out of a deep sleep. Keys clanked. The cell door squealed as it opened.

  A gravelly voice followed. “You got visitors, kid. Get up and get dressed.”

  Terrence pulled himself up and sat on the edge of the cot, rubbing his eyes.

  “Come on, boy. I haven’t got all day.”

  He pulled on prison-issued pants and slippers and followed the guard to the visiting area.

  A gray room. No windows. No pictures. Only a table and four chairs. Momma sat in one chair. Though she smiled, her eyes were puffy and red. Next to her, a man Terrence had never seen before. She stood and kissed Terrence on the cheek.

  “Hi, Momma,” he said and stared at the stranger.

  “Son, this here is Mr. Edward Blake, the attorney who be handling your case.” She started crying.

  “What’s wrong, Momma?”

  She covered her eyes with her handkerchief and turned away from him.

  Edward Blake’s steel-blue eyes studied Terrence through round, wire-rimmed glasses that looked like they held the weight of a single bushy red eyebrow. His full, red moustache—practically the size of a squirrel’s tail—moved up and down with words spoken in a Southern drawl.

  Blake extended his hand. “Mr. Harris—”

  “Call me Terrence,” he said, surprised at the strength in the attorney’s handshake. He watched Momma, wondering why she was crying all of a sudden. “Momma, what is it?”

  Blake touched Momma on the shoulder, then took his glasses off and began to wipe them. “Terrence, I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news.”

  Now what? Daddy was dead. Terrence was in jail for beating up a man. What news could be worse than that? Then, he knew. And he felt like someone hit him so hard in the stomach everything was gonna come up. He stared at Mr. Blake, waiting for him to say what he already knew.

  “We learned yesterday that Mr. Kimura died. The prosecutor is going for a murder charge.”

  Momma cried out, then blotted her eyes with her handkerchief.

  Terrence’s knees weakened and he fell into a chair. Sure, he already knew what Mr. Blake was going to say, but hearing the words … a cold sweat broke all over him and his brain overflowed with thoughts until it was so full words began to flood out of his mouth. “Dead? I thought he was in the hospital. He can’t be dead. Hell, I didn’t mean to kill nobody, Momma. Oh, my God, I killed Nobu’s father? We were just roughing him up some. I didn’t mean to kill him.”

  “I believe you,” Blake said, popping open his worn briefcase. “Now, take a deep breath. We’ve got to get to work on your case.” He stared at Terrence for a moment. “You okay now?”

  Terrence nodded.

  Blake opened a file folder, then licked his finger and flipped through its pages. “I’ve read the police report.” Running his hand back and forth along a paragraph, he continued. “Found some extenuating circumstances I think will help your case …” He looked over his glasses. “With the right attorney. That’s why I contacted your mother.”

  Terrence wiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve, then narrowed his eyes, and considered what Blake was saying. Why would a white man want to represent a colored kid? What was he up to? Trying to cheat Momma out of money or something? Maybe make a name for himself?

  Blake pulled out a chair and opened a notebook. “Tell me what happened that day at the park.”

  Terrence sat across from the attorney and stared him full in the eyes. There was a part of him that was grateful to have a lawyer defending him, especially now that Mr. Kimura
was dead. But there was another part of him that just couldn’t understand why a stranger—a white stranger—would want to defend him. “No sir. You go first. Why’d you decide to take my case? What’s in it for you?”

  Momma stood in the corner and crossed her arms. She cleared her throat and gave her son one of those glances that needed no words.

  Even Blake caught her unspoken scolding. “It’s okay, Mrs. Harris. A valid question.” He straightened, slapped his knees, and gazed at the ceiling, then cleared his throat. “When I was a young man—I’d just started my law practice in Berkeley—I received a telegram from my mother, asking me to come home to Arkansas. Said she had something important to tell me. Well, I knew she didn’t have much money. And for her to send a telegram, and with my pa off fighting in the First War, well, I had a bad feeling.” He stood and started pacing. “So I wired Ma that I’d take the next train home. She met me at the station, and when I saw the look on her face, it confirmed my fears. Pa was dead. Killed by the Germans.” He turned around and looked at Terrence. “I still remember the anger—no, the rage I felt. Thought I might go crazy for a bit.”

  Hearing those words, seeing Blake’s piercing eyes, Terrence’s heart raced. Rage. Yeah, that’s just what he’d felt the day he learned the Japs killed Daddy.

  “I couldn’t imagine not ever seeing Pa again. Couldn’t imagine Ma living alone.”

  Terrence understood the distant look in Blake’s eyes. Sorrow. Loss.

  Anger returned to the attorney’s face. He continued, his voice hoarse. “I hated the Germans. Hated them! I wanted to go over there and kill every one ’em. But when we found out Pa was dead, the blasted war had just ended. There’d be no revenge.” He took a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his forehead.

  Terrence pressed his hands to his eyes to stop the burn of tears. He could tell Mr. Blake still felt it. Did this mean the anger would never end? “How’d you get over it?”

  Blake wiped his glasses. “The night of Pa’s funeral, my ma told me something I’ve never forgotten. Countries may go to war, but that doesn’t mean that there needs to be a war between people.”