The Red Kimono

by Jan Morrill

  “I don’t know Momma. What if he’s wrong?”

  “Shower time.” The guard’s voice startled Terrence.

  God, he hated showers at the jail. After almost four months of showers there, he hoped he’d never see another yellow-green tile again.

  The water barely trickled and was never hot enough. He tried to keep from touching the slimy tiles. No privacy. That’s why he always took a shower at the end of the row. Least then there’d only be a naked body on one side of him. He shuddered. Sure hated looking at those naked bodies. Even worse was having those naked bodies looking at him.

  A fat, white guy walked in—white except for the blue-green tattoos all over his body. He’d heard rumors about him. Peachie, they called him, ’cause he was from Georgia. His real name was probably Francis or something. Anyway, Terrence knew he was a real troublemaker when Peachie took the shower next to him. Eleven empty shower heads and he had to take the one right next to Terrence.

  He figured he’d try to lighten Peachie up a bit. “How’s it going?”

  But fat white boy wasn’t having anything to do with lightening up. “That’s my shower you’re standing under.”

  Terrence turned his back and rolled his eyes. Sure didn’t want any trouble before showing up in court. Peachie’s hot breath on the back of Terrence’s neck gave him goose bumps.

  “I’m talking to you, nigger.”

  Nausea rolled in Terrence’s stomach and adrenaline pumped through him, tensing every muscle. He turned and got up in the tattooed man’s ugly face. “What do you want? Huh? Tell me what you want. You want this shower? Here. Take it.” His heart pounded invincibility through his veins with every word he spoke.

  Peachie’s eyes grew larger, madder, until Terrence thought they might pop out of his head.

  But he couldn’t stop himself. “There’s eleven other places empty. But you want this one? Okay. Take it, then leave me the fuck alone.”

  He was two showers down when Peachie grabbed his arm and held it tight. “I think we’re gonna make this a segregated shower. That means you’re gonna wait for me to finish mine before you can take yours. Whites shower first. Coloreds shower last. You got that, nigger?”

  Terrence ripped his arm from the grip. Peachie’s fingernails left bloody trails on his wet skin. Terrence’s opposite fist came around like it had a mind of its own, itching to make contact with that big, ugly face.

  “Hey! You two break it up!” The guard’s hand clutched a club.

  Terrence moved back and pulled his fist behind his back. Don’t cause trouble today.

  “Get over here, Harris. Back to your cell you go,” the guard said, grabbing Terrence. Cuffing him, he called to Peachie’s guard. “Hey, Kelley! Get in here and take your guy back to his cell.”

  Nasty jeers and raucous cheers followed him down the hall. It all depended on the color of the howling inmate. He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself.

  “You best hope that lawyer of yours figures out a way to get you outta here,” the guard said. “Guess you know by now you’ve gone and made the wrong person mad. He’s got a lot of friends in this place.”

  “Hey, man. I didn’t do nothing. I was just minding my own business, taking a shower.”

  The guard sneered. “Don’t you know by now, it doesn’t matter what you did or didn’t do? You’re colored. He’s white. That’s the only thing that matters. Inside this jail and outside in the real world. Better get used to that or you’re gonna have a real hard time.”

  Deep down, he’d known all along that’s how it was, but he’d been able to pretend it wasn’t so. Yeah, the white kids at school treated him a little different. He might have played on the same baseball and basketball teams as them, but how often did one of his white friends ask him over to one of their houses?

  He returned to his cell and held his bed sheet against his arm, watching red spots ooze onto white before closing his eyes, trying to clear his mind. He inhaled deep to settle down before seeing Mr. Blake.

  When it looked like the bleeding had stopped, he carefully pulled the clean, ironed shirt over his arm. Staring at each button, he moved from the tail of the shirt to the collar and wondered whether to tell Blake about what happened.

  It was only a short drive from the jail to the courthouse. The front window was down and a cool breeze reached Terrence in the back seat. Smelled like the ocean. He stared at things he’d always taken for granted before. Seagulls fighting over scraps on the sidewalk. Music drifting in from the car at the stoplight. The guy on the corner, taking a drag off his cigarette while he watched pretty girls walk by, their skirts swishing back and forth. He didn’t get the chance to be outside much, and now he felt sick just thinking about spending the rest of his life locked up in a smelly cell.

  An hour before, Terrence had wanted to be out of his cell and in the courtroom. But once he arrived at the courthouse, he wasn’t so sure that jail cell was a bad place to be. What made him think today would be any different from other days at this place?

  He walked handcuffed through a crowd of shouting gawkers. They glared at him; the colored boy who killed the Jap. Some waved signs and shouted as the guards hustled him through the crowd.

  “You’ll get what a Negro deserves.”

  “Good riddance to the Jap.”

  What bothered him more—the clowns who thought he should be punished because he was colored, or the ones who thought Mr. Kimura deserved to die because he was a Jap? Hell, there were probably jerks out there who had a hard time figuring out which side to be on; they didn’t like any color but white. A pit settled in his stomach. What kind of people would be sitting on the jury that would judge him?

  Maybe Mr. Blake was right. Take the manslaughter plea.

  He walked in and found Momma sitting in the front row. She smiled as he passed, her eyes glistening.

  Mr. Blake was already seated at the defendant’s table. “You ready for this?” he asked.

  “I guess. Don’t have much choice, do I?”

  “Sure you’ve got a choice. But I think you’ll be taking a big risk to go with a jury trial.” Blake jotted notes on a tablet. “The judge’ll come in soon. We’ll find out if he’ll grant us a separate trial, then we’ll make our plea.”

  Our plea? My plea.

  He hated the thought of admitting to manslaughter, even if it was true. As long as he kept the confession to himself, it didn’t seem so real. It was kind of like standing behind a big, closed door. Massive and dead-bolted, it protected him from something unknown and scary that stood behind it. Long as he didn’t admit it, the door was closed, and he was hidden, safe.

  But Momma said they had to trust Mr. Blake. And mostly, he did.

  She rubbed his back and he turned to her. “You look good, son.” But her eyes widened.

  He followed her gaze to where she stared at his shirt, where the scratches had bled onto white. Damn! It was the last thing she needed to see.

  Her voice rose, and a dozen faces turned to look at her. “Son! What’s that blood on your arm?”

  He folded his arms over the blood stain. “Nothing, Momma. Don’t worry about it.”

  “What you mean ’nothing?’ Look like something to me. Who did this to you? And why?”

  Now, Mr. Blake stared, too. “Terrence, what happened?”

  “I … I just scratched—”

  The bailiff’s voice interrupted. “All rise for the Honorable Judge Anderson.”

  Terrence’s heart jumped and he spun around, grateful he didn’t have to explain, at least not yet. He watched the judge enter the room and tried to read his expression. Poker-faced, he held Terrence’s file—his life—in his right hand. His mouth went dry and his tongue swelled so it was hard to swallow.

  “Please, be seated,” Judge Anderson said and looked up at Terrence. “Mr. Blake. Mr. Harris.” He glanced at the prosecutor. “Mr. Foster.” Then, he began to flip through the papers in the folder. “I have reviewed the documents you presented and see r
easonable cause to accept your motion for a separate trial from Mr. Grant and Mr. Morrison.” He removed his glasses and watched Terrence. “I understand Mr. Harris wishes to make a plea. Mr. Foster, will you please review the factual basis for this plea?”

  Foster stood. “On December 23, 1941, in Alameda County, California, Mr. Terrence Harris did knowingly participate in the killing of a human being …”

  Terrence felt dizzy.

  Did knowingly participate in the killing of a human being. But no! He didn’t know he would kill Mr. Kimura. His mind drifted, trying to run away from what was being said.

  The judge spoke again. “Mr. Harris, is that a true and accurate statement of what happened, and of the crime to which you are admitting?”

  Blake nudged Terrence and whispered, “You need to answer the judge.”

  Strength drained from Terrence’s legs. His knees trembled. He leaned against the table and stared at veins that bulged from his hands.

  Say it! No, don’t—there’ll be no turning back! Say it!

  He took a deep breath. “Yes, your honor.”

  “And Mr. Harris, do you understand that by pleading guilty to manslaughter, under California law that it is a second-degree felony punishable by up to fifteen years in state prison, regardless of whether the act may have been intentional or not?”

  “Yessir.”

  Judge Anderson closed the file. “Mr. Foster, do you have a recommendation as to sentencing in this case?”

  “Yes, your honor. Pursuant to negotiations with Mr. Blake in this matter, the state of California recommends that the court impose a sentence of ten years of incarceration with the California Secretary of Corrections, with Mr. Harris to serve twenty-four months of the sentence here at the county jail, with the remainder suspended pending successful completion of standard probation.”

  Amidst the gasps in the courtroom, he recognized Momma’s muffled cry.

  “Mr. Blake, do you have anything to add?” asked Judge Anderson.

  “No, your honor, I believe the court is fully-apprised of the pertinent facts and circumstances concerning Mr. Harris’s crime and you have seen the extent of his regret and remorse. We request the court accept Mr. Foster’s recommendation, and assure the court that it is in the best interests of the people of the state of California.”

  Terrence wanted to turn around and tell Momma he’d be okay. But he was frozen. Ashamed that Momma had to hear him plead guilty. Afraid of all the people staring at his back, probably thinking he deserved a longer sentence.

  Judge Anderson spoke again. “Very well. Mr. Harris, you have pled guilty to manslaughter, a second-degree felony. Therefore, it is the judgment of this court that you be committed to the custody of the California Department of Corrections for a period of ten years. Eight years of the sentence shall be suspended upon the completion of twenty-four months incarceration in the county jail, and successful completion of two years of probation. It is so ordered.”

  It was done. He had pled guilty to manslaughter. The big, locked door that had protected him was open.

  Chapter 28

  Sachi

  May 2, 1942

  Sachi sat at the edge of the bed and pretended to read a book. But it was only a place to hide while she watched her mother get dressed for breakfast.

  Finally, Mama had agreed to go out. Since arriving at Santa Anita, she had refused to leave the stall they lived in, and Sachi couldn’t understand why. She had never been shy before. At home in Berkeley, she went out all the time: to the grocery store, parent meetings at school, afternoon tea with friends. But at Santa Anita, she hardly ever left, even to go to the mess hall.

  Mama stared into the tiny mirror that hung on the wall and brushed her long hair. She pulled it into a ponytail before wrapping it in a bun and poking hairpins all around. How pretty she had always been. But as Sachi studied Mama’s face, she noticed it had changed. Now, her mother looked tired and pale. Beneath her once smiling eyes were dark circles that left Sachi feeling unsettled. Something wasn’t right. Mama didn’t act like Mama. She used to fix meals and serve her family at the table. Now Nobu brought meals from the mess hall. She used to keep the house in order. These days, it was up to Sachi.

  Maybe Mama missed Papa as much as she did. Maybe even more.

  She watched Mama pat the dark circles under her eyes, then run her fingers over her cheekbones, too prominent now that she’d lost so much weight. Her black, silken hair that Sachi loved to run her fingers through had begun to show signs of gray that streaked from her creased forehead.

  But on this day, Sachi shooed away thoughts that left her uneasy. For the first time, Mama said she would go to breakfast. Maybe it meant the return of the mother she’d missed since leaving their home.

  Mama turned from the mirror and took a deep breath. “I’m almost ready.”

  “Me, too,” Sachi said, smiling. “Nobu, are you ready?”

  He answered from behind the curtain. “You two go on. I’m going to the showers first. I’ll meet you there.”

  Sachi put her book down and scooted off the bed. She wiggled Nobu’s curtain and whispered. “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah, what is it?”

  She tiptoed into the corner of the apartment that Nobu called his bedroom and closed the curtain behind her. Leaning over his bed, she whispered, “This is the first time Mama is going to breakfast with us. You can take a shower later.”

  “Ah, come on, Sach.” He rolled over and faced the wall. “I’m sick of waiting in those lines at the shower. I’m going during breakfast when there won’t be so many people waiting.”

  Frustration threatened to chase her appetite away. This might be the start of Mama getting back to normal, and it felt as fragile as a dandelion puff, held between an inhale and exhale.

  Dandelion puffs. Fairy balls. How many times had she closed her eyes to make a wish before blowing on the puffs, then watching the tiny fairies fly away to make it come true?

  “Sachi, no!” Papa had scolded when she found them on their lawn in Berkeley. He told her each of her little “fairies” would grow into a weed.

  You mean grow in to a new wish to make. So she always made sure Papa wasn’t looking before she made her wish.

  Blowing dandelions used to work. But lately, none of her wishes came true.

  No way would she let Nobu ruin Mama’s morning. She leaned in close and whispered. “I mean it. You need to come with us. Please.”

  He sat up and huffed. “You can be a real nag, you know?”

  She grinned, pleased with herself. “Good. Now hurry up and get dressed,” she said, then returned to Mama. Closing the curtain, she reported, “Nobu said he’d be out in a minute.”

  Sachi stepped out of the dark apartment into the sunlight and squinted against its brightness. A cloud of dust hovered over the path as they walked to the mess hall, but above, the sky was brilliant blue, cloudless. Mama held her purse close and walked just behind.

  A man jogged by and turned to greet them as he passed. “Ohayogozaimasu,” he said. “A good morning, neh?”

  Mama smiled and nodded. “Hai.”

  Sachi couldn’t wait to show Mama the flowers that some of the residents had planted. She especially liked two of the gardens—purple and yellow pansies in one, bright red begonias in the other. Maybe she’d let Sachi plant flowers, too. As far back as she could remember, she’d looked forward to spring, time to plant seeds with Papa. He’d help her water them, and weeks later, when the first colorful blooms appeared, they celebrated together.

  “See the pretty flowers,” Sachi asked her mother. “I like the purple ones best. Which do you like?”

  “The purple ones are nice.”

  “Don’t they brighten the doorway? Do you think we could plant some in front of our door?”

  “Perhaps,” Mama said. “We shall see.”

  They passed horse stall after horse stall, until several rows down, they passed the showers. Nobu punched Sachi’s arm.

&n
bsp; “Ouch!” She rubbed where he’d hit her. “Why did you do that?”

  “You see there?” he asked, pointing. “Two people in line. That’s all. Two people!”

  “Children!”

  Unaffected by the scolding, Sachi smiled. The old Mama was back.

  Dozens of people stood outside the mess hall. Another long line. Maybe Nobu was right. So many waited in lines to eat. To take showers. To buy supplies. Even to go to the bathroom. Lines, lines everywhere. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

  But today, she didn’t care if Nobu had to stand and wait. He needed to be there for Mama. She whiffed the air. Even oatmeal smelled good in the fresh air and sunshine, so why would her grouchy brother complain? The week before, they’d waited in the rain, and she’d shivered so hard it didn’t matter what scents came from the kitchen. It could have been brussels sprouts for all she cared. She only wanted to get inside where it was warm and dry.

  “Hi, Sachi!”

  Her heart leaped at the sound of Sam’s voice. When she saw him approach with his parents, she checked the yellow ribbon in her hair and moistened her lips. Then, she skipped over to meet them.

  “Hi, Sam!” Excitement bubbled inside. She ran back to the line and touched Mama’s hand. Finally, Sam would get to meet Mama. “This is my mother, Sumiko Kimura. Mama, this is my friend, Sam, and his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Uchida.” She had the urge to giggle and felt the warmth of a blush across her cheeks. What a good morning—Mama was having breakfast at the cafeteria and meeting Sam and his parents. She hoped Mama would like Sam as much as she did.

  “Ohayogozaimasu.” Mama bowed to the Uchida family. “Sachi has told me about you, Sam.”

  “Mr. Uchida owned a butchery in Los Angeles,” Sachi said, beaming. “Sam says he wants to be a butcher someday, too.”

  Mama’s lips pursed and her body stiffened. “How nice.” She turned toward the mess hall door. “This line moves slowly, does it not?”

  A prickly silence placed a barricade in the narrow space between them.