The Red Kimono

by Jan Morrill

  She skipped up to her brother, trying to look like she had not a care in the world. “What are you two doing?” she asked.

  Nobu’s reply was clipped. “Just finished playing ball.”

  Why was he in such a bad mood? Did he know she’d been playing with Sam? And Kazu. He was always joking around with her. Why was he so quiet now? “Hi, Kazu,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  Something was definitely up. She’d been caught. But how could Nobu know? Had he been watching them play hide-and-seek? She looked around again.

  Whatever you do, Sam, don’t come out now.

  She couldn’t stand the tension. “What’s wrong with you two sourpusses anyway?”

  Nobu and Kazu looked at each other. Kazu spoke first. “You tell her. She’s your sister. I’m going home.” He shook his head as he walked away. “Home. Yeah, right.”

  She watched Kazu mope. Anxiety pinched harder. She decided it must be something besides being caught with Sam. But not knowing was even worse. “What is it, Nobu?”

  At just the wrong time, Sam came running around the corner of the barracks. “Here I am! I was hiding behind the big oak tree. I won—”

  Sachi rolled her eyes and gasped, then shook her head at Sam.

  Go away!

  It was a useless attempt to chase him away. He wouldn’t know what her actions meant—she hadn’t had the heart to tell him she wasn’t allowed to play with him. How could she tell him her mother thought his family was eta?

  Nobu placed his hand on her shoulder and scooted her along. “We need to go to dinner now.”

  “Bye, Sachi,” Sam said, skipping toward his apartment. “See you tomorrow. Same time, same place.”

  Sachi turned to wave, resisting her brother’s nudge. She gritted her teeth and swallowed hard to push back the lump in her throat. When her sadness was replaced by anger, she was grateful for it. “That was rude. What’s the big deal, anyway? And why are you and Kazu in such a bad mood?”

  He stopped, grabbed Sachi’s chin and drew her to look into his eyes. “Didn’t Mama tell you not to play with Sam anymore?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No ‘but’ Sachi! You must listen to Mama.” He walked away.

  Who did he think he was, Papa? She ran to catch up. “Are you going to tell?”

  “Not if you agree that you won’t see Sam again.”

  He might as well have ripped her heart out. Her own brother. “Okay,” she replied. “Just don’t tell Mama.”

  “Let’s go eat now,” he said.

  Something else was bothering him, but she was too mad at her mean-old brother to care anymore. They walked in silence, until she realized they were going straight to the cafeteria. “Aren’t we going to get Mama first?”

  “She’s not hungry. We’ll bring something back for her.”

  Now she knew something was wrong. “Nobu! I’m tired of asking. I know something’s up. What is it?”

  “We’re leaving in five days.”

  “What?” There it was. That feeling. Like someone took a vacuum and started sucking her breath out of her. Memories whipped past. Spending time with Sam. Trying to teach him how to jump rope. Giggling when he dropped the piece of cake he’d tried to sneak out of the mess hall. Wondering what she liked better about Sam, his smile or his eyes. “Are we going home?”

  “Home?” He snarled. “Yeah. Right. Heck, no. We’re being sent to Arkansas.”

  “Arkansas? Isn’t Arkansas on the other side of the country? Why so far away?” The vacuum whined and drew faster, sucking up memories like they were pieces of dirt on the ground. She imagined the look in Sam’s eyes when she told him she was leaving.

  Nobu shoved his hands into his pockets and walked faster. “How am I supposed to know? You think we’re allowed to ask questions around here or something?”

  Sachi wasn’t hungry anymore either. “I’m going home,” she said, tired of trying to get her brother to talk. She ran, faster and faster, hoping if she ran fast enough, she could escape the tears that chased her.

  She arrived at her front door and leaned over to catch her breath. There, pressed into the dusty earth were the flowers she’d planted. Wilted. Brown. She knelt to touch one of the blooms, once bright red but now the color of dried blood, and propped it against the wall. When she let go, the lifeless flower fell again.

  Mama opened the door. “Sachi? Why aren’t you at dinner?”

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “Have you been crying?” Mama dabbed her cheeks.

  Sachi turned away and wiped her tears with dirty hands. “No.”

  “I think you have. Did Nobu tell you?”

  “Yes, Mama. I can’t believe it’s already time to leave. I was just making friends—” Her voice quivered and she wrapped her arms around her mother. Finally, she gave up fighting back tears.

  “There’s Nobu,” Mama said.

  He ambled toward them, hands still in his pockets.

  “You aren’t going to dinner either?” Mama asked.

  “Nope. Lost my appetite.” He took his thumb and rubbed a dirt smudge from Sachi’s cheek. “Guess you told Mama you’ve been playing with Sam?”

  Sachi’s eyes widened. How could he just blurt it out like that? Brothers could be so stupid sometimes. She wanted to hit him.

  Mama glared at her.

  Cringing, Sachi backed away.

  For what seemed like a very long time, nobody spoke. Then, Mama crossed her arms and said, “No, Sachiko didn’t say anything about playing with Sam. She told me she was crying about leaving this place.”

  Nobu wiped a bead of sweat that trickled near his eyes. “Oh,” he said, shrugging at Sachi.

  Mama opened the door and waited. “Let’s go inside.”

  Sachi and Nobu faced each other, their eyes communicating what they couldn’t say out loud in front of Mama.

  How could you, Nobu?

  Sorry! I thought you told her already.

  “Children. Inside.”

  Nobu went in first. Sachi followed. She couldn’t resist the urge to punch him. “I owe you,” she whispered through gritted teeth.

  The front door had hardly closed before Mama began to scold. “Nobu, go to your room. Sachi, you sit down here.” She pointed to the bed.

  She did not want to hear this again. She watched Mama pace back and forth and pretended to listen to her rant. Her voice got higher with every word she spoke and her arms flailed about like birds in a hurricane, pointing in the direction of where Sam lived. At Sachi. At herself.

  “I told you … butcher … eta … never listen.” Mama’s eyes squinted and the skin on her face reddened.

  Then, at last, silence. It was over.

  Mama turned away. Her shoulders rose with a deep breath. “What would Papa think of you now?”

  Those words, Sachi could not ignore.

  Chapter 33

  Terrence

  September 20, 1942

  Terrence stared at the small table in the corner of his cell, where a stack of books beckoned him, nagged him in a weird, silent way that he should be studying. Kinda like Momma used to tell him he should be doing his chores—without saying a single word. Just a look in her eyes.

  Boredom weighed on him like a soggy blanket. But reading about history? Doing math problems? Nope, that sure wasn’t what he had in mind.

  An inmate down the corridor yelled. He’d been calling out for over an hour. “Hey, guard! Ain’t it yard time yet?”

  Homework. Yeah, right. Who could concentrate in this noisy place anyway?

  Thoughts of Nobu and his family crept into his mind, like seeping water from melted ice. No way to stop it. Water was gonna go where it wanted to go. The newspapers Mr. Blake brought him every week were full of articles about the Japanese being sent to camps. Some of the articles said it was because the government didn’t want to take a chance the Japs were spies. Others said sending them away was for their own protection. Either way, they’d been sent away again
st their will.

  He shook his head and stared at the four walls surrounding him. Nobu was in a hellhole too. Only it was different for him. He didn’t do anything to deserve being there. Neither did his mother or little sister.

  Being stuck in that tiny cell gave Terrence plenty of time to think about things. Even things he didn’t want to think about. No matter how hard he tried to keep certain thoughts behind a dam, thoughts of that day in the park kept leaking through. Yeah, it’d be easy to keep saying it was all because he found out Daddy was killed at Pearl Harbor. And maybe that was the biggest part of it. But thinking about it day after day had rearranged stuff in his mind, made him ask questions he’d never thought of before.

  How much of a role did the color of skin play in Mr. Kimura’s death? The color of Terrence’s skin. The color of Ray’s and Joe’s skin. The color of Mr. Kimura’s skin.

  He was mad all right, that day they’d gotten the telegram. Maybe he did want to get even. But would he have thought of “getting a Jap” on his own, if Ray hadn’t put it to him?

  He remembered thoughts that had flooded his mind as he ran away from his house that morning, leaving Momma on the porch with Brother Harold. They were painful thoughts that stabbed at the crushing thought that Daddy was dead. Thoughts of Daddy being turned away at store counters. Not being seated in a restaurant. Being told colored folk weren’t allowed in that part of a room.

  Yeah, America was a country for white men, all right. No place for colored folk. And yet, Daddy served in the white man’s navy at Pearl Harbor. Lost his life for it.

  He remembered the pang of disgust he felt when Ray first said it. “We’re gonna get you a Jap. Get one for your daddy.”

  Strangest of all, lately Terrence had been asking himself what role the color of his white friends’ skin had played that day at the park, watching Mr. Kimura from behind the bushes. Would he have agreed to go along with the beating if Ray and Joe hadn’t been white?

  Days and days of boredom. Nothing else to do but think. It had forced him to deal with memories that had been hidden in faraway corners of his mind. A tug-of-war with things he might not want to admit. When he’d hid in those bushes at the park, they’d been nothing more than fleeting thoughts, flashing through his mind like lightning.

  Can’t say no to a white boy. Especially one who calls me “chicken.” If I go along, maybe he’ll see me not so different from him.

  But what kept pounding in his mind was the thought that finally justified it all.

  Get a Jap for Daddy.

  And with that, all the other reasons were gone, scattering away like creepy bugs back to safe, dark places.

  He wished he could explain it all to Nobu. But could he ever make his friend understand? Hell. The way things were going, he’d probably never see him again anyway. Probably just as well.

  He paced the floor of his small cell. Where were those guards? The jerk down the way was right. Wasn’t it about yard time?

  The notebook next to the stack of books caught his attention. He sat on the bed and fanned its blank pages. A letter. Maybe he’d write a letter to Nobu. Maybe he’d send it, maybe not. Couldn’t hurt to write it down on paper.

  He leaned against his pillow, propped the notebook on his knees, and began to write.

  “Yard time!” The guard’s words were followed by the sound of shuffling and cheers that echoed down the row.

  Terrence stared at pages and pages of words he’d written to Nobu. How long had he been writing, anyway? He’d lost track.

  I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was your father. I about lost my mind when I got that telegram telling us Daddy was dead. I’ll never forgive myself. I’m sorry.

  “Hey,” the guard’s keys jingled at the door, “you going out, or not?”

  Terrence closed the notebook and leapt off the bed. ’Course he was going out. Being outside in the yard was the only thing he looked forward to every day. That is, long as he could stay out of the way of Peachie’s gang. Why’d they always have it in for him?

  He stepped into the long yard, surrounded by chain link and barbed wire, and took a deep breath. Fresh air. Coming out of that building was every bit as sweet smelling as filing back in would be stale. He walked around the yard, scoping out who to talk to. Careful not to make eye contact with the wrong inmate. The whites huddled in a shady corner to the left. They were the ones to avoid. No eye contact. In the far corner on the right, a couple of black inmates gathered around a bench. He walked over to them. Safety in numbers.

  “Hey, man.”

  “What’s going on?”

  It was the usual bullshit conversation about nothing, until someone tapped his shoulder and whispered in his ear.

  “Yeah. What’s going on?” He recognized the voice. Peachie. His hot breath, sour with stale coffee and cigarettes, turned Terrence’s stomach and sent shivers down his back.

  He hunkered, glanced at Peachie, then returned his gaze to the ground. “Not much.”

  Two other whites lurched behind Peachie. “Not much, huh?”

  “Just trying to mind my own business.” Terrence gave a quick glance around the yard to check the location of the guards.

  Peachie got in his face. “Hey, boy. Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he said, spit spraying.

  Terrence gagged and wiped his face with his sleeve.

  Peachie nudged his pal on his left. “Anyone looking?”

  “Nope. Coast is clear.”

  Grabbing Terrence by the collar, Peachie pulled him so close he could hardly focus on the big, ugly face. He fought to keep his feet on the ground. Struggled to breathe.

  One of the black guys in the crowd spoke up. “Hey man, he wasn’t bothering nobody. Leave him alone.”

  Peachie’s eyes bulged and he loosened his grip on Terrence. “You wanna be a part of this?”

  “Nah. Nah, man.”

  Terrence felt the grip tighten again.

  “You ain’t so tough without a guard around, are you, nigger?”

  What was he supposed to say to that?

  Peachie shook him. “You gonna answer me? I said, are you, nigger?”

  The goddamn fat shit. Terrence wanted to shove his knees into Peachie’s stinking balls. But he didn’t want no trouble neither. He tried to look around. Where were those worthless guards? “Guess not,” he said, still struggling for air.

  Finally, with a punch to Terrence’s gut, Peachie tossed him to the ground and stood over him. The monster blocked the sun with his dark form. He cleared his throat and spit on Terrence. “Nah. I didn’t think so. You ain’t never gonna be tough. Ain’t never gonna be nothing. ’Cause you just a stupid nigger.”

  The other two inmates laughed with Peachie. “Come on,” one of them said. “Let’s get outta here before someone sees us.”

  Terrence lay stone still. Not because he was afraid. Not because he was hurt. He was remembering.

  Spit on the dirty Jap.

  Sometimes the memory returned like a cold slap in the face, sometimes like a punch in the gut.

  Terrence watched clouds drift by like fat, white monsters eating up the sun, while Peachie’s words pounded in his head.

  ’Cause you just a stupid nigger.

  Chapter 34

  Sachi

  September 20, 1942

  Suddenly my heart

  Shivers when I catch a glimpse

  Of Mama’s cold glare

  The question was like a slap in the face.

  Mama wiped her nose with a handkerchief and asked again, “What would Papa think of you now?”

  The words pulsed in Sachi’s ears. What-would-Papa-think-what-would-Papa-think-what-would-Papa-think.

  Mama glared at her, and she returned her mother’s stare. Like chess players Sachi had seen at the park, she waited for her opponent’s next move, while anger, hurt, memories, and loss swirled and expanded inside, threatening to explode.

  Mama moved. Turned the lamp on. That was all it took to break Sachi’s gaze
and light an emotional fuse.

  Tears wet her cheeks as her words sputtered. “What … would … Papa think of me? What would Papa think of me, you ask?”

  The fuse spent, she exploded. “How can you ask me that question? What would Papa think? I’ll tell you what he’d think. He’d be proud that I do not judge Sam for what his father does. He would not believe in this eta baloney.”

  Nobu threw his curtain back and grabbed Sachi. “Stop it! How dare you talk to Mama like that!”

  Mama didn’t move. Said nothing.

  Sachi tore away from him and darted toward her mother. She tapped Mama’s shoulder and asked, “Do you hear me? The real question is, what would Papa think of you right now?”

  Nobu pulled Sachi away and shook her. “I said, stop!”

  She punched Nobu in the stomach. “Leave me alone! You’re not Papa, so quit acting like you are. It’s all your fault, anyway. If you hadn’t told, none of this would have happened.”

  He held her tighter and she couldn’t break from his grasp.

  But she continued her fight with Mama. “Answer me! What would he think of you? I’ll tell you what. He would say you are no better than the Americans who look down on the Japanese. The same Americans who put us—”

  When Mama whipped around, Sachi knew she’d gone too far. Never had she seen that look in her mother’s eyes. Was it rage or pain reflected there? She wasn’t sure, but wished she could take back some of her words. Rewind them like the motion pictures Papa used to take her to see.

  “Come on, Sach,” Nobu said, pulling her into his room. He shut the curtain and whispered, “See what you did? I told you to stop.”

  “See what you did,” she said, pushing away from him. “If you hadn’t said anything about Sam, Mama would never have found out. And how could she say that about Papa?” She threw herself onto Nobu’s bed. “Papa would be on my side. I just know it.”

  He sat next to her. “You know Sach, I don’t know what’s more important to Mama. Respect, or saving face. She thinks if we don’t respect her, we don’t love her. And right or wrong, she was raised to believe that if we associate with certain people we will lose face. You know what that means, don’t you?”