The Red Kimono

by Jan Morrill

  “Just what I was thinking.” Terrence smiled. Maybe Carter wouldn’t talk about his sister, but he’d found another thing they had in common. They both missed their mothers’ cooking.

  He took a bite of potato. Man, it was cold. Needed salt, too. “So what do you miss most about your ma’s cooking?”

  Carter sneered as he chewed a piece of meat. “Aw, come on, man. Why do you wanna talk about my family so bad?” He spit the mushy clump out and put his fork down, plopped against the back of his chair and closed his eyes. “Fried chicken. I miss her fried chicken.”

  Terrence’s tongue tingled with the taste of it. “Oh, yeah. My momma’s fried chicken sure is something to miss, too. But I gotta say I miss her pot roast the most. Shoot. In here I even miss the oatmeal she used to make me eat every morning, and that stuff used to make me gag.”

  “Man, Jenny hates oatmeal. Wasn’t nothing Ma could do to get her to eat it.”

  Jenny. Must be his sister. Terrence hid a smile that swelled from inside. Didn’t want to scare Carter off. “Heck. I don’t know anyone who likes oatmeal. Patty and Missy like Momma’s pancakes for breakfast best. Me? Give me ham and scrambled eggs.”

  Chapter 45

  Sachi

  Thanksgiving Day, 1942

  Thanksgiving blessings

  Elusive as butterflies

  Each one a treasure

  Sachi stared at the ceiling, feeling her body wake with a good, sleepy stretch and yawn. She listened to the patter of light rain outside and imagined Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dancing on the rooftop, like they did in the movies. The pitter-patter took her back to California, where she woke to the irregular cadence of drops falling from the elm tree in her backyard to the roof above her bed. Drip. Drip-drip.

  But in camp, other noises accompanied the sound of the rain—Nobu’s snores rumbling like thunder from behind his curtain, and the sound of plop, plop, plop from the bucket Mama placed by the door to catch water from the leaky roof. Nobu had tried to patch the holes with tin can lids, but somehow water always found a way to drip, drip, drip.

  Mama lay still and quiet next to her, but Sachi knew she wasn’t asleep. Every once in a while, she heard her sniffle, cluck her tongue. What was Mama thinking about? The rain? Papa? Thanksgiving Day?

  Sachi remained still and pretended she was asleep, too, listening to the sounds of the world waking; wind howled between the rows of barracks, rain whooshed against her window.

  How would the residents of Rohwer celebrate Thanksgiving? Many of them were Buddhist. But Papa always said Buddhist or not, there was always plenty to be thankful for. So they had celebrated with the American customs: turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, and pumpkin pie.

  She remembered her last Thanksgiving morning—the sounds and smells that drifted into her bedroom from the kitchen. Utensils clanked against pans, drawers and cabinets slammed, as Papa and Mama worked together to prepare the turkey. She had giggled about the way they whispered to each other so they wouldn’t wake their children. But all that clanking and banging could wake the neighbors next door!

  And oh, the scents of that morning. Hot turkey broth mixed with stuffing. Pumpkin pies baking in the oven. Wood burning in the fireplace. But that morning at Rohwer, the holiday aromas were only imaginary. She breathed in, yet no matter how deeply she inhaled, there was nothing of Thanksgiving in the air, only the smell of wet dirt, wood, and tar paper.

  She closed her eyes and tears began to burn. The first Thanksgiving without Papa.

  Mama turned toward the wall.

  She must be thinking about Papa, too. Sachi wanted to move closer to Mama’s warm body and wrap her arms around her for comfort. But she was afraid they’d both start to cry. No, not on Thanksgiving. Papa wouldn’t want that.

  She felt like she was bobbing up and down in an ocean of happy memories that made her sad to remember. Acknowledging the emptiness she and Mama shared would surely pull her under.

  “What are you thankful for, Sachi-chan?” Papa had asked her that last year, as she watched him carve the turkey.

  “Turkey!” she’d answered, sneaking a piece and putting it in her mouth.

  Her tongue tingled with the memory of its taste.

  Papa had frowned. “No more turkey until you give me a real list.”

  Then, she’d recited her list to him: “Well, I’m thankful for you, Papa. And Mama, Taro, and Nobu. My friends, a bed to sleep in.” She looked up and thought some more, before sneaking another piece of turkey. “And, of course, food to eat.” She grinned.

  Everything was different now. True, she still had most of what she was thankful for that Thanksgiving, but she was missing what she’d named first on her list. Papa. Still, she knew he would want her to focus on what she had, not on what she didn’t have.

  Her friends. How thankful she was for Jubie. So different from any other friend she had known before. Funny, sassy, silly, adventurous. And best of all, mischievous!

  What a daring surprise they’d planned for the day—a homemade meal, right in Sachi’s very own apartment. The mess hall was probably serving turkey, but where was the fun in waiting in line while a lukewarm lump of gravy was plopped onto meat and potatoes? Besides, she doubted Mama would think the day was special enough to go to the mess hall. She’d probably stay in the apartment like she did every other day.

  What a surprise it would be for Mama when Jubie, her mother, and Auntie Bess showed up at the door with turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and sweet potato pie.

  Two days before, she and Jubie had sat by the creek, planning the event. “Sweet potato pie?” Sachi had asked Jubie. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Tastes like pumpkin. ’Spect you’ll like it, ’specially the way Auntie Bess adds extra nutmeg. Know what else?” Excitement sparkled from Jubie’s eyes. “I’m gonna ask her to bring you some of her special recipe pickled okra. Betcha never had that.”

  Sachi crinkled her nose. “Pickled okra? What in the world is pickled okra? Doesn’t sound very tasty, but I guess I’ll give it a try. Hey! Bet you’ve never had rice for Thanksgiving, either. That will be my contribution—I’ll make a pot of rice. Deal?”

  Jubie held her hand out to shake on it. “Deal.”

  The sun had begun to set, and a cold wind rattled red and gold leaves that still clung to their branches. Some whirled down to rest with those scattered on the ground.

  Sachi stood and shut her eyes. She began to twirl, round and round. Round and round. Remembering.

  Papa, see? I dance like the leaves.

  As long as her eyes remained closed, she could almost make herself believe he was right next to her, watching and smiling.

  “It’s kinda like snow falling, ain’t it?” Jubie had asked.

  Her words had broken the spell.

  When Sachi opened her eyes Papa disappeared. She collapsed to the ground and stared up at the falling leaves. “Snow? I wouldn’t know. I’ve only seen pictures.”

  Jubie stopped spinning and sat beside her, breathless. “Huh? You ain’t never seen real snow? I thought ever body saw snow.”

  “Nope. It doesn’t snow where I lived in California.”

  “Girl, you in for a treat, then. Nothing prettier than a blanket of fresh snow. Why, it might even dress up that ugly, old camp of yours.”

  “Yeah, speaking of that ugly, old camp, I guess I’d better get home,” Sachi said.

  The pink dusk turned to red as Jubie walked with Sachi back to the camp. When Jubie turned to leave, she smiled. “We gonna have a good time in just two days! See you tomorrow, ’kay?”

  Those two days had flown by, and Thanksgiving had finally arrived. Sachi got out of bed, moving the covers off gently, careful not to wake Mama. She checked the clock on the table across the room. Ten minutes after eight. Jubie and her family would arrive with the food in three hours. She had figured it would be best for Jubie to arrive around eleven, before it was time for lunch at the mess hall. That way, everyone would still be
home for the surprise.

  She couldn’t wait! She opened the drawer for something to wear.

  “What are you doing, Sachi-chan?” Mama asked as she sat in bed.

  “Just trying to decide what to wear today. Happy Thanksgiving, Mama.”

  Mama hung her feet over the bed, and felt around for her slippers. “Oh. It is Thanksgiving.”

  How could Mama not remember it was Thanksgiving? A pesky lump in her throat threatened her attempt to smile, and she wiped a tear on her shirtsleeve. Then, her stomach tickled. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to surprise Mama with Thanksgiving dinner. After all, Mama had not even met Jubie yet, much less her family.

  She pulled a blue jumper from the drawer and found a white print blouse to match. “Do you think this is okay?” she asked.

  Mama shuffled to the wood stove and poured hot water into a teacup. “Wear what you would like, Sachi-chan.”

  Nobu flung his curtain open. He stretched his arms over his head and groaned. “Morning.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Nobu!” Surely he’d be excited.

  Mama handed him a cup of tea. He blew off the steam and tested it with a loud slurp. “Thanksgiving, huh? Oh, boy. We sure do have a lot to be thankful for, huh? Like our first holiday in camp. Yeah, it should be a great day.”

  Sachi forced a smile. “I think so. We’ll see.”

  He put his tea on the table and pulled out a chair. “Think they’ll have turkey in the mess hall today?”

  “Who knows,” replied Mama. “I’ll just have something to eat here.”

  Nobu frowned. “Oh, come on, Mama. It’s Thanksgiving. You have to come with us to eat today.”

  Sachi held her breath. How would she keep them from going to the mess hall before Jubie arrived with the turkey?

  Mama bent over to pick up the last piece of wood, and tossed it onto the last embers in the stove. “Thanksgiving in camp? What is there to celebrate? What is there to be thank—”

  Sachi interrupted. “Papa said there’s always something to be thankful for.”

  Mama’s glare felt like a slap across her face.

  Nobu broke the hard silence. “Right. I’m thankful for a good, hot cup of tea this morning.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “Looks like we’re out of wood. I think Kazu and I will go out and get some more.” He disappeared behind his curtain again.

  She watched her brother’s make-believe wall sway back and forth until it stilled and wished for her own barrier, a place to hide from the look in her mother’s eyes.

  Chapter 46

  Nobu

  Thanksgiving Day, 1942

  “I’ll be back in time to take you to the mess hall for lunch,” Nobu said as he buttoned his jacket.

  “Be sure to get back before eleven, so we can leave early,” said Sachi. “It’ll probably be pretty crowded today, with everyone looking forward to turkey.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be back in plenty of time.” He shut the door behind him and hurried down the steps. Every time he left Mama in that dark room, it felt like an escape. He knew she was unhappy; she still missed Papa. But heck, it was the same for him, yet he didn’t spend all his time locked up in that dark room.

  And what about the way she took it out on Sachi? He wasn’t happy about being in camp for Thanksgiving either, but why let their sour attitudes spoil it for his little sister? What could he say to Mama to change her? Nothing.

  Skimming close to the barracks to block wind that whipped through the row, he jogged to Block 20 to find Kazu. He landed in one puddle as he tried to miss another. Water splashed up, soaking cold into his pant leg.

  He was sick of scavenging for wood, even if it did mean the guards would let them out into the forest to pick up limbs and cut small trees. Anyway, now that the wood piles in camp had been picked clean, what were they going to do? Let everyone freeze to death? Besides, it was a good excuse to escape from Mama and Sachi. It wouldn’t be so bad with Kazu along.

  He knocked on Kazu’s door. Mrs. Sasaki peeked from behind the yellow-flowered curtain. She smiled and nodded at Nobu, then opened the door. An aroma of sweet potatoes wafted from behind her. Happy memories filled him like turkey and stuffing at the holiday meal, but in an instant, the fullness of those memories was replaced by hunger. This Thanksgiving would not compare to those he remembered so fondly.

  “Ah, Nobu,” she said, her dark eyes crinkling in a smile. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  How he admired Kazu’s mother, that she could give him such a warm greeting on a day of thanks, though still separated from her husband. How could she be so forgiving? Even he hadn’t overcome the anger he’d felt that day the government men took Reverend Sasaki from his home in California.

  He couldn’t help compare her to Mama. Why couldn’t his mother pick herself up like Kazu’s mother had? Get on with her life? The answer hit him like a gust of cold wind and he scolded himself. Reverend Sasaki was alive. Mrs. Sasaki could hope to see him again one day. Papa was dead. No such hope for Mama.

  “Nobu? Would you like to come inside?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Sasaki. Happy Thanksgiving to you, too. Is Kazu home?”

  “Yes. He is helping me prepare our Thanksgiving meal. Come in. Please.” She opened the door wider and stepped aside.

  “Hi, Nobu.” Kazu was wiping his hands on a dish towel. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m going out to get some wood. Want to come?” He noticed firewood, neatly stacked against the wall.

  “No. Did that yesterday. Besides, I told my mom I’d help her with dinner today. She’s invited a few friends over. Hey, what’s your family got planned?”

  Nobu bent over to sniff the sweet potatoes and tried to think of a way to dress up his reply. “I told Mama and Sachi I’d be back in time to pick them up for the festivities at lunch. Sachi’s pretty excited.” He was embarrassed his family had nothing better planned for the day.

  “Well, if you get the chance, stop by. Everyone’s bringing something, so we’ll have plenty.”

  “Yeah, thanks. I’ll let Mama know. Guess I’d better get going if I’m going to get back in time for lunch.” He gave a slight bow to Kazu’s mother. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Sasaki. Have a happy Thanksgiving.”

  She nodded and smiled. “You too, Nobu. Please give my best to your mother and sister.”

  What was it about leaving Kazu and his mother that left him feeling lonelier, emptier? You’d think the warmth in the room would bring him comfort, and it did while he was there. But as soon as he walked out, the wind felt colder, howled louder. He pulled up his collar and put his hands in his pockets, wishing he hadn’t volunteered to gather wood.

  He stopped by the guard shack at the gate to sign out.

  “Where are you going on Thanksgiving Day?” asked the young soldier. The tag stenciled on his shirt read “Collins.”

  Nobu looked up from the book he signed, surprised by the soldier’s friendly tone. “Have to get some wood before my mother and sister freeze to death,” he said, half-joking.

  “You’re not the only one. There’ve been about a dozen people leave camp today to find wood. Maybe we’ll get some delivered to camp before long.”

  Nobu struggled to keep his sarcasm in check. “Yeah, maybe.”

  The soldier grinned. “Anyway, be sure to get back in time for the Thanksgiving meal at lunchtime.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve been reminded plenty by my little sister. See you.”

  Collins waved. “Yep. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  Something about walking outside the gates made him feel strange. One minute he felt free, a part of the huge world outside camp. And the next minute, he was afraid of that very same world. Unguarded. The word gave him two completely different sensations. Freedom and apprehension. What would happen to the Japanese when they finally left camp for good and there were no guards to protect them from the world outside?

  A gust of wind shoved him toward the forest. Leaves raced ahead of him.

  Run.
Run. Follow us away from this place.

  He entered the woods—a quiet place a world away from camp. When his feet touched the sun-mottled ground, the moaning wind turned to whispers through the boughs of the trees. Holding his breath, he stopped to listen. He listened to the sound of leaves and twigs crackling beneath his feet. Then, he stopped again to listen to the wind.

  Crackle.

  What was that? He turned in the direction of the sound. Someone else was in the forest. But who? Where? Trees with scraggly branches reached toward the sky, skeleton arms, and he couldn’t help thinking about the hunters who had taken him prisoner the month before.

  Maybe it was only the leaves, rustling on the ground.

  He searched the ground for kindling, but the area near the edge had been well-picked of usable branches. He’d have to walk further into the canopy to find anything worth burning.

  Crackle, crackle.

  His heart skipped a beat. Someone was definitely there with him.

  Not another hunter!

  “Who’s there?” he called.

  Silence.

  Turning in a slow circle, he watched for movement. “I know you’re there. You might as well come out.”

  Something whipped behind a tree trunk.

  “Okay, I see you there. Come on out.”

  The hidden intruder inched from behind the tree.

  Yuki?

  He wiped his loafer on the back of his pant leg and smoothed his hair back.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, staring at the ground. “I was gathering wood for my family, and heard your footsteps. I wasn’t sure who you might be, so I hid.” A faint smile curved between cheeks rosied by the cold. “Then, when I saw it was you, I was too embarrassed to come out.”

  Nobu walked toward her.

  Her gaze moved from the ground to his face, then darted to the ground again. She shuffled her oxfords in the leaves and smiled bigger.

  “You’re Yuki, right?”