by Jan Morrill
“But why’d you yell at your Momma?” Terrence had asked.
“’Cause she still can’t get it through her thick, drunk head why I did it. She kept trying to tell me Pa wasn’t hurting Jenny none. Said she missed him and was tired of not having a man around the house.”
Poor Carter. Killing his own daddy. And having a momma that didn’t have a motherly bone in her body. What would become of Jenny, being raised by a woman like that?
Terrence stared at the marks on the wall again. Yeah, 476 days seemed like a long time, all right. But at least one day he’d get out. If Carter was convicted of murder, he’d be in the pen for the rest of his life. Terrence stared at the light coming through the small window near the ceiling. Light and darkness would trade places thousands and thousands of times for Carter. Then, he’d die. Terrence would go crazy if there was nothing more to look forward to than that.
“Why’d you make that mark on the wall so dark?” Carter’s question startled Terrence back to the present.
“Man, you scared the shit outta me.”
Carter laughed. “Yeah, you were a million miles away. So what’s the deal with the mark?”
“It’s been a year.”
“A year since what? Since you came here?”
“Nah.” Terrence hesitated.
Carter persisted. “Since what then?”
Terrence grinned. “You been hanging around me too long. Getting to be kind of a nag, aren’t you?”
“Well?” Carter poked at him. “You gonna tell me what the dark mark means, or not?”
“It’s been a year since I did what I did to land in this shit hole.”
“And? Come on man, give it up. I told you what I did.”
“I killed a man, too. Beat him up in a park.”
“Why? What’d he do?”
“He didn’t do nothing. I killed him ’cause he was Japanese.”
Carter was quiet. Looked like he was trying to figure that one out.
“We’d just gotten a telegram telling us my daddy was dead. Japs killed him at Pearl Harbor. Somehow I figured killing a Japanese man would make me feel better.”
Carter backed away. “Sorry, man.” He pulled out a chair and flopped into it. His fingers began to drum on the table. “So your pa is gone, too.”
“Yeah.” Terrence sat up in his bunk and rubbed his head.
Carter stared at his drumming fingers.
“Now what are you thinking about?” Terrence leaped off his bunk. Was Carter thinking about Terrence killing a Japanese man? Thinking about his own daddy? Why was he so quiet?
“Breakfast!” called a guard from down the corridor. “Line up.”
Terrence pulled on a shirt. “Okay, you been saved by breakfast this time. But I’ll get back at you later.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Carter grinned as he shuffled to the cell door.
Terrence filed into the cafeteria behind Carter. Breakfast. He remembered the smell of Momma cooking bacon. Biscuits in the oven. Coffee perking on the counter. The memory made him hungry, but one look at the mush being served and he lost his appetite. Matter fact, eating that gruel they glopped into his bowl made him gag. The coffee—lukewarm and filled with grounds—didn’t do much to help him wash it down.
“Hey, if it ain’t Salt and Pepper,” Peachie called from a table across the room.
That jerk lived for giving Terrence a hard time. Only thing he’d been able to do was avoid the mass of dumb, white lard whenever possible.
“Hey, Salt.” Peachie pointed at Carter. “Yeah, you. Why don’t you come over here and eat. Ain’t you ready for a Pepper break?”
A gang followed Peachie’s lead, laughing as they gestured for Carter to come over.
Carter stared hard at the mush in his bowl, like he thought if he stared hard enough it might turn into biscuits and gravy or something.
What did Carter think about the razzing the whites gave him for being in a cell with a black man? Some inmates acted like he’d caught some kind of disease from Terrence. Others had a weird kind of curiosity, creeping up to Carter to ask what it was like to be locked up with a nigger. One even asked if a colored boy pissed the same way. Man, oh man. There were some real dumb shits out there.
The mob at Peachie’s table grew rowdy.
“Hey, Carter! You been sitting in the sun, or are you turning into a nigger?”
Hoots and snickers.
“Just don’t forget you a white boy.”
“Yeah. You ain’t got no choice but to be in a cell with a nigger, but you ain’t gotta hang around with him outside. Come on over here and sit with your own kind.”
Carter put his spoon down and mumbled, “You ain’t my kind.”
Peachie stood so fast his chair fell. “What you say, boy?”
Terrence felt the skin on the back of his neck crawl. Adrenaline surged through his body. Made his fists clench. He kept his gaze low. “Ignore him, Carter. He’s not worth it.”
Carter glared at Peachie with steel blue eyes and lips so tight they looked like they might break if he spoke.
Peachie hustled toward them. His glare reminded Terrence of that kinda-crazy look he’d once seen in a rabid dog’s eyes.
What would he do if Peachie caused them trouble? Get involved? Defend Carter? ’Course he would.
Where in the hell were the guards? He looked around the room and saw two standing by the door, watching the tension brewing like it was a ball game or something. Whispering to each other. Probably making a wager or something.
Peachie was standing right next to where they sat. Terrence didn’t even have to look up to see. He could smell the white monster. Sweat. Cigarettes.
Carter and Peachie stared each other down, like cowboys at a shoot-out. Who would draw first? And why weren’t those damn guards doing anything?
Peachie made the first move. “You gonna tell me what you said?”
“Don’t think you really wanna know.” Carter gritted his teeth.
Peachie leaned toward him. “Oh, yeah. I wanna know all right. And you’re gonna tell me, boy.”
Terrence wasn’t sure what made him sicker—that big old tub-of-lard hairy belly that stuck out below Peachie’s T-shirt or his god-awful smell.
Carter’s glare was hard and cold, but Terrence was sure he saw doubt flicker in his eyes.
Don’t say it, Carter.
“Okay, boys. Break it up!” A guard shouted as he maneuvered through dozens of gawking inmates. “Everybody sit down. You! Get back to your table.” He poked Peachie with his club.
Peachie resisted at first, snarling at Carter. “This ain’t over.”
“Hey!” The guard poked again. “Let’s go. Back to your cell!”
The sounds of the cafeteria—silverware clanking against dishes, the mumbling and shuffling of the inmates—grew quiet as the guards emptied the room.
What was going on in Carter’s head? He sure wasn’t saying nothing.
Another guard approached their table. “Back to the cell, you two.” He mumbled under his breath, “Salt and Pepper,” and snickered to himself.
Carter tossed his spoon into his bowl and rose.
“You didn’t eat much,” Terrence whispered. He tore a piece of bread and put it in his pocket.
“Yeah, right. Kinda lost my appetite,” Carter said, and shuffled back to the cell.
The guard slammed the cell door shut. Its echo faded and another awkward silence followed.
Terrence opened his algebra book and pulled out a piece of paper. He read the word problem and thought about how to start the calculation. Read it again. And again. Then, he shut the book. No way was he going to be able to concentrate enough to figure out a word problem. First he had to figure out Carter.
“Hey, Carter?”
Carter’s gaze didn’t flinch from where he’d been staring. “What.”
“What’re you thinking about?”
“Don’t wanna talk about it.”
Archy skittered from under the bed.
Terrence smiled and took the piece of bread out of his pocket. He sprinkled crumbs on the floor. “Wanna meet Archy?” he asked.
“Who?”
Terrence leaned over and watched his pet roach attack the scattered crumbs. “Archy. Archy the Cockroach.”
Carter sat up and watched at the floor where the shiny, brown bug feasted. “Cockroach? You crazy?” He took his shoe off.
“Hey!” Terrence shouted. “Don’t even think about it!”
“It’s a damn cockroach, you fool!”
As if he sensed danger, Archy skittered out of the cell.
“Man, if I’d known you’d act like that, I wouldn’t have told you about him. You’re not afraid of a cockroach, are you?”
Carter returned his shoe to his foot. “I ain’t afraid of nothing. But it’s a cockroach.”
“Hey man, desperate times call for desperate measures. He’s my pet. My cell dog.” An idea popped into Terrence’s head and he grinned. “You ain’t gonna judge Archy by what he looks like, are you? Why, you’d be no better than Peachie.”
“Aw, come on. That’s stretching it, Tee.”
“No, it ain’t. I’m guessing to Peachie, I’m no better than a cockroach. By his way of thinking, no nigger is. Bet you even thought that when they threw you in this cell with me. Probably wanted to smash me with your shoe, too. Right?” Terrence clasped his hands behind his head and tilted back in his chair. “I’m guessing I’ve graduated up a level, maybe two, now that you’ve got to know me a little.” He watched for Carter’s response.
“Maybe one level. Maybe.”
“Well, me and Archy, we’ve gotten to know each other better, too. I bring him scraps from the cafeteria, and he comes to greet me every day. I figure we all do what we got to do to survive in this world. All any creature wants is to be understood. Accepted for what he is.”
Carter flopped back down on his mattress and went back to staring at the ceiling. “Man, you’re getting a little too philosophical for me.”
“Nah. It’s pretty simple, really. My daddy used to tell me to live and let live. For a long time, I didn’t know what he meant by that. But then I watched the way he lived his life. Realized that even when someone did something that shoulda made him mad, he just went on with his business. Kinda like he knew fighting wouldn’t do no good no how.” He stared outside the cell. “You just lay there and chew on that for a while, Carter. And don’t even think about putting that smelly shoe of yours anywhere near Archy.”
Carter flipped over and faced the wall. “Tee?”
“Yeah.”
“You wanna know what I was thinking before we went to eat?”
“Yeah, what?”
“I used to think there wasn’t anything I’d ever envy about a colored’s life. But …”
Terrence held his breath.
Carter sat up. “ … I always knew I missed having a pa who acted like a real pa should.” He glanced at Terrence, then stared at the floor. “Sounds like your pa was a good man. You were lucky to have him for the time you did.” He cleared his throat. “What I would’ve give to have a pa like that, a pa worth killing for.”
Chapter 52
Nobu
February 14, 1943
The day Nobu had looked forward to—but now dreaded—had arrived. Valentine’s Day. Until a week ago, he had anticipated showering Yuki with tokens of affection—chocolates he’d purchased in town. A haiku he’d written for her.
He glared at the gaudy, red, heart-shaped box, filled with an assortment of chocolates he had intended to give to her. A plastic cupid glued to the center of a mass of pleated lace taunted him. None of the arrows in his quiver were for Nobu.
He ripped the evil-looking cherub from the box and threw it on the floor, feeling only slight satisfaction when it broke in half. His heart raced and heat flashed on the back of his neck as he remembered Yuki’s answer to his invitation to the dance.
“I’m sorry, Nobu-san,” she’d said, her voice trembling. “I can’t go with you.”
Her words had been like a punch in the gut, but he’d replied softly. “Why? Have I done something wrong?”
She wouldn’t even look at him. Like an impenetrable wall, silence hung between them, though when she finally spoke again, that wall hadn’t protected him.
“I have feelings for someone else,” she said. Then she ran away.
Fond memories of their time together mixed with confusion and rage, like a cyclone. He would explode if he didn’t get out of the tiny apartment. He grabbed his journal from under his mattress, threw his curtain open, and stormed past Mama.
“Nobu? Where are you going?” she asked.
He shook his head. Sorry, Mama. Can’t answer your questions. Grabbing his jacket, he hurried out, and slammed the door behind him.
At times like this, he felt like he was in a prison within a prison. Bad enough that he was living behind barbed wire. But to also be stuck in a small room with Mama and Sachi? Where he couldn’t do anything without one of them asking, “What are you doing, Nobu?” It drove him mad.
He found a dry place to sit in front of the mess hall and leaned against the building. Tossing a few stones, he looked up and searched for a glimpse of sunshine through the clouds. Closing his eyes when he felt them burn, he wiped them with his sleeve and gritted his teeth. No way would he cry over a girl. He’d write instead.
February 14, 1943
I thought I’d be dancing with Yuki tonight. I couldn’t wait to hold her as we swayed to the tunes of Sinatra. But when I asked her to the dance, she turned me down! Is there something wrong with me? I thought everything was going along great.
Then Sachi told me about that soldier, Collins. How he’s been eyeing Yuki. Flirting with her. She said it seemed Yuki liked it. So that’s it? Yuki has feelings for Collins? A Caucasian! Hakujin!
We spent so much time together in the last two months. Didn’t she have a good time at the New Year’s Eve Dance? Is there something about me she doesn’t like? Maybe the way I kissed her at midnight?
No. It’s all Collins’s fault. If he hadn’t flirted, teased—probably even offered her special privileges—she’d still be with me, and in my arms tonight.
The hakujins! It’s not enough they stole our lives away from us. Now they steal our women!
I’d planned to give her chocolates. And the haiku I wrote for her:
Sunshine fills my heart.
’Tis not light from my window,
But thoughts of Yuki.
Dammit! It’s been hard enough to be stuck behind this barbed wire with no control over my life. Now it’s worse—like being trapped in a tiny fish bowl, always having to look at Yuki and Collins.
He heard two men talking and looked up from his journal.
A kid about Nobu’s age spoke to an older man, maybe his father. “So you think they’re going to start letting some of us out?” Hands in his pockets, he continued reading a bulletin posted on the outside of the mess hall.
“Who knows?” the older man replied, his gaze moving down the form.
“What’s this?” asked the kid.
“What?”
“Have a look at number twenty-seven.”
More block residents began to approach. They whispered first, but soon their grumbling turned louder, and they shook their heads. Some men stomped away, throwing their hands in the air. One woman grabbed her stomach and walked away alone.
Nobu had to see what all the fuss was about. He walked over, stood on his toes, and strained to see the bulletin, scanning it for the two questions he heard mumbled most often. Questions 27 and 28:
Question 27: Are you willing to serve in the Armed Forces of the United States on combat duty, wherever ordered? What does that have to do with leave clearance?
Question 28: Will you swear unqualified allegiance to the United States of America and faithfully defend the United States from any or all attack by foreign or domestic forces, and forswear any form of allegiance or obed
ience to the Japanese emperor, or any other foreign government, power or organization?
The words rose from the page and threw him a hard punch.
What the—? Hell, no! Why would I serve a country that rounded up its own citizens, shipped them off in trains, and corralled them behind barbed wire? And number twenty-eight? How could they ask me this? I’m an American citizen. I’ve never even been to Japan—know nothing of the Japanese emperor. Even so why should I swear unqualified allegiance to this country that has no allegiance to me?
He knew how he wanted to answer those questions: No. No. Hell, no! But how should he answer? What would be the consequences of no-no? What would Mama say? And what would Papa say if he were alive? Mama and Papa were Issei—first generation. Even after living and working in America for over two decades, they’d been denied citizenship by the American government, like every other Issei. If they answered “yes,” forswore allegiance to the Japanese emperor, the Issei would be without a country. Yet, if they answered “no,” they would be labeled “disloyal.” How could they possibly answer Question 28?
What about Yuki? Forget Yuki. Why should he care how she would answer? Of course, she’d say anything to stay by the side of her soldier.
He could think of a hundred reasons to answer “no” to both questions. And only one reason to answer “yes.” Fear. Fear of the consequences of answering “no.”
Rage threatened to erupt. Fear rolled in tsunami waves, splashed over his anger, simmered it. But when the wave receded, it left boiling fury exposed.
He would not let fear drive him. When his time came to answer, he would answer “no” to both.
The gray sky tore with a rip of thunder, and a hard, cold rain began to fall as Nobu drifted back to his apartment. He pulled his jacket over his head and started to run. God, how he didn’t want to see Mama now—didn’t want to talk to anyone. All he wanted to do was spill his anger onto the pages of his journal.
He arrived at the stoop in front of their unit. Water dripped from the eaves above, but he didn’t care, couldn’t stand the thought of Sachi asking what he was writing about again. He removed his journal from his shirt and sat on the top step. Holding his jacket as shelter from the rain, he began to write.