The Red Kimono

by Jan Morrill

  A rustling across the creek caught Terrence’s attention, and he tried to make out two men. Nobu? What was he doing there? And was that Mr. Kimura standing next to him? Looked like they were fishing together. Terrence never knew Nobu liked to fish.

  “Hey, Nobu!” he called.

  Nobu and his father both looked up from watching their bobbers.

  Mr. Kimura slipped into water that had begun to rage.

  Nobu grabbed for him, but missed. “Papa!” He yelled and jumped in.

  “Nobu, wait!” Terrence called. What could he do? How could he help? He cast his fishing line toward his friend. “Grab the line,” he yelled.

  He looked to his daddy for help, but Daddy just watched his lazy bobber. He sat with his back against a rock, head propped with one hand, seeming to enjoy sunshine.

  But it had all turned dark for Terrence. Why couldn’t Daddy see what was going on?

  “Daddy!” he called.

  His father closed his eyes. “I said, ‘patience,’ son. Them fish’ll be biting soon enough.”

  Terrence yelled at Nobu again. “Did you get the line?”

  Nobu held up his arm, showing he’d wrapped the line around his jacket. “Let some line out! I need to reach Papa!”

  No, Terrence couldn’t do that. He had to save Nobu. He struggled to reel him in, his pole bending like it was going to break.

  “I said let the line out! Not in.” Nobu was struggling to untangle his arm. “Let me go. Let me go. I have to save Papa.”

  The torrential waters carried Mr. Kimura down the river. Terrence saw panic in his eyes. He’d seen it before. That day in the park. The memory made Terrence sick to his stomach. And the sicker he felt, the faster he reeled Nobu to the shore.

  As Nobu splashed toward where Terrence stood on the bank, the glare in his eyes fired off more memories of that day in the park. He stood on the muddy shore, tangled in fishing line and called after his father. “Papa! I’m sorry!” He struggled to free himself from the line, but it had turned to barbed wire, and the harder he fought it, the bloodier he became.

  Mr. Kimura disappeared into the raging water.

  A ravaged Nobu stood in front of Terrence. “Why? Why did you kill my father?”

  Terrence’s own voice woke him.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  He sat up on his bunk and rubbed his eyes, wet with tears.

  “Hey, you!” A guard clanked on the cell door.

  Terrence took his sleeve and wiped his eyes. “Yeah?”

  “Got a surprise for you.”

  What now?

  He turned to the guard.

  Carter?

  It was Carter, all right. He had a patch over his eye and his sly smile was missing several teeth. But heck. It was the best smile Terrence had ever seen.

  Carter limped into the cell and groaned as he lowered himself into a chair. “Miss me?”

  Was he still dreaming? “What the—”

  Carter snickered. “Hey, man. Put them eyes back in that black head of yours. You look like you seen a ghost.”

  “Holy shit!” Terrence leaped off of his bunk. He had the urge to hug Carter, but thought better of it. “You’re white enough to be a damn ghost. A scary one, too.” He pulled out a chair. “Where you been? What happened?”

  The grin faded from Carter’s face. “Been laid up in the infirmary.”

  Terrence crossed his arms and studied Carter’s bruised face. “Looks like you got beat up pretty good.”

  Fear flashed in Carter’s eyes—quick as lightning—before he rose from his chair and turned away. He clutched the cell door and kicked his foot against it, over and over.

  That bad. Terrence took a deep breath. Yeah. He shoulda been with Carter that day. “Hey, we don’t gotta talk about—”

  “It was Peachie started it all.”

  “Always is.” Terrence was walking on glass. Didn’t want to say something that might shut his friend down.

  Carter leaned his head on the bars. “Yeah. I was minding my own business, just trying to get out of that shower fast as I could. Before Peachie and his boys could hassle me.”

  Guilt punched Terrence again. “I shoulda been there.”

  “Damn right you shoulda been there.”

  His heart sank, until he saw Carter’s dumb grin.

  “Man, it wouldn’t have done no good.” Carter slid his tongue through the empty space where teeth had been and reminded Terrence of a snake. “You woulda just got beat up, too.”

  The sudden quiet felt like a monster, lurching, ready to eat up whatever else Carter had to say. He hesitated to ask what happened next.

  “I’d just finished rinsing off, and started to grab my towel. But Peachie grabbed it first. ‘What’ll you give me for it?’ he asked. I told him to just forget it. Figured it’d be best to drip dry. So I started to leave the shower to get my clothes. He grabbed my arm and said, ‘Guess you ain’t so brave without your nigger here to protect you.’”

  Terrence clenched his teeth. Fucking asshole.

  Carter rubbed the back of his neck and slithered his tongue through his teeth again.

  It was going to take some time to get used to Carter’s new habit.

  “Someone pushed me. I slipped,” Carter continued. “Went down real hard. My head got kinda fuzzy. Man, all of a sudden, it was like I was raw meat set out in front of a pack of wild dogs. They started kicking, calling me all kinda names. I couldn’t breathe, and every time a foot got my rib, it felt like I’d been stabbed.”

  Something sour burned in the back of Terrence’s throat. The kicks. Like stabbing. His throat tightened and he couldn’t breathe. Carter was lucky to be alive. If only Mr. Kimura had been that lucky. Blinking his eyes, he tried to shake the vision out of his head. He studied Carter’s patch. “What happened to your eye?”

  Carter touched the gray patch. “Someone stuck his foot in it. Don’t know whose it was, but guess it don’t matter. It got infected, and the doctor said it couldn’t be saved. Anyway, I blacked out right after that. Not sure how much time passed before I woke up in a hospital bed.”

  “Bastards.”

  Carter smiled, and ran his tongue over his gums again. “So, anyways, bet you couldn’t wait for me to get back.”

  “Get back? Man, I thought you were dead.”

  “Dead?” Carter’s eyes widened.

  “Yeah. That’s what I figured when I couldn’t get the guards to tell me anything, and all that time passed without knowing anything. Even Peachie and his gang think you’re dead.”

  “They do?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Man, there’s gotta be something we can do with that.” Carter lisped through a toothless grin.

  The inmates lined up for dinner, and for once, Terrence couldn’t wait to run into Peachie. With what he and Carter had planned, they’d scare the shit out of him. Maybe then he’d leave them alone.

  Terrence shuffled into the cafeteria behind other inmates from the block. Carter hid behind Terrence like they’d planned.

  Keeping an eye out for Peachie, Terrence sniffed the air. Smelled like they were having spaghetti. Not again. Probably made from last night’s leftover meat loaf. They never cooked the noodles enough, and they sprinkled it with a smelly white powder they called cheese.

  There he was. Peachie, strutting in through the door across the room, like he was king of the world. His gang followed behind like a posse.

  Terrence reached back and tapped Carter. Stay hidden.

  They waited until Peachie found a table. His boys pulled out chairs on either side, like Jesus and his disciples at The Last Supper.

  Terrence sat catty-corner and watched him snarl.

  Carter snuck up and stood behind Peachie, quiet and still.

  Peachie glared at Terrence. “Who the hell do you think you are, boy?”

  Terrence ignored him.

  Peachie slammed his hand against the table. “You hear me? Ain’t no place at this table for no nigge
r.”

  Terrence scratched his eyebrow. Another signal.

  Carter removed his eye patch and blew on the back of Peachie’s neck.

  Peachie raised his shoulders and shuddered, then whipped around.

  Carter met his gaze with his left eye bulging open. But where his right eye should have been was a gaping, mangled socket. He flashed his wide, toothless grin.

  Terrence had to admit—Carter looked like a ghoul, all right.

  Peachie gasped and leaped off of his chair, knocking it over. Backing away, he fell over it. “What’re you doing here? I thought you were dead. They even sent me to solitary.”

  Carter didn’t flinch, just glared at Peachie.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” Peachie cried.

  His gang gawked, too, their knuckles white as they clutched their spoons.

  Terrence slurped a spaghetti noodle. “Something wrong, Peachie?”

  “It’s … it’s Carter. I thought he was dead,” Peachie said, mouth and eyes gaping.

  “He is dead, you big jerk.”

  “But, he’s right there.”

  Terrence twirled pasta around his spoon. “I don’t see anything.”

  Guards began to shove their way through the cafeteria. “What’s going on here? Break it up,” they yelled.

  Terrence nodded his head at Carter. The final signal.

  “Hey, you! Fatso!” Carter said to Peachie.

  Terrence hadn’t thought Peachie’s eyes could bug out any more, but they did when he heard Carter speak.

  “I was dead. And one of you killed me.” He pointed at Peachie. “You!” Then, his glower and accusing finger pointed at the other boys. “Or was it you? Or you?” A wicked grin crossed his crazed-looking face. “I’ve come back for one reason and one reason only—to get the one that killed me.” He grinned and slithered his tongue where his teeth had been. “Don’t you know? When you come back from the dead, you got all kinda new powers.”

  Peachie turned even whiter than the white he’d been before. Terrence thought he’d bust with laughter, until the guards arrived to break up all the fun.

  Chapter 58

  Nobu

  Tule Lake, California

  July 31, 1943

  July 31, 1943

  Here I am in Tule Lake, California—Camp Disloyal. Like cattle, we’re moved from place to place at the whim of the American government. Maximum security. No way could it ever come close to feeling like home. Especially without Mama and Sachi here.

  I thought summers in Arkansas were unbearable. Hot and steamy. Mosquitoes and invisible bugs that made my body itch all the time. Snakes. And the endless buzzing of cicadas, night and day. But this place is hell on earth. Someone told me the camp was built on a lava bed. I can believe that, the way dust swirls and practically splashes up wherever I walk. The landscape is flat, except for a mound they call Abalone Hill, half a mountain that looks as though its top was blown off a million years ago. Worst of all is the heat that radiates off of everything, so dry it makes me thirsty just to look at it.

  Tule Lake is an angry-looking place, full of people like me—who marked no-no and are now called “disloyal.” Some have even applied for repatriation to Japan. The anger makes this place feel even hotter.

  Funny, as much as Mama and Sachi got on my nerves sometimes, I never realized how they added a kind of softness to my life.

  I have a roommate here. His name is Ichiro. He looks to be maybe five years older than me. He’s sitting in the room with me now. Kind of quiet, but he’s never still. His leg bounces up and down, like he’s always got something on his mind. He’s got a bandana tied around his head. It reminds me of the day I found Papa cutting down a tree in the backyard. I couldn’t have been more than six or seven, and I thought it looked silly for a man to wear such a scarf, so I asked him why he was wearing it. In a gruff voice, he told me it was called a hachimaki, and it was worn by samurais. Then he laughed and said, “It will take the strength of a samurai to battle this tree.” I’d forgotten about that day, until I saw Ichiro’s hachimaki. My new roommate may be quiet on the outside, but with that hachimaki tied on his head, the look in his eyes tells me he has a lot to say.

  I’ve got a lot to say, too. But not to a stranger.

  I should write a letter to Sachi and Mama. But heck. What’s the use? Who knows if I’ll still be here by the time they receive it?

  “So where are you from, anyway?” Ichiro’s voice vibrated with the cadence of his jackhammer leg.

  “Berkeley.”

  Ichiro rolled his eyes and adjusted his hachimaki. “No, I mean what camp did you come from?”

  Besides the fact this guy appeared to be a smart-ass, Nobu wasn’t in the mood to carry on a conversation. He scribbled another sentence into his journal, attempting to look occupied.

  Ichiro’s trying to strike up a conversation. Not interested though.

  “Hey. What was your name again? No-no?”

  Nobu put his pencil down and glared at Ichiro. “No-bu.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. So, I asked you a question, Nobu. Where did you come from?” Ichiro rocked back and forth in his chair.

  “Rohwer.”

  “Where’s Rohwer?”

  “Arkansas.”

  “And before that?”

  Nobu’s heart beat as fast as Ichiro’s damn jackhammer leg. This guy was getting on his nerves.

  “And before that?” Ichiro asked again.

  “Hey, what’s the deal? Why are you being so nosy? I don’t hear you telling me where you’re from.”

  Ichiro shrugged. “All you have to do is ask. Before here, Topaz. Before Topaz, Tanforan. And before that, Sacramento.”

  “We were supposed to go to Tanforan, but when we got there they sent our bus on to Santa Anita.” Nobu stared out the window. So they’d both lived in horse stalls.

  “We? Who’s we?”

  Nobu had had enough and was not in the mood to talk about his family with this wisecracker. He shoved his journal into his pocket. “I’m going out for a while.”

  When he walked out the door, heat blasted him, followed by a gust of wind full of stinging dust. He tried to protect his eyes from the bright sun and gritty wind, but it did little good, so he turned around and walked backwards. A tumbleweed swiped his leg as it barreled past. He watched it skip down the row of barracks, the wind chasing behind it. He’d seen tumbleweeds in Westerns before, but never thought he’d see one in real life. They seemed more fitting for a science fiction movie than a Western; they were aliens skittering along the surface of a barren planet.

  Turning the corner, he found a building that provided shelter from the wind and sun. From there he watched armed guards in the towers. Armed guards outside the barbed wire. Everywhere he turned, armed guards.

  He leaned against the side of the building, then slid to the ground, and pulled at his shirtsleeve to wipe the grit from his face, out of his eyes. But his shirt was too full of dust and dirt. His eyes watered and he blinked them hard, until he could see well enough to continue writing in his journal.

  I have no country.

  That’s what I realize here at Tule Lake. This place has a different feel than the other camps I’ve been in. At least in those places, they tried to tell us it was for our own good to be there. Here, they make no secret that this is a prison, a place to keep those they believe to be a threat to this country.

  Thinking about it still takes my breath away. A threat to this country? All because I answered “no” to two questions? Did they expect us to be like whipped dogs, loyal to those who kick us? Not me!

  Still, I wish nobody harm, though they think I do.

  He heard shouting in the distance, a group of men calling something out in rhythm. But he couldn’t make out what they were saying. The uproar grew louder, until finally, he could understand the words.

  Wah shoi! Wah shoi! Heave ho! Heave ho!

  The ground rumbled in a cadence. The noise grew louder. Just as he stood
to see where the commotion came from, the group turned the corner. There must have been a hundred of them, marching like military men. All wore the same hachimaki that Ichiro had worn.

  Wah shoi! Wah shoi!

  The strange energy fed his curiosity and he decided to follow, staying far behind, hidden in shadows.

  Marching through row after row of barracks, the formation grew as more men in hachimakis rushed out of their apartments, feeding an entity that grew larger, louder.

  They stopped in a large area near the gate, each man like one cell in a huge organism.

  Precise. Uniform. United.

  Push-ups. Sit-ups. Jumping jacks.

  All in unison, all the same.

  Five straight lines of men. Two stood at the front to lead.

  One was Ichiro.

  Pairing up, they began a choreographed sequence of karate moves. Clench-fisted stances. Blocks. Kicks. All accompanied by strong, guttural cries.

  A powerful dance.

  Like the tumbleweed that whipped around Tule Lake, Nobu felt pushed toward these men, chased by the winds of injustice. What was it that drew him? Their shouts? Their cadence?

  No. It was their cohesiveness. Their brotherhood.

  Chapter 59

  Terrence

  August 7, 1943

  Thirteen! Terrence couldn’t believe his little sister was a teenager, and he felt kinda sad about the “little girl” time he’d missed. He drummed the table to clear his mind. This was supposed to be a happy day, with Momma bringing Patty and Missy for a birthday celebration later on. He’d been trying to think of something to give Patty, but pickings were kinda slim.

  Archy the Cockroach skittered under the bunk. Maybe a new pet? Nah. She hated bugs. Besides, he’d miss having the little guy around. But maybe the book. He’d finished reading and correcting it and was sure Mr. Blake wouldn’t mind if he passed it on to his sister. She’d get a kick outta knowing he’d found himself his own cockroach and named it Archy.

  He’d have to make a card. But dang, he was no artist. Tearing a piece of paper from his notebook, he tried to think of something to draw. He pulled archy and mehitabel from the stack of books on the table. Mehitabel the Cat. Perfect. Patty loved cats. He’d draw Mehitabel dressed in the Cleopatra costume of her previous life.