The Red Kimono

by Jan Morrill

  They stopped at the stoop to the apartment. Papa stared at the door and squeezed Sachi’s hand.

  “See the flowers I planted?” She pointed at daffodils that lined the edge of the porch. “I remembered what you told me when we used to plant in your garden. You said to tuck the bulbs into earth’s blanket in the fall so they would sleep through the winter until they woke in the spring.”

  A quick glance, and he returned his gaze to the door. “I’m glad you remembered, Sachi-chan. They are lovely.” He stepped up one stair and stopped. “Perhaps you should tell Mama that I am here. It would startle her if I just walked inside.”

  She grappled with the impossibility of his request. Wouldn’t she also be startled at Sachi announcing Papa was waiting outside the door? She might even scold Sachi for lying. She hesitated. “But—”

  The door flew open. “Sachiko!” Mama scolded. “Who are you talk—”

  Papa looked up and removed his hat. “Sumiko-san.”

  The color went out of Mama’s face. Grabbing the door, she stepped back, like she had seen a ghost.

  Papa rushed up the stairs to help her.

  Gazing up at him, she cried, “Michio?”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  “But, how—?” Her gaze traveled from his face, then up and down his body.

  He touched her arms with a tenderness in his eyes that Sachi had almost forgotten. Mama fell against him as he guided her through the door. “Let us go inside and sit down. We will talk.”

  Sachi stared at the door as it began to creep shut. Only fifteen minutes ago, Papa was still dead. Fear filled her again.

  No. Please don’t let it be a dream.

  Once again, she struggled to use every sense to search for signs that she was awake and not dreaming. Inhaling, she caught the scent of supper cooking in the mess hall. Roast beef? If she was dreaming, she would smell Papa’s chicken and dumplings. Her daffodils danced with the same cool breeze that brushed her skin. Bright, happy yellow.

  Then she remembered what Jubie told her once: “Ain’t nobody dreams in color, cause color don’t matter in dreams.”

  Sachi tugged at her jumper. Purple. The daffodils. Yellow. Their stems. Green. The sky. Blue. Colors everywhere!

  Papa opened the door. “Sachi-chan, are you coming inside?”

  Smiling at the man standing in the open door—the man who really was Papa—she skipped up the steps.

  Chapter 63

  Terrence

  April 12, 1944

  Release time was noon. Terrence could hardly stand waiting and paced back and forth at the cell door. He checked the clock in the corridor. Eleven o’clock.

  Back and forth. Back and forth. How many paces until noon?

  He figured Momma was counting the minutes too. She was probably already waiting outside. Last time she came to visit, she told him she could hardly believe it would be the last time she’d have to see Terrence from behind a window.

  Remembering her tear-filled eyes made him smile. She’d tried to hide it, but he knew her too well.

  “Son, next time we come, it’s gonna be to take you home.” She’d dug a hanky out of her purse and blew her nose in a funny, honking way that always made him chuckle. “And I be able to give you a good, long hug ’stead of just wishing I could.”

  He inhaled long and deep. The next two hours were going to seem longer than the 730 days he’d already waited.

  “Hey, Tee,” Carter called from his bunk, “you ready to get out of here or something? Settle down. You’re making me nervous.”

  Much as he wanted out, he was gonna miss the white boy. He worried about leaving him alone there. Wondered how he’d do if he had to go to San Quentin when his trial was over.

  The thought made Terrence queasy, even tempered his impatience to get out. What a waste, Carter being in prison the rest of his life. With what went on between his daddy and Jenny, maybe he’d get off with a lighter sentence. But he also knew life didn’t always work out that way.

  Memories of his 730 days flooded his mind. Arriving at the facility. Wondering how he’d survive two years in prison. The haunting nightmares of Mr. Kimura. The way the guards snickered when they threw Carter in the cell with him. Peachie and his gang. He chuckled. And of course, the day Carter came back from the dead.

  Yeah, it was Carter who’d made the whole thing bearable. Maybe Terrence had made it a little more bearable for Carter too. Now, he’d be gone, and he couldn’t imagine being left like Carter was about to be left. Who would the guards throw in with Carter now? Another colored? One of Peachie’s gang? A feeling of desperation penetrated him like a chill.

  Less than an hour left. He had to say something to his cell mate. “Carter?”

  “Yeah?”

  What should he say? How could he put his thoughts into words without sounding like a wimp? “Can you believe it’s almost time?”

  “Yeah. The way you’re pacing back and forth, I can believe it. Hell. What time you supposed to get outta here anyways?”

  “Noon.”

  “Well, it’s about damn time.”

  Terrence smiled. Carter wasn’t gonna be no wimp, neither. “You right about that. Heck, I ’bout had enough of being stuck in this tiny cell with a white boy.”

  They were quiet for what seemed like a long time. Terrence flopped onto his bunk and stared at Carter’s bunk above him. “Sure feel sorry for whoever’s here after me, what with your snoring and all.”

  “Bet he won’t whine about it as much. And I’m guessing for sure he won’t have a cockroach for a pet. You got Archy packed with all your books and stuff you’re taking?”

  Archy. ’Course he couldn’t take him. No way Momma would allow it. He’d kinda miss that cockroach. “Nah,” he said, “I’ll leave him for you. He doesn’t need much care. Just sneak a few crumbs from the cafeteria every once in a while.”

  “Yeah, right. Like I’m gonna take care of your cockroach.”

  Quiet again.

  Terrence ran his fingers over the marks on the wall, then dug his pencil out from under the mattress. One last mark. Seven hundred thirty.

  “What do you think your momma’s gonna cook for dinner tonight?” Carter asked.

  Terrence’s mouth watered with the thought. “Don’t know, but I’m guessing pot roast. She knows it’s my favorite. Whatever, it’ll be better than the crap around this place.”

  “Hell, yeah. What I wouldn’t give for a home-cooked meal. But that’s never gonna happen.”

  Never. The word sent Terrence into a deep, dark hole and covered him with a heavy sadness. “Maybe I’ll bring you something some time,” he replied. But could he ever bring himself to return to that place? Much as he’d miss Carter, would he come to visit?

  “Yeah, and my name’s Franklin Roosevelt. You ain’t never coming back here.” Carter cleared his throat.

  Terrence couldn’t take the defeat in Carter’s voice. A surge of resolution shot through his body and he sat up. “I’ll be back. Just wait and see.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “What if those ideas Mr. Blake’s been pushing on me come true? What if I finish my education? Get a law degree? Maybe someday I could file an appeal for you. Get you outta here. It’d take a while, but least I could get you outta here something short of forever.”

  “Come on, Tee. What if it came true? You mean like a wish? Man, you living in a fairy tale. There ain’t no happy-ever-afters. Trust me. I know. I ain’t never seen one yet.”

  “It ain’t—isn’t—just wishing, Carter. I’m gonna do it. Been sitting in this cell for 730 days, wondering what I was gonna do with my life. Everything’s been pointing in one direction. All started with realizing how stupid I was when I went after Mr. Kimura for being Japanese—then all that wondering about how to make that right. Then, there was Peachie and his goons. That made me think about how many stupid people there are on the outside. I knew I had to do something to change it. And what about what Patty told me about
what those bullies did to William? So, why couldn’t I help you someday?”

  “I don’t want to spoil your dreams or nothing, Tee. But I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “‘Suppose that’s all I can ask.” He walked over to check the clock again. Eleven fifty-five. They’d come for him in five minutes. He thought he might jump out of his pants with excitement. But he also felt like he was getting ready to be ripped apart.

  He looked over at Carter’s bunk. Still and quiet.

  “It’s about time,” Terrence said.

  “Yep.”

  He walked slowly toward Carter’s top bunk. “You take care of yourself.”

  Carter stared at the ceiling. “Hey, you’re the one going out into that mean world. You be careful. Just remember what I said. It ain’t no fairy tale.”

  Terrence reached to shake his cell mate’s hand. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

  Carter extended his hand, but his gaze remained fixed on the ceiling. “Yep.”

  Terrence looked up at where Carter stared. Nothing but dull, gray stucco.

  The guard’s keys jingled at the door. “Time to go.”

  Time to go. Seven hundred thirty days.

  Yet, he hesitated.

  He took a last look at his cell mate—his friend—picked up his box of books and walked out.

  The guard slammed the door. Hard metal against hard metal.

  Carter spoke through the ringing echo it left. “Take care of yourself, Tee.”

  He stepped outside and took a deep breath. Blue sky, so blue. Wind rattled through the leaves in the trees just outside the yard.

  And there. Beyond the gate. Momma, Patty, and Missy. And Mr. Blake.

  Gravel crackled beneath his feet as his steps quickened, like his heartbeat.

  Momma held out her arms.

  He could see her quivering with anticipation.

  Missy jumped up and down, clapping her hands. Patty watched quietly, her hands covering her mouth.

  Mr. Blake beamed and wore a smile that reminded him of Daddy’s.

  A guard opened the gate and Terrence ran until he reached Momma’s arms. She wrapped them around his body and squeezed. So warm. So soft.

  Home.

  Chapter 64

  Sachi

  April 12, 1944

  Sachi couldn’t wait to understand how they had remained separated from Papa all this time. Maybe if she understood, she would finally believe it was all real, not a dream.

  Seated at the table across from Papa, she glanced at the clock on the wall. One o’clock. It had been just after lunch when he stepped off the bus from Jerome. She watched him stare out the window.

  The look in his eyes made him seem very far away as he spoke. “The night they took me away from the hospital, it’s all very hazy, like a dream.”

  Mama wiped her eyes. “You were in a coma, Michio-san.”

  “Yes, but still, I could hear voices. From what I could gather, the men talking were with the FBI. They were whispering and I assumed it must be late in the night. When someone strapped me to a gurney, I wondered where they were taking me.”

  Sachi tried to make sense of facts that were laced between the words and tears of her parents’ conversation.

  Papa continued. “The next thing I knew, I woke up in an infirmary at the camp in Santa Fe, and they were calling me Ihara. I was still confused, didn’t know what was going on, but I knew my name was not Ihara. I kept trying to tell them my name was Michio Kimura.”

  Mama gasped and put her hand over her mouth. “They called you Ihara? That was the name of the man in the bed next to you at the hospital.” She shook her head as she continued. “When we received the telegram that you had … died … it must have been Ihara that died.”

  Ihara died and they thought he was Papa? How could that happen? Sachi felt relief and gratitude about the terrible mistake, but at the same time, she couldn’t help feeling sad for the family who must still be wondering about their father. How were they going to feel when they found out he would never be coming home?

  “Oh, dear,” Papa said, hanging his head in his hands. “All this time you thought I was dead. All because of a paperwork error?”

  Mama’s eyes filled with tears. “And they couldn’t bother to send us another telegram to let us know they’d made a mistake.”

  Papa turned away, and Sachi caught him wiping his eyes. “I later learned the Santa Fe camp was where they sent leaders in the Japanese community, because they thought we were alien enemies. I was in that make-shift hospital for months, drifting in and out of consciousness. The doctor told me I probably would not walk again. But a kind nurse worked with me every day. When I began to feel stronger, I was released into one of the barracks.”

  Sachi tried to hold back more tears as she listened. Strange, that a part of her was so angry she wanted to scold him for not trying harder to find them. Yet, another part of her wanted to protect him.

  It wasn’t his fault.

  But why? Why couldn’t he find them after all that time?

  “We had a funeral for you, Papa. I remember staring at the picture of you that Mama placed at the altar. I wished that picture would come alive, and when it didn’t, I wished I could wake from the terrible dream. Why didn’t you write to us, try to find us?”

  For a split second, anger flashed in his eyes. “I did try. You don’t think—” He took a long, deep breath, then continued. “As I recovered in the hospital, I heard bits and pieces of information about what was happening on the outside—that Japanese families were beginning to be relocated to assembly centers and internment camps. First, I tried to write to you at home, but my letters were returned. Next, I learned that families from Berkeley and the Bay Area had been sent to an assembly center at the Tanforan Racetrack. I wrote to you there, shuddering at the thought of you living in horse stalls. Months later, those letters were also returned.”

  Mama shook her head, then stopped, her eyes widening. “When our bus arrived at Tanforan, we stopped only briefly. Our driver got off the bus, but told us to stay in our seats. We watched him talking to a uniformed man. Whatever that man said, it upset our driver. He was arguing and waving his hands in the air. He returned to the bus, then slammed the door. It frightened us. We did not know what was going on. All he would tell us was that we were going on to Santa Anita. They never told us why.”

  Papa glared at his clenched hand, slowly pounding the table. “I told the authorities I could not find you—that all of my letters had been returned. They never bothered to explain that some families had been sent to Santa Anita instead. How difficult could it have been to find that information? Did they not keep records?”

  Wiping tears from her eyes, Mama replied, “How difficult would it have been to send us another telegram? They simply did not care. All those years apart because of paperwork errors.” She was quiet for a moment. “Why did you not try to find us in the other camps?”

  “Sumiko, I did try. You must remember that for most of the last two years, I was in a Justice Department camp—maximum security. It was very difficult to get information about anything.” His eyes watered as he smiled at Mama. “But it is all in the past. There is nothing more to be done about it. We are together, and soon, Nobu and Taro will be with us, too. It is all that matters now.”

  The rough, dry hands he placed over Mama’s reminded Sachi of the cracked leather of the big chair where Papa used to read to her. It seemed like only yesterday, yet it seemed a thousand years ago. All that time missed. And why? Because some army man decided their bus should go on to another camp? Or because lazy people sitting behind desks couldn’t take the time to give Papa the information he needed? Such fleeting decisions had changed lives forever.

  She remembered sitting on Papa’s lap in that old leather chair. Listening to his voice rumble in his chest as he read each word. The scent of incense in his clothes.

  Of course, it was wonderful—magical—that Papa had returned. But she could never retur
n to those times. Everything was different. She had been nine years old then. Now, she was almost twelve.

  And Papa was so different now. His hair, gray above his ears. He had scars below his eye, above his lip. And he walked with a limp. Would it—could it—ever be the same again?

  He caught her staring, and she turned away, afraid he would read her mind and be hurt by her thoughts. But when he smiled at her, deep lines in his face crinkled and in the darkness of his eyes, she again saw the twinkle she had loved years ago.

  Chapter 65

  Sachi

  May 2, 1944

  The day had finally arrived. Mama and Papa’s twenty-second wedding anniversary! Sachi concentrated hard on designing the card she would give to them later that afternoon. Beneath a large “22” she’d written on a piece of paper, she began to draw a bride and groom.

  What a wonderful idea Papa had—that he and Mama should have a reuniting ceremony. There was nothing more romantic than a wedding, and best of all, Papa had asked Sachi to “officiate” by reading the words he’d written for the big event.

  At first, Mama thought the idea was silly, but Papa kept after her.

  One night, Sachi had peeked from behind her curtain and saw Papa sitting at the edge of the bed. Mama was lying down next to him.

  “Sumiko,” he whispered. “We’ve been apart for two and a half years. It is no surprise that we feel awkward together. Perhaps it would help to reaffirm our commitment.”

  Mama exhaled. “I thought you were dead, Michio-san, and now you are alive. A commitment is a commitment. I do not need a new ceremony. It will simply take some time to adjust.”

  “Perhaps I need a ceremony,” he’d replied.

  A few days later, he had announced that their anniversary would be the perfect opportunity to celebrate and told Mama that he’d even written some verses for the event.

  Sachi had tried to control her excitement, but couldn’t help trying to persuade Mama. Ever since Papa first brought up the idea, a wedding was all she could think about.