After the Bloom

by Leslie Shimotakahara

  There was so much she wanted to say to him. And yet, she just kept staring at him, waiting for him to speak first. He looked at her like he couldn’t trust her. Like she’d crossed over to the other side.

  “Don’t do this, Kaz. Please, don’t. You’re throwing everything away — our future together —”

  “My future? I’ve never had a future. Not the kind you and my father fantasize!”

  His words stung, but she pushed them from her mind, refusing to believe he meant any of it. Once this was all over, he’d grow up, take responsibility.

  With every tear that ran down her cheeks, a flutter of life was making itself felt inside her belly. She was going to have a baby, the doctor’s grandchild. Her body felt as though it had no boundaries of its own, like nothing more than a collection of so many tingling, coursing sensations….

  A flash of movement on the periphery. A band of soldiers had moved in.

  “Kaz, there’s something I need to tell you —”

  But he’d already wrenched away, disappeared into the building.

  Twenty minutes later, the army had formed a thick line between the hospital and the protesters. A heavy-set man with a florid face and small moustache appeared to be the commander; he repeatedly ordered the crowd back. People continued to surge forward as a new excitement infused their blood, stirred up by the show of authority. The chanting grew louder and more boisterous, and more rocks were hurled forth.

  “Stop!” shouted an old woman at the front. “If you don’t stop throwing rocks, they’ll have the right to fire on us!”

  It was Mrs. Okada, right on the front line, feisty as ever.

  No one listened, and the soldiers were met with bolder taunts.

  “Say please!”

  “We’re through taking orders from Uncle Sam!”

  It looked like a small can, harmless as a soda pop. But it hissed and emitted smoke as it arced through the air.

  Then people began coughing and doubling over, pushing every which way, rubbing their eyes and noses as tears and mucus streamed down their cheeks. The soldiers volleyed several more cans into the crowd, and the smoke and chaos thickened. Now folks were running blindly, trying to evade a target they couldn’t see — bumping into each other and falling to the ground like piles of dirty, dishevelled laundry. Men pulled up their shirts to cover their eyes while women drew up their skirts, flashing flesh, no concern for modesty now. Screaming to the point that no words were distinguishable.

  Lily backed into the doorway, her eyes on fire. A burning sensation covered her skin. The more she rubbed, the worse it got, worse than poison ivy.

  If it hadn’t been for that terrible itch, maybe she’d have seen the car approaching from the rear of the building. By the time she realized it was careening toward them — heading right for where she stood — all she could do was jump away from the impact. Thunderously, the wall shook and pieces of door frame clattered down amid a tornado of dust. The black car backed up to plough into the wall again. She lurched away, and all she could think was that the building was about to collapse and Kaz was inside. She felt her stomach and soul being sucked in after him, even as her feet carried her in the opposite direction….

  She had to protect their baby.

  As she looked back, everything appeared very still and bright, her sense of time frozen under the weight of the sun’s glare. Hope crested inside her upon seeing that the building remained upright.

  Gunfire pierced the air.

  Soldiers had opened fire on the car. People were falling in puddles of blood — screaming at a whole new level of terror.

  She was trying to elbow her way out. A bolt of lightning cut across the side of her face. Blood gushed onto her hands and she couldn’t feel anything — the pain was so pervasive it cancelled out everything, a formless, searing coldness — and she sank to her knees, shrieking, the sky careening and covering her with its horribly placid blueness.

  The doctor’s face swam up and blocked her in shadow. His arms swooped down and carried her away through the smoke and chaos.

  Twenty

  “Crisis at Matanzas” in Newsweek (December 24, 1943)

  Last Friday afternoon, after weeks of dealing with as much rabble-rousing as 15,000 sons of heaven, Edward Howells threw in the towel on saving face for the War Relocation Authority. Fleeing the mob of Japs, the director of the Japanese evacuation center at Matanzas, Calif., put in a phone call to the Army — barely seconds before the mob took over the switchboard and axed all communication. Fortunately, the call got through to Col. Vernon Powers, who swiftly intervened by taking over the camp and restoring order, with the help of 1,000 men, tanks, tear gas, and Tommy guns.

  The Army had awaited the call all day. Nevertheless, by the time Col. Powers received the green light, a dozen Japs and a handful of the center’s guards had sustained injuries. As Army management moved in and took over, 25 more Japs were injured. An 8-year-old Eurasian boy, Timothy Dewson, died on the spot, while 30-year-old Wendy Ito was rushed to hospital and remains in critical condition.

  Thus concluded the bloodiest encounter to break out at any of the WRA’s evacuation centers for the Japanese. The problems had been escalating for the past three months, ever since a group of discontent, pro-Japanese agitators got together to organize a “Kitchen Workers Union.” These angry young men have been spreading 1,001 rumors about lack of soap and other such amenities and an alleged sugar shortage — supposedly created by camp employees siphoning off supplies. A tall tale, indeed. (A standard lunch menu at the camp includes roast beef, green beans, salad, and coffee, with cream and plenty of sugar available. If only all of us could be so well fed during wartime!)

  The real trouble at the camp was caused by bad blood between the old-time Japanese loyalists and the Japanese-American citizens who stepped forward to lead the Japanese American Citizens Confederacy. The loyalists have accused JACC leaders and supporters of being FBI informants who help to identify troublemakers. The result has been an atmosphere of suspicion and bloody confrontation. Beatings perpetrated on these so-called informants have become commonplace.

  On Dec. 17, in the early afternoon, 3,000 or more men and women marched out of their barracks and workplaces to the hospital, where Frank Isaka, JACC President, was recovering after such a beating. The angry mob demanded his release (presumably to finish the poor man off) while throwing stones and singing the Japanese anthem and the Imperial Japanese Navy marching song. “Kill All Informers,” the crowd chanted and disobeyed the Army’s command to move back. When a troublemaker drove a vehicle into the side of the hospital, the Army fired upon the crowd with tear gas followed by a shower of gunfire.

  After the Army had restored order, FBI agents immediately arrested and placed in special detention several men responsible for leading the riot, including Kaz Takemitsu, Akira Ogura, Kenji Kano and Thomas Nakamura. In total 15 evacuees were arrested and taken to a Civilian Conservation Corps camp. The Japanese aliens will be incarcerated by the Department of Justice, while the remaining Japanese-American citizens will be sent to a high-security detention camp, where they will be held for at least the rest of the war.

  Frank Isaka, who remained safely hidden in the hospital throughout the riot, suffered no further injuries.

  Mr. Howells — unarmed with his WRA public relations man who had resigned just before the incident — tried to hush up all news of the riot. His second-in-command, Clark Richardson, covered up the rumors by claiming it was all lies spread by the Germans. Thanks to the perseverance of a Newsweek reporter, an eyewitness was located to verify the story.

  As this issue goes to press, the WRA faces investigation by the California State Legislature and State Department in Washington. The question of whether Matanzas and other such troublesome camps need to be placed in Army hands is under discussion.

  Unpacking

  Twenty-One

  Rain
came down in wild lashes. As Rita ran ahead in no particular direction, the sidewalk seemed to lurch toward her face — grey, wet, never-ending slabs. A mad crack of thunder made her bones jump.

  That first spray of gunfire….

  Down the street from Robarts was an athletic field flanked by a stone tower that rose into the gloomy sky like a medieval prison. Where was she going? Where was the subway? At the best of times, her sense of direction wasn’t good. How had she arrived at Queen’s Park Crescent? A steady flow of traffic coursed by — no one stopping to let her cross, no one caring that she was getting drenched each time a tire hit a pothole.

  She ran through an arched gateway adjacent to a stone manor house. This led down a winding path canopied by weeping willows that were laden with pearls of water. Sheltered, she paused to catch her breath.

  That web of black print, at once too cryptic and too clear — impossible to process. The only words that had stood out were Kaz Takemitsu. A name that for so long had filled her with longing and dread. Her father had been a leader in the riot? Was that what the stupid article was trying to tell her? All her life she’d pictured him as a loser: a drunk, mean, small-minded man. That was his legacy, not this.

  “Hey, Rita!”

  She spun around. It was Mark, under a busted umbrella, loose nylon flapping around his head. He was out of breath, a sweaty, rainy mess.

  “You forgot this.” He held out her shoulder bag. “Why did you run off like that?”

  The truth was she’d forgotten all about him. Upon reading that article, her brain just kind of froze up. The next thing she knew, she was racing down the hall toward the fluorescent gap of an elevator.

  “What’s going on, Rita? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Did you read the article?”

  “No, I came after you immediately.”

  “It said some stuff about Kaz Takemitsu. My father.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “He was involved in leading the riot. Then he was dragged off to prison or some high-security prison camp. Wherever they took the shit disturbers.” Her words sounded flat, lifeless. She might have been talking about a stranger. She was talking about a stranger.

  Mark stepped closer, silver droplets beaded to his lashes. He looked like he wanted to hug her but wasn’t sure whether she wanted to be touched. “You never knew anything about this?”

  “Nope. Kaz walked out on us. That’s all I ever knew.”

  An unexpected upsurge of pride. At least there was more to Kaz than Tom had let on. All those images of Marlon Brando and Alan Ladd had been more than just little girl fantasies. Kaz had stood for something.

  “You’re soaked to the bone. Come on. Let’s get you into a cab.”

  Back at her apartment, she changed out of her wet clothes while Mark heated up a can of chicken noodle soup. Swaddled in her bathrobe, she sat on the edge of the couch, hands wrapped around the burning-hot mug. The salty noodles slipped over her tongue, and her eyelids began to feel heavy, the edges of her little world fading. Thankfully, Mark didn’t ask any more questions. She let her head fall onto a cushion and pulled her legs up onto his thighs. After a long time in silence together, he draped a blanket over her and flicked off the lights.

  The weight of her body sinking down, down, down, into the depths of the earth. Emotions lapped at her borders, eroding the edges of consciousness. Images passed before her: her mother’s closet, strewn with bright dresses; a vase of three yellow chrysanthemums, the kind Grandpa used to make offerings to their ancestors; a dish of burning incense, like the remains of a simmering cigarette, the ashes accumulating until the wind carried them away….

  She was in the desert at sunset, the horizon a blinding band of orange neon. The sand-like needles shooting into her skin. It stuck all over her, coating, encasing her, and there was something more to these itchy granules — flecks of white. Bone shards. Ashes! Whose ashes? She swatted at her body, desperate to fling the muck off.

  Kaz.

  Stillness came over her. So at last, this was how it felt to touch her dead father? The ashes moistened as tears dripped into her upturned hands.

  Out of nowhere Lily appeared. She was young, so young — little more than a teenager, her face touched with uncertainty, adolescent self-consciousness, trapped in that pupal state of waiting, continual waiting. A weirdly protective, maternal feeling stirred within Rita. Lily’s hair was pulled up in a messy bun, and she was dressed in a pink leotard and tutu, tattered and grungy. As if Rita weren’t even there, she began a peculiar dance, kind of like ballet, but all the movements were disjointed, choppy. She spun in a clumsy pirouette that collapsed into a fetal position; she slithered through the sand, pulling herself by her elbows. Like a girl in a Degas painting, except drunk or high. Then she was running in circles, churning up silvery sand, and she leaped into the air, but it was as though she’d hit an invisible wall. She fell to the ground, dazed, unmoving. A moment later she jumped up and tried it all again. Only to be knocked down all over. She repeated the futile sequence.

  Someone tapped Rita on the shoulder. Turning around, she gasped. The young Marlon Brando. Except it wasn’t quite him. The man’s hair was pitch black, slicked back, his eyes slanting upward in the shape of raindrops.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  She nodded shyly.

  “What’s going on with your mother?”

  “She gets like this sometimes.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Moody circles glimmered beneath his eyes, mirroring his heavy brows. “It’s probably my fault. It wasn’t easy on her after they took me away.”

  “I know.” And then, if that might have sounded too accusatory, “It’s okay. She’s going to be okay, isn’t she?”

  But before Kaz could answer, the wind picked up speed. She had no idea of his reply, if he replied at all.

  “Do you ever wonder what might’ve happened if things hadn’t been stacked against you?”

  “But they weren’t, Rita. I was the doctor’s son. I had it better than most guys.”

  “Then … why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you throw your life away? Why did you leave us?”

  Whatever his answer — if he answered at all — it was drowned out by the hissing gust.

  She pushed herself up with an abrupt, startled movement. Shadows spilled from the sofa to the floor; bars of light cut through the venetian blinds. The air, after the rainfall, felt heavy, sticky.

  She had an indistinct sense of some dream about Lily, but when she tried to grasp for it, all she could see were swirls of dust.

  How long had she slept? Mark must have slipped out a while ago. How embarrassing that he’d seen her falling apart.

  The front door creaked open. Lights flicked on harshly; she blinked, still in the process of waking. He was standing there, his arms laden with grocery bags and a bottle of wine.

  “Hope you’re hungry.”

  Prickles of nervousness took over, followed by an irritated sensation. She could deal with someone walking out just fine, but chasing her through the rain and making dinner — whoa, that was a whole other story.

  “You really don’t have to go to all this trouble.”

  He put down the bags and stepped back onto the veranda for more. How much frigging food had he bought?

  “I took the liberty of looking in your fridge.”

  “Kensington’s great for takeout.”

  “It’s also great for fresh ingredients.”

  After unearthing a knife and cutting board, Mark set her to work slicing a fennel bulb, which got stuffed inside a red snapper, along with a handful of torn-up coriander. He’d even bought a ball of string to tie the shimmery silver-rose skin back together. While it was in the oven — an aromatic, licorice scent filling the air — he threw together a tomato and bocconcini salad.
Crisp, grassy white wine. It cut across her palate, cleansing away the scummy taste of sleep.

  Getting some food into her body was a good idea. They hardly even talked while eating.

  After dinner, as they polished off the wine, he flipped through her record collection. They reminisced about Gordon Lightfoot, Muddy Waters, Sonny Terry, and all the other musicians who used to do shows at the Riverboat and coffee houses in Yorkville. Mark strummed away at an imaginary guitar with a look of reverie that seemed to verge on parody. Joni Mitchell’s voice came on, delicate and strong, dancing through the dimness like silk ribbons. The record reached “Little Green.” Rita hadn’t listened to this music in years. It was amazing how this woman never shied away from finding words for her most intimate memories and deepest pain — the pain of giving her daughter up for adoption. All the ordinary fears and yearnings of a young mother refracted through the song’s poetry. Had Lily ever felt that way, too?

  As they fell into silence, Rita’s head dropped back on the sofa. She edged forward so Mark could come closer and settle himself behind her; she leaned back against his chest, his fingers locking around her. The aroma of herbs and salt water and crushed garlic wafted off him as he held the weight of her against him. They were just being friendly, she reminded herself. Friends could do this, couldn’t they? Like hell they could. But for now maybe it was all right to lie back and luxuriate in this state of half-drunken whateverness. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about chaos and clouds of tear gas and Lily being caught in an upsurge of screaming bodies.

  “You know, I always assumed my father left because he couldn’t handle my mom. How she was, after the war.”

  “Sounds like he had his own problems to deal with. What do you know about the guy?”

  “Not much. Most of the time, no one breathed his name. He and Grandpa never got along.”

  “Why’s that?”