Time hadn’t stopped. Aimi was gone, Rosa too. Only the garden was unchanged.
Kira moved deeper into the garden, to the back fence smothered in white flowers from an early blooming jasmine. Cutting the blossoms, she breathed in the perfume, sweet as raw honey on her tongue. As she reached forward, her vision dimmed momentarily, sudden traffic in her ears. She leaned against the fence, waited for the heat, the wash of orange.
Nothing happened. Kira laughed, tears stinging her swollen eyes. Here she was expecting a goddamn tell-all fragment and instead she’d nearly fainted. Suddenly the brightness was too much. A wave of loss, so sharp-edged she caught her breath. Aimi, Rosa, Dan. Time hadn’t stopped.
Twenty-Two
July 20–24, 1945
Akira slid the “Friday” rock out of the lineup he’d placed on the windowsill in the hospital storeroom. Seven rocks in a row, one for each day of the week. If a rock was missing, it meant “Meet me tonight.”
It was Maddalena’s idea. “North to south, Sunday through Saturday,” she said. “When you can meet me, take away the rock for that day. I’ll put seven rocks near the fence—”
“Not too close,” Akira said.
“No, not too close,” she said, smiling. “If I can meet you, I’ll match your pattern.”
“What if you can’t come by to check for my signal?”
“Then I can’t meet you, silly. Make sure the rocks are big enough that I can see them from a distance.”
It was a good system, and better than anything he could have come up with. “Awfully sneaky,” Akira said. “I bet you’ve done this kind of thing before.”
Maddalena answered in a voice so grave it was impossible not to believe her. “No, I never had a reason to until now.”
That was nine days ago, and not a glimpse of her since, and no row of rocks anywhere near the fence that Akira could see. Either she had changed her mind about him or something else was keeping her away. Either way it wasn’t good news.
Akira went outside, the third time that morning. He could still smell her hair, feel her mouth against his. He liked the substance of her, strong and sturdy, not balsawood like Annabelle. Tapping out a cigarette, he searched the horizon for an approaching horse. Nothing. No cloud of dust, no rocks, no sign that Maddalena had ever been there.
He went back to his task of organizing the supply room, trying not to think the worst. Maybe it was just as well that Maddalena had gone AWOL today. Friday night was movie night, and he’d promised to take Annabelle to see Two Girls and a Sailor. It wouldn’t be easy to come up with an excuse to ditch their plans. He’d liked movie night better in the old days, though, before the auditorium was built, when a screen would be set up in a firebreak and everyone lounged around on blankets. Out there in the dark, you could do some serious necking. There was no such thing as privacy at Manzanar, so you made do however and wherever you could; any of the fellows and their sweethearts would swear to that. There wasn’t a dugout under a barracks or an out-of-the-way corner in the boiler room that hadn’t seen some action.
The door opened and Paul poked his head in. “Any luck?” he said.
Akira shook his head and yanked a box from one of the shelves.
“You taking Annabelle to the movie tonight?”
“Looks like it.”
Annabelle hadn’t been easy on him since the night he’d pinned her to the wall, and he couldn’t blame her. She’d kept her distance for three days, and when he asked her friends where she was, they sniffed and said things like, “Home crying her eyes out,” or “What do you care?” They had it all wrong. He didn’t like hurting people and he felt like a creep for doing it. Annabelle didn’t deserve to be hurt. She hadn’t done a thing except fail to be Maddalena.
Akira hoisted a box of antiseptics onto his shoulder and climbed the stepladder. Making order out of chaos gave him a sense of control, of creating harmony. That was probably why his mother liked working in the garden. A day or two ago, helping her tie up plants, he’d told her about his storeroom project and her eyes brightened, as if she recognized him in herself. “Working meditation,” she’d said, tugging at a weed.
Once Akira had decided on a system, the storeroom work went quickly, and now the boxes and canisters and bins stood in neat rows. Up the ladder again, shoving another box into place, aligning its corners with the one underneath. The next person who unloaded supplies would undoubtedly mess up his system, but it felt good to set things right, even for a short time. After growing up watching his father at his workbench—the care he took with his tools, the precise way he fitted edges of wood together with exactly the right amount of glue—Akira found it impossible not to try to put everything in balance.
Thoughts of his father carried guilt. When was the last time he’d had a real conversation with his father? Or his mother? He should stay home in the evenings more, but it was hard to sit around and watch his parents shrink and fade into people he could see through. They had given up, and seeing the change in them was like taking a knife to the gut.
Paul appeared again. “Cake ahoy,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the nurses’ station. “Ellen’s leaving tomorrow.”
“Where to?”
“Ohio, I think.”
So, Ellen was going east to freedom. Akira was glad his parents didn’t want to go. Berkeley was home, and he’d be damned if he was going to live in Ohio or some other landlocked place because the government said it was okay. Too far from Japan to do any harm, that was how those idiots figured it. All of them were about as bright as General Dimwit, the nickname he and Paul had given to DeWitt, the moron in charge of Western defense who’d convinced Roosevelt that every person of Japanese descent on the West Coast was a threat. Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, but it had all started with Dimwit. Then again, maybe Ellen had the right idea. Starting over somewhere new might be better than going home, because who knew what going home meant? His parents had been forced to give up their apartment, his father’s woodshop; his father had no money, no lumber, no tools. What would he do for work now? .
Akira shoved the last box into place, thumped it twice to flush it with its neighbor. It stuck out an inch and wouldn’t budge. “Son of a bitch.”
At the nurses’ station, Paul was leaning on the counter, chatting up the ward clerk. Spotting Akira, he slid a paper plate heaped with white cake and blue frosting across the counter. “Saved you a piece. You’re welcome.”
Akira poked at the thick pink filling oozing from the center. “This isn’t Jell-O, is it?”
“What’s dessert without Jell-O? What are you, anti-American?” Paul laughed. “Let’s go outside; I need a smoke.” He slapped a hand on the counter, making the ward clerk jump. “Back in a minute. Don’t go away now.” The clerk smiled, blushing.
Outside, Paul sat on the top step and lit a cigarette. “She’s a doll, isn’t she?”
“Who?”
“The ward clerk, oblivious one. I do believe I’m making fine progress with her. Maybe I’ll take her to the movie tonight. Nice tits.”
“Yeah.” Akira tossed the plate aside, staring at the horizon, willing a horse to appear.
“Man, you are no fun anymore, mooning around after Horse Girl all the time.”
“Her name is Maddalena.”
“Righ-tee-o. And you, my friend, are an idiot.”
Akira punched Paul’s arm, then dodged a return blow.
“Well, well, well, fancy meeting you here,” said a voice from the street. It was Harry and his henchman, headed right for them. Akira got up. “Hold your horses. I’ve got news for you, Akira my friend,” Harry said.
“Bug off,” Paul said.
“I’m not talking to you, lard-ass.” Harry smiled, thumbs hooked in his pockets.
“Lousy timing, Harry,” Akira said. “Duty calls.”
“Hang on, I’ve got a very impor
tant message for you from my sister. You remember her—Annabelle? Sure you do. She said to tell you that someone else invited her to the movie tonight. Which means he’s in like Flynn and you’re on the outs.” Harry flashed a sarcastic smile. “A shame, isn’t it?”
“Since when does Annabelle ask you to talk for her?”
“Since she can’t be bothered with the likes of you, that’s when. C’mon, Jiro. Our work here is done.” Harry strutted off, breaking stride to smash a scorpion with the heel of his boot.
“Let’s punch his lights out,” Paul muttered.
“Nah, he’s not worth the effort.”
“Aren’t you sore about Annabelle? Jeez Louise. Cocky bastards.”
“Why should I be sore? Harry’s lying,” Akira said. Good thing he had no plans with Maddalena after all. “Screw him. I’ll be the one taking Annabelle to the movie tonight.”
“Yes!” Akira said. Marching parallel to the fence, a good ten feet out, was a row of rocks. Six rocks, because the Tuesday slot was empty. At last! After all this time, he’d see Maddalena again. It’d been ten days with no sign of her, ten nights of lying in bed thinking about her until his body ached. He’d almost stopped hoping. Annabelle could tell something was up because when she’d finally let him touch her again, after he’d taken her to the movie and proved Harry wrong, he went a little crazy. “Well,” she said when he rolled off her, “if that’s what saying no does to you, maybe I should say it more often.” But she knew that wasn’t it. She stopped by the hospital more often now, came looking for him in the mess hall. She was watching him, and he’d bet her friends were too. He couldn’t chance running into any of them tonight. Lie low at work until nightfall, that was the best plan. As long as Annabelle didn’t come looking for him, he’d be fine.
That evening he clocked out and slipped into the storeroom to wait. Tucked into a corner behind some shelves, he dozed off, jerking awake every so often to check his watch in a panic. Finally it was eight-thirty, time to go. In the locker room he exchanged his scrub top for a sweater, then stuffed a blanket into a duffel bag.
Half an hour later Akira stood in the shadows at Bairs Creek. A full moon would make going under the fence riskier this time, but he felt invincible. Watching the searchlights, he waited for an opening, then ran. Perfectly timed. Under the fence, out, safe.
At the orchard, he didn’t have long to wait. When Maddalena appeared in the moonlight, he ran to meet her.
“Are you a sight for sore eyes! I thought you weren’t coming back!” Akira lifted her off the horse and she clung to him, surprisingly fierce.
“I know, I’m so sorry! I knew you’d think I wasn’t coming back. But Mama kept such an eagle eye on me I could barely breathe, and I didn’t dare try to sneak out. I swear she knows something’s going on.”
“It’s all right, you’re here now. Come on, I brought us a blanket to sit on.”
“Thank you.” Maddalena sat, feet tucked under her, while Akira tethered Scout. “It was awful, not seeing you and not being able to tell you why. After we met, the next day at breakfast my brother Marco said he’d heard something thump against the side of the house during the night. It must have been me! I thought I’d die of fright. After breakfast I ran upstairs to see if the rope was still where I’d hidden it, and of course it was. No one goes into my room except Mama, and she was in the kitchen all morning. But all I could think about was Marco finding it and telling Mama. I’ve never been so scared!”
“I bet,” Akira said, sitting next to her.
“So then Mama decided someone must have been trying to break into the house, and whenever she gets scared she gets even more protective than usual. Every time I said I wanted to go riding or go to Regina’s, she said no, and I didn’t dare disobey. Finally she calmed down, and last night I stayed over at Regina’s. I set up the rocks this morning. They were in my saddlebag the whole time.”
“I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
Akira kissed her and it was exactly as she’d remembered it. In his arms, she could feel him the way she felt Scout when she rode bareback, the horse’s long muscles moving under her thighs, her rhythm matching his. But this was different. She felt shimmery inside, but also perfectly still.
Akira traced the curve of her ear, watching her reaction. Her eyes were closed, her face changing in small, quick ways. So different from Annabelle. How much did she know about sex? He pushed her back gently, and she didn’t resist. “I won’t hurt you.” He found her tongue, the rippled edge of her teeth.
Maddalena turned away. “Wait. Please.” He rolled onto his side, head propped on one hand, watching her.
How was it possible to feel so many things at once? With him next to her, the world was made right. Everything inside her, everything in the universe—the trees and the wind and the moon, even Scout dozing nearby—settled into place, the way the world collected itself after a storm. But underneath the glow, in the back of her mind, an alarm shrilled like an air-raid drill. She glanced at Akira, who was clearly waiting for her to say something, probably wondering why she wouldn’t let him kiss her. She wanted to, wanted that delicious sense of sinking into his body, but her thoughts were in a jumble—the rope slapping against the house, her mother’s fear, barbed wire, the towers, the searchlights. Akira was risking too much. He could die because of her. She should tell him they shouldn’t see each other again until this horrible war was over.
“Talk to me. Tell me about when you lived in Berkeley,” she said. “I want to know everything.”
He sat up. “I’ll tell you anything as long as you promise to meet me here again. Soon.”
“I promise.” She kissed him quickly. “Tell me about coming to Manzanar.”
It seemed odd to speak of things he’d only carried inside him. Until now there’d been no need to talk about the day he and his parents had left home, what they’d left behind. Everyone at Manzanar knew the story; it was theirs too, a shared shame.
It happened so fast, he told Maddalena. The notices went up on April thirtieth and they had a week, one lousy week, to settle their business, pack what little they could, say their goodbyes. Each family was given a number, like they weren’t good enough to have names. Then the waiting at Tanforan, sleeping in horse stalls, the long train ride, the bus to Manzanar. On the train, at first, Akira felt like they were on an adventure—the rocking cars carrying them off into the unknown, the windows covered as if to withhold a surprise. He was only fourteen; what did he know? Only the ashen faces of his parents kept his imagination in check. And then, the disbelief when they arrived—the shock of the desert, the naked land, the makeshift buildings of Manzanar. No trace of kindness or welcome, only wind and dust and rock, mattresses of straw, endless lines for every need. Bells that called them to eat, whether the food or the hour suited them or not. Food that made them sick, vomiting and shitting in a room filled with other groaning people, lined up like pack animals. Manzanar was a place where you threw away everything you knew about how people should live, a place where you tossed your expectations, your standards, your pride into the toilet along with the indigestible food. Nothing would remain recognizable in a place like that.
As a child, Akira had never imagined hardship. The apartment his family rented in Berkeley was spacious and warm, and he’d had his own room, plenty to eat, good schools, friends he’d known all his life. He liked where they lived on Tenth Street, in a neighborhood called Ocean View with the bay shining in the west, where the toy-sized bridge braved the ocean winds and tides, and forested hills guarding the east. His father never lacked for work. The pieces he made were simple but fine, his attention to detail uncompromising. His mother cooked and mended, sang songs from her childhood, padded silently past on hardwood floors while Akira practiced piano.
“Berkeley sounds wonderful,” Maddalena said. “It must have been awful to be taken
away and locked up.”
Akira shrugged. How could he begin to explain? Of course she was curious, but curiosity had its ugly side. He’d seen it in the early months at Manzanar, when valley residents came by to stare at them, looking none too friendly. “I don’t like to talk about it much,” he said. “I will if you want me to, but not right now. Let’s not ruin tonight.”
“I don’t mean to pry. It’s only because…”
“Because what?”
“Because if it’s about you, I want to know it, whatever it is. Everything, good or bad. That’s all.”
For a moment Akira couldn’t speak. “Thank you,” he said when he found his voice. “You’re something else, you know it?”
Maddalena blushed. He acted like she’d given him a hundred dollars. “How about playing the piano? I wish I could play. Is it okay to talk about that?”
“Much better.” Akira kissed her lightly.
He was five when he started taking lessons, on a neighbor’s piano. His mother had taken him to the neighbor’s house one day, and while the women chatted he sat at the keyboard, fascinated by the cause and effect: push a key, hear a sound. The woman noticed his interest and told his mother to bring him back on Wednesday, when her son had his lesson. “Let him try it,” she’d said when Akira’s mother refused. Not because she didn’t want him to play, but it was a matter of giri, indebtedness. Akira didn’t know what the woman said to change his mother’s mind—there had been some transaction that evened the score, of that he was sure—but on Wednesday he sat at the piano again. Already the ivory keys, silky and cool, felt familiar, part of him. His feet dangled beneath him, inches from the pedals.
It was agreed that he would study, that he had talent. Three years later, his parents stood smiling when he came home from school one day and saw the piano they’d bought him, a Steinway baby grand, gleaming and gorgeous, impossibly expensive. At eight, he’d been thrilled and unquestioning, but when he was older he understood the sacrifices his parents must have made to buy it.
The Wild Impossibility Page 16