Home Front Lines

by Brenda Sparks Prescott

  Major Caldwell entered the bridge and leaned against the wall behind Mrs. Fuji. She swiveled to face him. He was as trim and agile as a man half his age. He probably knew how to tire out the pups that leapt on board this ship with youthful notions of the romance of the sea. A thin cut striped his arm right above the wrist. Although the blood had already crusted, Mrs. Fuji noted its careless appearance on this otherwise meticulous man.

  “Sorry I had to leave you alone like that.” He wiped at the cut and then rubbed his hands together.

  “Not to worry. I’m enjoying the vastness of the ocean.”

  Two young sailors in work uniforms entered the bridge, one white, one Negro. The white one passed between the major and Mrs. Fuji with a salute, but the Negro stopped just inside the hatch and said, “Sir.” He waited for the major to recognize him. At the major’s nod, he said, “May I check these phones, sir?” He pointed to the bank of handsets on the wall. The major nodded and moved back a pace.

  The sailor picked up a handset, then ducked into a quick shallow bow to Mrs. Fuji. She automatically dipped her head.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. The nametag over his pocket read “Johnson.” He picked up the phone closest to Mrs. Fuji and unscrewed the earpiece.

  The major turned up the pale side of his wrist to look at the face of his watch. “It’s about time for dinner. Do you want to wait here a few more minutes, or shall I escort you back to quarters first?”

  Mrs. Fuji had already freshened up after her hours of work beside the diplomat, and although the major seemed to enjoy his assignment to her, she didn’t want to take him away from his other duties more than necessary.

  “I’ll be fine right here,” she said.

  “Then I’ll be back for you directly.” The major rubbed his hands again. “And don’t let that old sea dog steal you away just because he gave you his chair.”

  Mrs. Fuji smiled as he left. Although she took no advances seriously, much to her daughter’s dismay, she still was charmed by men who found her attractive. Even American men.

  Johnson unscrewed the phone’s mouthpiece and withdrew a part. “This is the trouble.” He held it up for the other sailor to see before pocketing it. “Ma’am,” he said with another quick bow and moved off with his buddy.

  Mrs. Fuji settled back and listened to the lullaby of numbers and directions recited by the youngster poring over the sea charts. Most of the sailors seemed like youngsters, seemed about the age her husband was when, dressed in his army uniform, he approached her about a gift for his grandfather in the men’s store where she worked in Hiroshima. Her mother warned that a romance born of commerce would be barren of true deep feeling and connection. Besides, her mother had a wealthy, albeit older, distant cousin in mind as a more suitable match, but Yūko had thrilled at the ardor she felt through Masahiro’s fingers as he stroked her lower back. He was not a learned man, and he could be abusive when drunk or threatened, but his devotion to her was pure and unwavering.

  Several minutes later, Johnson returned. He set down a toolbox near the captain’s chair and picked up the handset he had taken the piece from. Mrs. Fuji gazed through the forward windows while Johnson worked in her peripheral vision.

  “Ma’am?” He didn’t look at her so she didn’t turn her head to reply.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you one of us?” He tapped his chest with the phone. “American, I mean.”

  Not exactly, but it was basically why she was on the ship: the United States government wanted to make sure the diplomat’s translator was conveying the right messages. She nodded.

  “One of my buddies is in a bad way.” He unscrewed the mouthpiece again and squatted down next to his toolbox. “And it’s not right. Someone should know what’s happening.”

  “I am so sorry,” Mrs. Fuji said. She wondered what that had to do with her. “Perhaps Major Caldwell can help you.”

  Johnson picked out a gadget from the toolbox but tossed it back. “None of these birds . . .” He stood and slipped an envelope out of his pocket. “Look. Here’s the story, but it’s written in Japanese. Read it. If you can, pass it on. You’ll figure out where. If nothing else, you can mail it to my mom. Her address is on the envelope. It just can’t go through regular channels. That’s all.” He palmed the envelope to her. “American, though. It has to stay American.” He knelt down beside his toolbox.

  Mrs. Fuji nodded. A regular civilian may have been surprised at the sudden intrigue, but her gift with languages had led her into many unorthodox governmental and military situations. She would read the notes, as she couldn’t resist the appeal of a young sailor who was passing on, at great risk, a message in a foreign language. He had come to the right person. She had security clearance and could give the message to important people, if that was warranted. She could also destroy the evidence if she needed to. She would see.

  She scooped up her purse and opened it. Just as she was sliding the envelope into it, Major Caldwell’s hand appeared inches from hers.

  “May I see that?” he asked.

  Where had he come from? “I beg your pardon?”

  “May I see the document this sailor just handed to you?”

  Johnson twisted on the balls of his feet and peered up at her. His dark eyes were opaque and the rest of his features expressed nothing.

  Mrs. Fuji retrieved the envelope and handed it over. Johnson rose and stood at attention, his gaze resting at a point far past Caldwell’s shoulder. The major turned over the envelope and examined the seal. “Explain yourself, Johnson.”

  “Sir. Dad’s being redeployed to Okinawa. Mom’s learning Japanese. When I found out that Tanaka knows it, I asked him to write a letter to her in Japanese.”

  “Who’s Tanaka?”

  “Medic,” Johnson shrugged but kept his arms stiff by his sides. “I just asked this nice lady to read it to make sure he did a proper job of it. For my mom, sir.”

  “Why’s it sealed?”

  “Habit.”

  Caldwell poised his finger under the envelope’s flap. “May I?” He directed his question to Mrs. Fuji.

  She understood that he had asked permission merely because he had taken the letter out of her possession. Johnson wouldn’t have been given the same courtesy.

  “Of course.”

  The hatch to the radar room opened behind the major. A murmur of voices spilled out along with a billow of stale air smelling of old coffee and cigarettes. A radar man exited the bridge through the far hatch. A burst of crisp sea air blew in after him.

  Caldwell pulled out two pieces of lined paper. He turned to show them to Mrs. Fuji. “It’s Japanese?”

  She glanced at the black-inked characters on lined notebook paper. “Yes.”

  He held out the letter. “What does it say?”

  She took the sheets and scanned them. After a caution about the sensitivity of the material, the letter described the critical condition of a group of Marines. It said they suffered from severe radiation sickness after being ordered to make direct contact with the nose cone of the rocket from the previous day’s failed test.

  Back home they called it A-bomb sickness. Her city of Hiroshima was the first to be subject to its devastating effects. She felt the blood drain from her fingers and a tremor worried them as she touched their cool tips to her throat. What a horrible mess. And according to this letter, the official story will point to an earlier accident rather than the commanding officer that chose electronics over the life of these boys. He wasn’t named in the letter, and in fact the only name that appeared was that of Harold Hepplewhite III, one of the casualties. The letter suggested that his father, a general in the Air Force, would be interested in knowing what really happened.

  The blistered skin, the sightless eyes. The friends that looked fine but moaned through the agony of liquid insides. The disfigured girls, forever branded with the shame of aggression and defeat. The averted eyes of other Japanese Americans if you told them that you came from Hiroshima.
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  She needed time to think.

  Yūko looked up at the major, who was watching her closely, and forced her lips into a smile. “It’s just the kind of news a mother likes to hear—lobster for dinner—although here.” She pointed to the kanji characters of Hepplewhite’s name. “He says that the lobster is good, but he misses her fried chicken.”

  Johnson widened his eyes at her in the instant before the major swung around to him. By then he was nodding in agreement.

  Caldwell’s gaze shifted between the two of them. “You ever meet before?”

  “Just a while ago, here on the bridge,” Mrs. Fuji said. “With you.”

  Caldwell seemed to be reviewing the first encounter. “I guess there’s no harm in it.”

  “No, sir,” Johnson said.

  Mrs. Fuji quickly refolded the letter. “Your friend is very good, but his word selection is somewhat advanced for a beginner. Shall I take it and suggest simpler language?”

  “Yes, ma’am, if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother.”

  “No bother at all.”

  The hatch behind the major opened again and another radar man emerged. He left the hatch open and addressed his superior. “Major Caldwell, sir, you’re wanted again.”

  Caldwell took another good look at Johnson. “You finished here, sailor?”

  Johnson twisted the mouthpiece back onto the phone as the radar man retreated and let the hatch close with a thump. “Aye, sir. Should be working like a champion.” He bowed to Mrs. Fuji and picked up his toolbox.

  As he turned away, the major folded his arms. “Sailor.”

  Johnson stopped and automatically cocked his hand into salute at half-mast before the major waved it off with a shake of his head. “How are you going to get your letter back?”

  “Sir?”

  “Major, may I give it back to you? After I copy it over in simpler characters?” She glanced at Johnson. “That is, if you don’t mind.”

  “I would appreciate it, ma’am.” He ducked his head. “Sir?”

  Caldwell shooed him away and went into the radar room. Yūko dropped the letter into her bag and snapped it shut with a click only she could hear over the rumblings of the ship. She had a painful situation to consider, and possibly a sailor’s letter home to write. She figured her safest bet would be to encourage the major to forget all about the letter, maybe not even give him one unless he remembered to ask for it.

  He returned a few moments later and smiled at her. She mirrored his expression with amusement. This would be easy, she thought. Even at her age.

  “Shall we?” Major Caldwell offered his arm.

  Mrs. Fuji rose and slipped her hand around his forearm. Her fingertips were still cool, but she would ponder the letter later. “Yes, thank you.”

  Lola

  The Discretion of the Monteros 5

  THAT NIGHT I stood in thigh-deep waves at the beach near our old family home. The sky was closed with rolling clouds, and I could barely see the tiny boat that bobbed right in front of me in the heavy darkness. It was one of the few vessels left in private hands and seemed too small to carry even a family of mice on such an important voyage. Yet it was filled with the children of the Sisters Montero. I handed a small bundle to each child, meat patties that would be devoured as soon as they were discovered. I had also packed sweets to comfort them when they lost sight of land and had only the promise of bright stars and their Cuban heritage to keep them company. I waded back to shore to retrieve the larger packages wrapped in canvas. Already my work pants were soaked dark like ink on the moonless night.

  My ears strained to catch sounds of patrols or other unwelcome intruders, but I kept a calm posture. I didn’t want to alarm the little ones. Our children understood the importance of silence. I heard a faint clanking from the boat but no chatter from the living cargo already on board. They were good children. I returned to the boat with the larger packages extended out to my sides over the washing sea. Their weight strained my muscles but kept my blood from rushing to burst my heart. Selena’s outstretched hands greeted me at the boat. She took the bundles and arranged them around herself. She was the adult who knew what nourishment to give and when, but my Bonita, at only eight years, was the little one with the big voice and a mama’s stare that kept her older cousins in line.

  Bonita was the one who would let her most precious possessions go to the bottom of the sea but wouldn’t remove the water bag from around her neck if the boat overturned. She would use her big voice to steer the other children to the hull. Selena was the adult in charge of the trip, but she was the hot-headed one who got too excited. Bonita and I had spoken of such things as we baked small biscuits for the bundles. She was the sensible one who would lead when she had to. She had a child’s curiosity about disaster, so we had to examine all the calamities that might befall a small fishing boat that strayed out of Cuban waters. At one point, when I shuddered at one of her questions, she squeezed my chin with her small fingers and said, “Mami, you must be brave.”

  Now I touched each child in a silent farewell. I clasped Selena’s hand as I had when she was a school girl.

  “It’s time,” she said.

  Her brother pulled his small anchor, dipped a paddle into the water, and pushed off the bottom. He wouldn’t use the tiny motor until he had to. I leaned against the boat to set it on course. I hung on, my immersion deepening as the boat moved away from shore. Just as my feet left the sea floor, I lost my grip. An undeniable pull urged me to swim after them, but I merely trod water. They are going, I thought, they are going to be safe.

  The pound of the surf swallowed the plop of the oar, yet I sensed when the rowing ceased momentarily. Had the vessel sprung a leak? Would the trip be over before it had begun? The boat kept moving away but a small silhouette appeared over the bow. I swam out a few strokes.

  “Ay yi yi, Mami” I heard Bonita’s voice on the edge of tears. “Where is my blanket? Mami, do you know?”

  For all her bravado, my Bonita had only eight years. She no longer dragged around the coverlet that José’s mother made when she was born, yet she still found comfort in it. I knew exactly where it lay at the foot of her bed, forgotten in our promise to remember everything. I could do nothing about it, so I pretended I didn’t hear, and she didn’t call out again. I turned back toward shore, soaked in saltwater.

  SMALL BITS OF seaweed flecked off my pants and shirt as I sat drying on the beach. Our children, my children, had departed long minutes before. I stared in the direction the boat had gone and imagined that I was following its diminishing shape, but in truth, I saw only haze. God took his time drawing water out of my clothes. His Mother sat down beside me, but we still did not have much to say to each other. I thought I heard Bonita’s voice calling faintly across the sea. I ran into the water before I could stop myself. My babies’ faces would always be with me, wouldn’t they? But would they know me when they return?

  I retreated farther inland to sit on a low stone wall that separated the silken beach from a small turnout on the side of the road. I’d get in my Chevy soon to return to an empty house. A car approached on the road. I didn’t look back as the beam from its headlights swept wide across the beach and came to rest pointing straight down the path of the departed boat. I didn’t turn around immediately. It was past curfew and the other rule breakers were either soldiers or comrades with even more clandestine business than my own. The beacon of light disappeared as two car doors opened and two sets of feet crunched in the sand.

  “Lola, what are you doing out after curfew?” It was José’s voice. I turned in its direction and found my husband and Captain B. staring at me through the gloom.

  “I came for a swim and lost track of the time.”

  “Why here, Señora?” Captain B.’s flat inflection reminded me of my debt to him.

  José stepped closer and looked down on me. “Your clothes?”

  He used the shorthand of married couples; I knew what he was really asking. Captain B.’s radi
o emitted a crackling voice. He went back and hunched into the car.

  Without the captain’s attention, José squeezed my arm and said, “Tell me quick.”

  “I told you . . .”

  He jerked my arm, twisting my shoulder. This man I loved was a soldier of the state and loyal to his country. His wife had just committed treason without telling him first. Of course we didn’t tell the men, but who of the murderous officials would believe that? I felt sorry for him, this man who attacked me because somehow he knew he’d lost a battle without a chance to fight.

  The captain returned from the car as I spied a single light deep in the haze on the horizon. Was it our boat? Then I turned my head away, not wanting either man to think there might be a speck out there of any interest. Captain B. passed behind my husband and sat on the wall to my right. “Señora, it’s dangerous for a woman to be out alone on such a dark night.”

  “It’s dangerous for one who didn’t grow up on the far side of that field.” I tossed my head to indicate the land behind us. “My parents are back in the big house, and the older cabin—my great-grandfather’s first here—still stands. It’s my refuge in confusing times.”

  “Confusing times, indeed,” Captain B. said. “I’m certainly confused. You see, your husband had information about defectors from your army trying to escape by boat tonight.” He looked up at the overcast sky, as if the dark face of Sister Moon stared down in judgment. “But when we intercepted the boat, it was only a poor old fisherman.” He pulled out a pack of American cigarettes and offered one to me.

  “She doesn’t smoke,” José said from behind my aching shoulder.

  Captain B. and I had entered a delicate negotiation, and I had to play my part. Russian cigarettes would’ve made it harder. I took what was offered and put it to my lips. The captain cupped a hand around a match, and I bent forward, despite José’s protests behind me. I touched the Russian’s wrist as the flame ignited the tobacco. It was the first time that I’d felt his skin, which was cool for such hot, sticky weather.