Alex
14
MARCH 28, 1942
The last few days pass by in a blur. Six days to pack up. Six days to make arrangements for the farm. To decide what to throw away and what to store, what to pack and what to burn.
Nineteen years to build a life. Six days to make it all go away.
Still it must be done. The clothes will not fold themselves, the books will not pack themselves. When Alex and Frank return home from school this last week, they find Mother on her knees packing boxes in the attic, or in the living room scrubbing the floorboards clean, or in the bedroom dusting the shelves.
Why, Mother? they ask, exasperated. They see her drained body, hear her labored breathing. It doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Who cares if the house is dusty or the floor dirty? We’re leaving.
But still she labors.
Six days until evacuation. Then five. Four, three. And now, only two.
When Alex returns home that day, he finds Mother carrying a packed box down to the basement. A sheen of sweat covering her face even in the cold.
“Mother,” he chides, taking the box from her. In the basement are dozens of stacked boxes lining the walls. He opens the nearest ones. Clothes, sweaters, jackets, all neatly folded, a few mothballs thrown in. Inside other boxes he finds books, framed pictures, old teddy bears. Their whole lives now stored and hidden away in darkness like skeletons in a coffin.
He hears voices from above. A man’s voice. In the kitchen. Mumbled English.
He heads upstairs. Through the window he sees a dented pickup truck with chipped paint parked outside, one he’s never seen before. In the cargo bed, a piano and oak farmhouse table secured by rope. He recognizes both items: over the years he’s eaten at that very table and performed on that piano during family recitals at the Yamadas’ home.
A stranger is standing in the kitchen. A beefy white man in dirty denim overalls towering over Mother. His boots still on, a trail of mud left behind. “I’ll take the fridge for five bucks and the clock for one.” He has the brusque air of a man in charge granting favors.
“What’s going on?” Alex says.
The man turns around, hooks his meaty fingers around his suspenders. The short stub of a cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth. Smoke curling up. “Thought I’d come by and help you guys out.” The cigarette bobs up and down as he speaks. “I’ve made a quality offer on a few of your things. Your ma was just about to say yes.”
Alex looks at Mother. Standing perfectly still in the corner of the kitchen, impossibly petite against this large imposing man. Her face starch white, her wiry frame sharp. She’s upset.
Something catches the man’s eye. He walks over to the glass-door cabinet, throws open the door. He pulls out a stack of Wedgwood china and brings it over to the table. These are the limited-edition plates Father splurged on years ago, after she gave birth to Alex. They use them only twice a year, on Thanksgiving and Christmas. The man slides a plate out of its protective velvet sleeve, licks his lips. “I’ll take these for a buck. Total, that is.” He pats down on them with his fat, grubby hands, his wedding band clinking against the ceramic.
“Too cheap,” Mother says. “These plates expensive. Twenty dollars just for plates.”
The man laughs. “No.”
“The refrigerator thirty dollars,” Mother says. “And the clock, you cannot buy. We don’t sell.”
The man laughs again but this time with a mocking tone, as if at her accent. He scratches his scruffy beard where peanut butter is smeared on a few bristles. “Where you’re going, you won’t be needing a refrigerator. Or a grandfather clock, or these plates.”
“You give me forty dollars, I give you plates and the refrigerator.”
Now the smile disappears completely. “Listen, lady.” His eyes are cold pinpoints in his jowly face. “Case you don’t realize, I’m doing you a favor. I’m offering you a fair price for these items.”
“You think you’re offering a fair price?” Alex cuts in. “You’re insulting us, you’re—”
“Quit your sermonizing, right now, son,” the man snarls, snapping his fingers. “Don’t think for a minute that the second you’re gone other folks less honorable than me ain’t gonna come up here and help themselves to what’s left behind. Strip this place clean.” He turns back to Mother. “So I suggest you accept my offer with an appreciative bow of the head and a really nice ally-ga-toh.”
Mother stares at him. She only understood about a quarter of his words, but she understands him completely. She walks over to the kitchen table, picks up the plate.
“You want this?” she says. The plate trembles in her hands. “For one dollar?”
The man tut-tuts. “One dollar for all of them—”
She lifts her hand, raising the plate.
“Hey—” he starts to say.
She smashes the plate to the floor. The shatter is a thunderclap, the pieces flying in every direction.
“And you want this?” she says, removing another plate from its velvet sleeve. Her voice, high-pitched now. “One dollar?” She picks it up, smashes it at his feet.
“Daggum it, woman.” He glares at her, eyes wide. “You people have it coming for you.” His elbow catches the stack of plates as he storms out, knocking them over.
“Hey!” Alex shouts.
The man brushes past him, the ripe stink of body odor thick and pungent. “When you Japs are done with your prison time,” he shouts over his shoulder, “don’t even think about coming back here. Ever.” He smacks open the screen door, drives away.
15
MARCH 29, 1942
And then there is only one day until evacuation.
The Japanese church service that Sunday morning is a somber affair. People are exhausted, having spent the last few days scrambling to get their affairs in order. Rushing to lease or sell their land. To pack and store what they cannot carry with them. To liquidate every asset, selling off their cars, boats, freezers, for pennies on the dollar. They mumble through “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” their minds burdened with a thousand worries and fears and anxieties.
Alex sits in a state of disbelief. He still cannot believe they’re all leaving tomorrow. That come this time next week, this sanctuary will be completely empty in the morning hour. The whole Japanese congregation absent, vanished as if Raptured away.
He thinks of the empty farmlands, the empty storefronts, the idle trucks. Will anyone notice? He thinks of Bainbridge High School, how at this time tomorrow, his desk will be empty in an otherwise full classroom. The teachers will continue to teach, bells will continue to ring throughout the day, students will continue to crowd hallways and goof off and laugh aloud. Life will go on. But Alex will be gone.
Will anyone care? Will anyone notice?
After church service, Mother, Alex, and Frank—who’s been morose and silent since the football-game incident—stop by the hardware store to pick up a few last-minute items. Like string to tie around their suitcases, and canteens for—according to rumors—a forced march through the California desert.
On the way back, Alex asks Frank to stop by church. “I left my scarf in the pew,” he says. “Please, Frank.”
The sanctuary is empty when Alex walks in alone. It’ll be another hour before the regular congregation begins their service, and this is the dead in-between time. He walks down the center aisle, and it isn’t until he reaches his pew that he realizes there’s someone else in the sanctuary.
Jessica Tanner.
She’s two rows in front and hasn’t noticed him. She’s bent over, picking something off the pew. Alex thinks to duck away before she notices him. But too late: her eyes flick up to meet his.
“Oh, hi,” she says, straightening. Her face is slightly flushed from bending over. In one hand she’s got a stack of worship bulletins. “My week to set up for our service,” she says.
Alex nods, not sure what to say.
“Are you looking for this?” She holds up his s
carf. “I found it under your pew.”
He nods. “Thanks.” He doesn’t know what to say. The sanctuary seems too quiet and empty and airy. He hears the clock on the balcony ticktock louder than he’s ever heard it. He gives a quick smile, turning to leave—
“Are you looking forward to it?” she asks.
“Huh?”
“Tonight’s dance.”
“Oh.” He shuffles his feet. “Umm. I don’t think I’ll make it.”
Her eyebrows arch with genuine concern. “You should totally come. It’s gonna be real fun.” She looks at him earnestly. “Seriously.”
He doesn’t fault her for forgetting about the curfew. It’s not her world, not her problem. “I … the curfew.” He stares down at his feet. The silence is excruciating.
She looks confused, then turns bright red. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry, I totally forgot—”
“No, no, no,” he says, holding his hands up. “It’s no big deal. Besides, I have some last-minute packing to do.”
“Packing?” Her blue eyes narrow with confusion; then, with an almost audible gasp, they widen with realization. Her hand flies to her mouth. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Her eyes glisten over. “So soon? Oh, Alex, I’m so sorry.”
Alex is taken aback by this unexpected—but sincere—show of emotion. He’s not sure what to say, only that he should say something. “Yeah, so this is my last day,” he settles on saying.
“When will you be back?”
Alex doesn’t know. No one does. After the Japanese church service that morning, some folks were saying the evacuation would last only a couple of months. Others suspected it would be longer, a year. Maybe two. A few thought it might be permanent.
But no one knows for sure. No one even knows where the evacuation will take them. Rumors have circulated, of course: they’ll be taken across the northern border, to Canada. Or across the seas back to Japan. Or to the California desert where they’ll be shot to death. Or simply left there under the baking sun to die from the harsh elements.
“I don’t know,” he finally says.
Her soft blue eyes shimmer in the dull light. “I’m going to miss you, Alex.” She says this with the certitude and openness that only those at the very top of the social pecking order can afford.
He nervously twists the scarf in his hands. “Yeah, me too.”
“We’ve known each other for how long? Since fifth grade?”
“First.”
“First grade? Well, don’t we go way back!” she says with a smile, and a flip of the hair. She glances at the clock. “Well, I gotta go clean up the Sunday-school classrooms.”
The sanctuary is quiet again as she sideways her way out of the pew. The clock ticking loudly, its second hand shivering forward. He wishes he could grab it, make time stop. Or even make it go backward to when life was simpler, to before the Pearl Harbor attack, when everything was normal. When life was calm. Not this raging river full of frothy whitecaps and swirling eddies, pitching him helplessly toward the crest of an unknown, plunging waterfall.
“Jessica!” he says loudly, surprising both of them.
She blinks. “Yes?”
An air bubble is caught in his throat, making his voice high-pitched and vacuous. “I’m going to the dance tonight.”
Her head cants to the side. “I thought you just said … What about the curfew?”
“I’m going for just a short while. Ten minutes. If I leave the dance at seven forty, I’ll make it home in time.”
“Oh.” A tinge of confusion enters her eyes.
He wrings the scarf. “So if you’re there at seven thirty, right when it begins…”
She stares back with wide, questioning eyes, not really following him.
He forces the next words out. “Can I dance with you … just once at the start of the dance tonight? Before I have to leave?” He flicks his eyes up to hers.
She seems confused, her eyebrows knit together. But then, in a blink, her expression changes and she’s smiling at him. “That’s so sweet, Alex. I’d love to dance with you.”
“Really?” He inhales sharply. “That’s great.”
“Okay, then!” She spins around quickly. At the door, just before she walks out, she turns to give him a smile. “See you then!”
And suddenly the sanctuary seems brighter. The ticking of the clock slower, quieter, until he doesn’t even hear it anymore.
* * *
That night, after Alex is done washing the dishes, he walks to the front door as casually as he can. “I left a book in the coop.” He throws on a jacket. “Be right back.” He swings the door open, pretends to take in the dusk sky. “Hmm. Looks like a beautiful sunset. Might go for a walk.”
“Not too far, it’s almost curfew.” Mother wipes a plate dry, sets it down. “And we have to get up early tomorrow. The truck’s picking us up at eight thirty. You know this.”
“I won’t be long.”
Frank, looking up from his comics, doesn’t say anything.
Alex lets the door shut behind him. He fights the urge to sprint, and strolls over to the shed where hours earlier he hid a box of clothes and placed his bike out of sight. He undresses quickly; his fingers tremble with cold, or maybe excitement. He kicks off his work boots, slips into his favorite pair of swing dancers. These are two-toned oxfords Charlie sent him a couple of years ago, a popular style from her father’s factory in Paris. He’d outgrown them by at least two sizes now. But he’s refused to throw them away, mostly because they’re from Charlie, but also because he honestly digs the style. The fancy wing tips, the pattern swirls, the distinctive monk strap. They’re worth the blisters he’s sure to get.
By the time he arrives at school, twenty minutes later, it’s already seven thirty. Quickly, he stows his bike against a fence, and checks his suit by the light of a distant headlight.
He stops, dismayed.
There’s mud splattered all over his shoes. He can’t go in like this. But the thought that Jessica Tanner might be inside waiting for him—for him—with her hair done up and maybe perfume spritzed lightly on her neck settles it.
Licking his palms and tamping down his hair, he makes his way through the parking lot to the front entrance and into the auditorium.
This is Alex’s first dance and he has yet to learn basic truths about school dances. First truth: no one comes on time. Second truth: no one steps onto the dance floor for at least half an hour.
So when he enters the assembly hall, he at first thinks there must be a mistake. Only a few colored lights flash on the dance floor. The music hasn’t even started playing yet. And other than a few volunteer staff and juniors, the place is empty. No sign of Jessica Tanner.
He finds the darkest corner and waits there.
Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Only a handful of students have walked in. They’re all chatting on the far side of the hall. Twenty minutes later, he’s still in his dark corner. A few students have thrown curious looks his way, but no one has said a word to him. It’s now past eight o’clock, past curfew. He should leave. He has to leave.
It isn’t until almost eight fifteen when a flood of classmates, as if by some prearranged agreement, pour into the auditorium. For a few minutes they mingle around the edge of the dance floor, no one quite daring to dance. Only after a trio of cool kids walk onto the floor and start jiving does the dam break. Everyone surges onto the floor, and the evening begins in earnest.
Jessica Tanner still has not appeared.
I’ll wait until eight thirty. But eight thirty comes and goes, and still there’s no sign of her. Then he sees someone who, like him, shouldn’t be here. Someone who sticks out.
Frank. Somehow he knew to find Alex here.
He is standing off to the side, scanning the hall. It takes him only a few seconds to find Alex. As if he knew better than to search the dance floor, and instead searched out the darkest corners.
“Alex,” he says,
not unkindly, walking up to him. “We need to go. Mom’s worried.”
Alex shakes his head.
“Alex.”
A group of boys turn to watch. Alex shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’m staying.”
Frank puts a hand on Alex’s shoulder, gives it a light squeeze. In the kindest voice Alex has ever heard him speak, somehow audible even through the blaring music, he says, “Alex. She’s not coming.”
Alex looks up at his brother. Frank’s eyes are full of understanding. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go home.” He turns around and walks away. After a few seconds, Alex follows him out.
They drive back in silence, the lights of the school fading in the side mirror. Before them, the darkness of the open country swallows them whole. Every time they hit a bump in the road, his bike clanks against the metal siding of the cargo bed. The bike can get nicked up for all he cares. He won’t be needing it anymore. He could have just left it at school.
“She said she’d be there.”
Frank turns off the radio. “Jessica Tanner?”
Alex looks at Frank in surprise. “How’d you know?”
“When we stopped by church this afternoon. Saw her coming out right before you, blushing a little. Figured it was her.” He elbows Alex softly. “I know I encouraged you to take someone out, to go bowling or a movie. But Jessica Tanner? Jeez, Alex. You couldn’t aim a little lower?”
Alex doesn’t say anything. Stares out the windshield, at dark unlit lampposts flying past them. The car hits a rut in the road, bounces unsteadily.
Frank pulls out a smoke, expertly lighting it while still steering. “Don’t get me wrong, Alex. I like what you did. It was gutsy. You said to hell with stupid curfew rules, and to hell with the worst odds known to mankind. You broke out of your shell and went for it no holds barred. You went for the Hail Mary.”
“It’s not what you think.”
This Light Between Us Page 8