“Moved back to California, apparently. Then, five, six years later, he checked out for good.”
“But Lily said —”
“Lily says a lot of things.”
“Why’d she lie to me?”
“Don’t take it so personal, Gerald. It’s what she tells everyone. Kaz died of a stroke. If it wasn’t for that, they’d still be two peas in a pod. Hell, maybe she even believes it.”
Tom’s glum, blindly accepting expression filled Rita with a heavy, bloated feeling. They’d both long given up trying to figure out what made their mother this way.
But Gerald continued to look hurt and confounded.
“Yeah, it sucks.” Tom shrugged then straightened up. “But, ya know what? Ya get over it.”
In a way Rita envied him; at least he had something to get over. In her case the process of moving on had never been as clear: how could you get over someone you couldn’t remember? Kaz had left when she was less than a year old. There weren’t even any photos of him around the house to trick her into thinking she recalled some detail — a stubbly jawline, an old cardigan. “What was he like, Tom? Did Kaz play ball with you? What kind of car did he drive?” Rita used to ask. Jenny Smart’s dad drove a creamy Oldsmobile convertible and smiled like the man in the toothpaste ad and said things like, “Fake it ’til you make it,” a phrase he’d learned at a business course in a church basement. But Tom always shook free of Rita’s grasp. “He was never around. He was a loser, a bum. I don’t know.”
Lily was no less tight-lipped. And it was dangerous to push her because the mere mention of Kaz’s name could presage a plummet in her mood.
Snippets of information Rita had scavenged from eavesdropping on Lily and Grandpa: Kaz had been a man who liked to dance, a man who was good with the ladies; he’d had no respect for the rules; he was a lazy, good-for-nothing bum. They rarely talked about him, beyond a lone comment, quickly averted. Still, it was enough to provide her imagination with a hanger on which she could drape her own images and associations. If Kaz had been a bum, she pictured Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront, a man of principles, in his own tragic, sorry-ass way. Or he was like Alan Ladd in Shane, full of simmering fury and underlying decency.
“So how did your mom meet this Kaz fellow?” Gerald’s arms were tightly crossed, his face lit up in blotchy patches.
“I guess they must’ve met at camp,” Tom said.
“Camp?”
“Yeah, it was just some church camp,” Rita blurted.
Although Tom raised an eyebrow, he began nodding, backing her up. “Picnics, canoeing, you know.” Amused complicity twitched about his lips. Maybe neither of them was prepared to get too cozy with Gerald Anderberg just yet.
“Hey, I love camping. One of these days, I’m gonna buy us a Winnebago.”
“You do that,” Tom said.
Heat bloomed over Rita’s skin. She tried to get a hold of her breathing, her throat too narrow for all the choppy emotions suddenly surging up. She didn’t understand where this urge for secrecy was coming from — the very refusal to talk about the past that had forever irked her about their mother. But what did she and Tom know about what had gone on at camp? For all they knew, it had been one big cookout, everyone holding hands around the fire, singing “Kumbaya,” or the Japanese equivalent. It was as much a mystery to them as to anyone. They’d just be guessing, spinning tales.
The Desert
1943
Three
At first, he faded into the mountain’s shadow. Lily’s eyes played tricks on her. That dark presence at the edge of her vision, could it be nothing more than sand and wind and her lonely imagination? The ground was a mess of chalk dust flying up and mixing with the powder on her cheeks, sticky as cake batter. Should she turn around? Cast a flirtatious glance over her shoulder? But that would seem immodest, and she had to leave those days behind.
The farther she walked, the more certain she became that someone was following her. An admirer in the middle of the desert? That meant she still looked pretty — at least, somewhat. The rush of adrenalin jarred her mood from the falling grey skies.
All the barracks looked the same: the same sagging, makeshift steps and filthy mop perched outside, dried laundry stiff and grey, dismal as skinned rabbits. Despite everything, an air of refinement still surrounded Lily, or at least she liked to think so, as she bent down to adjust the tiny buckle on her high-heeled shoe. Really, she just wanted an excuse to look back at her admirer, without making it too obvious, of course.
Oh, God. Him again.
She’d seen him gazing at her across the mess hall the other day, a dreamy smile melting across his lips. Before the war, she’d never had to associate with guys of this sort, their hats tied on with scarves, dirt-smeared shirts. They had a different way of standing, boys of that sort, bending their knees as though their toes had sunk into the earth. Her father would have slapped her silly if he’d ever caught her mixing with them. Although, in truth, he was once no different than these peasant boys, these kitchen boys, fresh from Japan.
The guy froze in his tracks. A teasing smile lingered. He knew he’d been caught, and like a little kid about to be punished, he kept on mocking her, daring her to look away.
Everyone was aware they were the ones stirring up trouble. Spreading rumours about sugar vanishing from mess halls, pointing fingers, getting people riled up. Sure been a long time since we had anything sweet. Yesterday, another fight broke out and a couple more nisei boys showed up at breakfast with black eyes.
“Why are you following me?”
“I’d like to take your picture.”
He must be soft in the head. He didn’t have a camera, none of them did. A crude wooden box that looked more like a breadbox was nestled in the crook of his arm.
Salt air, solitude. All she could think about was how desperately she missed the ocean. The sound of the waves whooshing in and out…. They used to go to the ocean often before the war. Her father had a car back then, a black Studebaker, which he needed to make deliveries. Sunday was his day off, and she could still feel the sticky hot seat against the backs of her thighs as he’d look at her with a half-disapproving, half-indulgent smile. “Sit with your legs crossed, young lady. Never forget you’re representing the Japanese-American life.”
How quickly things could change. No longer was there any such thing as “Japanese-American.” And how could she hold on to a shred of dignity with these thugs following her around?
Maybe he’d been watching her for a while now. Every day she was out here, practising her walk. In the last pageant the judges criticized Lily’s walk as too American: her stride too long and fluid, too much swing to her hips. They docked her points. The nerve of them. For the next Cherry Blossom Pageant, she had to learn to walk properly in a kimono: slowly, evenly, in small steps — the Japanese way of walking. She should try to turn slowly, showing off the nape of her neck and that petal-soft slip of skin at the top of the back, the only bit of nudity allowed. If she was lucky, she’d have a flatter
