Dash

by Kirby Larson

  “All finished.” Ted counted up his money. But instead of turning on 12th, toward home, he turned right, onto Fir.

  “Where are you going?” Mitsi asked.

  Ted flipped the quarter in his hand. “Someplace where I can magically turn this into two sodas!”

  “Logan’s!” Mitsi practically flew down the street to Logan’s Drugstore and Soda Fountain.

  “Don’t tell Mom.” A bell jingled as Ted opened the door. “I’ll catch heck for wrecking your appetite.”

  Mitsi held up three fingers and drew a cross over her heart. “Scout’s honor!”

  She tied Dash to a bench where she could keep an eye on him from inside. The soda jerk set a tall glass in front of each of them. Ted had ordered a Green River. Chocolate soda for Mitsi. She plunged the tip of the long-handled spoon deep into the glass, bringing up a bite of the vanilla ice cream. She always did that. After that first perfect bite, she carefully stirred together the soda water and chocolate syrup and ice cream. But she got only a few sips before Dash started carrying on outside. It was his “here’s the mailman” bark.

  “That your dog?” asked the soda jerk.

  “Go quiet him down.” Ted nudged Mitsi off her stool.

  She took another quick sip, then slipped outside. “Hey, Dash. What’s the matter?” Even though she scratched him in all his favorite places, he wouldn’t stop barking. Finally, she saw what he was barking at.

  It wasn’t a mailman but a man in another kind of uniform. Actually, there were two men, a block or so away. Soldiers. They moved from telephone pole to telephone pole, hammering up posters. Dash growled as the men drew near.

  One of the soldiers reached out to pet him. “What’s your name, pooch?”

  Dash growled deeper in his throat. The fur along his backbone stood up. Mitsi had never seen him act like this.

  The other soldier laughed. “He’s quite the watchdog. For a dust mop.” They turned back to their job, working their way down the street, away from Mitsi and Dash.

  Mitsi stepped closer to read the sign they’d posted. INSTRUCTIONS TO ALL PERSONS OF JAPANESE ANCESTRY was printed right at the top, in dark, stern letters. Persons of Japanese ancestry?

  She scooped Dash up and ran inside the drugstore, even though dogs weren’t allowed. “You have to come. Now.”

  Ted read the first paragraph out loud, his face turning as white as vanilla ice cream.

  “What does ‘evacuated’ mean?” Mitsi asked.

  Ted clenched his fists. “They’re making us leave.”

  “Who is?” Mitsi’s legs wouldn’t hold her up anymore. Leave? Where would they go? She plunked down on the sidewalk, still holding Dash.

  “They.” Ted slapped the paper. “The government. Everyone.”

  Mitsi started to tremble, tasting chocolate syrup at the back of her throat. She thought she might upchuck right there.

  “We’ve got to get home. Pronto.” Ted yanked Dash’s leash out of her hand. “Come on.”

  He and Dash started to run, but Mitsi couldn’t move. Dash dug in his paws, scrambling away from Ted, barking for Mitsi to come.

  At the racket, Ted turned. When he saw her frozen on the sidewalk, he ran back. “It’ll be okay.” The look in his eyes said the opposite. “But we gotta go.” He yanked her up.

  Mitsi began to move, trying her best to keep up with Ted’s long legs. She stumbled a few times. But she kept moving.

  And tried hard not to think about that look in her brother’s eyes.

  Mom sorted through the storage closet under the stairs. “Only one week.” She froze, like a wind-up doll with a broken spring. “How can we be ready to leave in one week?”

  Pop patted her on the back. “It won’t be for long, Junko. Not for long.”

  Mitsi had never heard her father tell a lie before. No one knew how long they would be gone. There were lots of guesses. Maybe two weeks. Maybe two years. Maybe forever. She went to her room and stomach-flopped on her bed. She was supposed to be sorting her belongings into boxes: take, give away, sell. Mitsi lifted her head up and looked around the room she’d slept in ever since she’d been born. Then she flopped back down, burying her face in her pillow. Why couldn’t there be a box that said stay?

  Mom peeked her head into Mitsi’s room. “How’s it going in here?” She frowned. “Mitsi. We don’t have much time.”

  Mitsi rolled around Dash and off the bed. She picked up an old doll and tossed it in the giveaway box. “I’m doing the best I can,” she said.

  Mom held up a jump rope with a broken handle. “This looks like it could get tossed.”

  “But —” Judy had given her that jump rope. For her seventh birthday. Back when they did birthdays together. Back when they were Betsy, Tacy, and Tib. Mitsi swallowed hard. “Sure. Throw it away.” She eased back to her bed, hugging her knees to her chest. Dash licked her ear.

  Mom nudged Dash out of the way and sat down next to Mitsi. She reached for Chubby Bear, joggled him back and forth, and began to sing: “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray.”

  When Mitsi was little, Chubby Bear would “sing” that song every night. Even when she got older and figured out that stuffed teddy bears really can’t sing, whenever Mom sang “You Are My Sunshine” in her Chubby Bear voice, Mitsi felt happy. Safe.

  Mitsi took Chubby Bear from her mother. “I’m too big for stuffed animals.” She tossed him toward the giveaway box. Dash jumped, moving to his hiding spot under the desk.

  Pop called out, “Junko? What about the toaster?”

  “Guess we’d better get back to work.” Mom glanced around the room. “Pop’s leaving soon with a load for the church. If there’s anything you want him to take, better get it now.” Pastor Andrews had marked the floor of the church gymnasium into big squares. Each family got one square for storage. Pop had already taken over one carton, filled with a jumble of teacups and kimonos and family photos. As Mom passed the giveaway box, she reached for Chubby Bear. “Let’s hang on to this guy.” She tossed him back to Mitsi.

  Mitsi set Chubby Bear aside. Each person could take only what they could carry. Pop had new muscles from working at Uncle Shig’s. He would haul the two big suitcases, one filled with his things and sheets and blankets, the other with dishes and silverware. Mom would carry two smaller bags: hers and Obaachan’s. Ted and Mitsi each got one suitcase and a book bag.

  Mitsi bent under the desk to rub Dash’s ears. “I wish I could hide, too.” She got to work, sorting through eleven years of stuff. A baby doll with chopped-off hair, the stamp collection she’d started in second grade, and a pair of roller skates went in the giveaway box.

  She picked up her scrapbook. What about that? She opened it up.

  There she was at age three, in an outfit that made her look like a gumdrop. How could Mom have dressed her like that? Another page turn and there it was. Mitsi’s sixth birthday. The first time Mags had ever said, “Let’s make a Mitsi sandwich!” The three girls scrunched close together, with Mitsi smack-dab in the middle. Pop had grabbed his Kodak and snapped them, laughing, forever friends.

  Most of the pages held memories shared with Mags and Judy. They’d caught the chicken pox at the same time; there was a photo of them comparing who got the most spots. Somehow they’d all made it into the All-City Spelling Bee in third grade. Judy was the best speller, but she’d lost in the final round by spelling “philosophy” with “ie” instead of a “y.” Mitsi and Mags went out in the second round. She couldn’t remember which words tripped them up. But she remembered Mags’s father taking them out for Frango mint sundaes at Frederick & Nelson afterward.

  Mitsi skipped ahead to a photo from her birthday last year. The three of them had gotten permission to ride downtown on the bus all by themselves. They’d seen The Sea Hawk. Over hamburgers afterward, they’d argued about whether it would be better to be a pirate like Geoffrey Thorpe, played by the dashing Errol Flynn, or a princess like Doña Maria, played by the glamo
rous Brenda Marshall. Judy voted for princess; Mitsi and Mags leaned toward pirates. That had been one of Mitsi’s best-ever birthdays.

  She closed the scrapbook, running her fingers over the cover. It was hard to believe all that fun and friendship was over. But it seemed to be. She should probably just throw the darned thing away. Mags and Judy had certainly thrown her away. But she couldn’t bring herself to dump the scrapbook in the garbage.

  All this deciding gave her a headache. She wandered into Ted’s room to see what he was doing. Dash padded along. Ted’s suitcase lay open on the bed. He’d packed a bag of marbles, a baseball glove, and magic tricks. And not much else.

  “Are you taking your entire magic collection?” It sure looked like it.

  Ted shrugged. “I gave a bunch of tricks to the YMCA. For the summer day camp.”

  That was where Ted first learned to do magic. “Remember how you got me with the magnetic pencil trick?” Mitsi asked. He’d come home from camp the first day and performed it for her. She’d really believed that a plain old pencil could stick to his hand magnetically. When he’d shown her how it was done, she’d felt like a big goof.

  Ted grinned. “I get you with every trick.” He shuffled things around in his suitcase, trying to make room for a football. “Maybe if I took out some socks.” He held a couple pairs in each hand.

  “I won’t tell.” Mitsi went back to her own room but still couldn’t face the piles. She decided to pack for Dash. That would be easy. He didn’t have much. She put his yellow ball, his blue blanket, and his dinner bowl in her book bag. Then she got the box of Milk-Bones from the kitchen.

  “Where are you going with that?” Pop tied string around a box marked KASHINO.

  “Don’t worry — I’ll carry it.” Pop had enough to tote.

  “Honey.” Pop cleared his throat. “Dash can’t go with us.”

  “What?” Mitsi held the Milk-Bones close to her chest, like a shield. “What are you talking about?”

  Pop rubbed his eyes. “No pets.” His voice was froggy, as if he had a bad cold. “That’s one of the rules.”

  “NO!” The word exploded out of Mitsi so loud that Mom came running.

  “Is everything okay?” Mom asked.

  Mitsi turned to her. “Dash is like your third kid. That’s what you always say!”

  “Oh, honey.” Mom rubbed her hands up and down her arms so hard and fast, Mitsi thought they might catch on fire. “In the eyes of General DeWitt, he’s a pet.”

  “Who’s General DeWitt?” Mitsi tugged on Mom’s hands to get her to stop rubbing. She didn’t want anything worse to happen.

  “The man in charge of the evacuation,” Pop said.

  “But Dash has his own Christmas stocking!” Mitsi’s head felt like it might pop off her neck and bob up into the air like a helium-filled balloon. “They can’t do this to us. To me.”

  Mom reached for her, but Mitsi jerked away, her hands pressing, pressing, pressing on her head.

  “We are all leaving something behind,” Pop pointed out. Last night, they had sold Mom’s Singer Featherweight sewing machine for five dollars. Five dollars. And tomorrow, Mr. Adams from Pop’s old work was coming to buy their car.

  “Dash is not a thing.” Mitsi mumbled the words to her shoes.

  “We’ll find a good home for him.” Mom stopped rubbing her arms and held them out. Mitsi leaned in. “A temporary home.”

  “Shikata ga nai,” said Obaachan. She tied another box shut.

  Mitsi was so sick of hearing those words. She breathed deeply, taking in the starchy smell of Mom’s clean apron, the talcum powder from her bath. It cannot be helped? It cannot be helped? Couldn’t some things be helped?

  Mom patted Mitsi’s back. “It’ll be okay, honey.” She kissed the top of her head. “Now, I really need you to work on packing.”

  Miss Wyatt opened Little House in the Big Woods and began to read. “ ‘Once upon a time, sixty years ago, a little girl lived in the Big Woods of Wisconsin, in a little gray house made of logs.’ ”

  All year, Mitsi had loved listening to Miss Wyatt read aloud. She was as good as a movie star, using different voices, reading the exciting parts really fast and the sad parts slow and solemn. But today, Mitsi did everything she could to block out the story. She needed all of her energy to think about Dash. To figure out how to keep him with the family. Miss Wyatt encouraged them to doodle while she read, and the page under Mitsi’s pencil was covered with paw prints and big brown doggy eyes. She was shading in Dash’s nose when she realized Miss Wyatt’s voice had changed again.

  “I think we’ll stop there for now.” Miss Wyatt took in the class with a serious expression. “Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote simply, but from her heart. And her words have had a lasting impact on many, many people.” She carefully set the book on her desk. “As you know, some of our friends will be leaving us soon.”

  Mitsi felt her cheeks flare red-hot. She stopped drawing.

  “We all have feelings about this. And it’s good for us to put such feelings into words. I’d like each of you to write a letter, expressing your thoughts about, about …” Miss Wyatt paused, pressing a flowered hanky to her nose. She was quiet for so long, Mitsi glanced up, wondering if she’d forgotten what she was going to say. “About this sad time for our school.” She cleared her throat. “It can be a paragraph or a page, but it should be from the heart. Yes, Roy?”

  “What about them?” Roy tipped his head toward Kenji. “Do they write letters, too?”

  Miss Wyatt’s mouth turned into a straight line. Roy shrunk back in his chair at the look she gave him. “This is a class project.” Their sweet teacher’s voice was cold. Measured. “And everyone sitting in this room is a part of our class.” Miss Wyatt reached toward the pencil holder on her desk. “Who needs a writing utensil?” Not one student raised a hand.

  Mitsi picked up her pencil again. The last thing she felt like doing was writing a letter, but she didn’t want to disappoint Miss Wyatt. On the top line of her paper, she wrote the word “dear.”

  Dear who? Dear Judy and Mags? Then what? I’m sad we aren’t friends? Maybe Dear Hudson, Thank you for the valentine card, even though you forgot to sign it? Mitsi chewed on the pencil eraser. How about: Dear Patty, You look really ugly when you make slanty eyes.

  Those words would be from the heart, but Mitsi didn’t think they were what Miss Wyatt had in mind.

  She wiggled her pencil tip over the paper. She could write to her teacher. Something like Dear Miss Wyatt, Thank you for teaching us to be good citizens. I wish being a good citizen canceled out having black hair and a Japanese name.

  Mitsi made a little doodle in the upper left-hand corner of her paper. It looked like the doodles she’d been making while Miss Wyatt had been reading. Dog doodles. Dash doodles.

  She sat up in her desk. Miss Wyatt said it was good to put your feelings into words. And right there, over the blackboard, was a poster that said THE PEN IS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD.

  Mitsi knew what to do. She wrote slowly, precisely, using her best penmanship.

  Dear General DeWitt,

  My family and I have followed every single rule. I have to leave my house and the bed I’ve slept in since I was a baby. We have to leave our car and sewing machine and even my grandmother’s antique dolls. But Mom says these are only “things” and what matters most is that our family will be together. My dog Dash is not a thing. He is a part of our family. I am pretty strong, for a girl. I can carry a suitcase in one hand and Dash in the other.

  Please do not make us leave him, too.

  Sincerely yours,

  Mitsue Kashino

  At the bottom of the letter, she drew her best-ever picture of Dash. She captured his perky ears, and the way the fur fell like bangs over his brown eyes. She could almost feel his cold, wet nose!

  When the recess bell rang, Mitsi filed out behind her classmates, but she didn’t add her letter to the growing pile on the teacher’s desk.

  When she
got home from school, Mom helped her find General DeWitt’s address and gave her a three-cent stamp. “Don’t be disappointed if he doesn’t answer, Mitsi.” Her voice was soft and sad. “He has so many things to do.”

  “I won’t be disappointed.” Mitsi licked the stamp and pasted it on the envelope. “I know he will answer me.”

  And she was right.

  The buzzing stopped as soon as Mitsi stepped into the cloakroom to hang up her coat. Her classmates were suddenly intent on placing their lunch boxes just so in their cubbies, on hanging their own coats and jackets up neatly, carefully avoiding eye contact with her, and Grace, and Kenji. Patty was quiet, too. Didn’t even make slanty eyes. It had been all over the newspaper. Everyone knew these were their last days at school.

  “Shall we pick up where we left off in Little House in the Big Woods?” Miss Wyatt opened the book. “ ‘In the winter,’ ” she read, “ ‘the cream was not as yellow as it was in the summer and the butter churned in it was white and not as pretty. Ma liked everything on her table to be pretty, so in the wintertime she colored the butter.’ ”

  Mitsi drew a funny picture of a cow as she listened. Mom did that sometimes when she bought margarine to save money — mixing in yellow food coloring so it looked like butter. As she drew, Mitsi wondered why Miss Wyatt had selected this book to read aloud. Most every fifth-grade girl had read it ages ago. Mitsi remembered the first time she’d read it and how relieved she was at the end that Pa didn’t kill the deer he was hunting, because he thought it was so beautiful.

  The sisters in the story, Laura and Mary, lived far away from other people and didn’t have any friends but each other. And Ma and Pa. Mitsi hoped she wouldn’t be as lonely in the camp because her family — her whole family — would be together.

  Mitsi folded her arms on her desk and rested her head there, thinking about her letter to General DeWitt. She should have mentioned that Dash was very friendly. That he’d never hurt a soul. And that he wouldn’t take up much room. She should have told him that Dash was trained and didn’t bark, except at the mailman.