“Don’t people have to follow the voice of God?”
“In a perfect world.”
“Aren’t you the voice for God here?”
“Well, I’m the voice of the Pope. Only the Pope is the voice of God.”
“Well, what’s the Pope have to say about it?” I ask.
He leans back and touches his long, thin fingers to his forehead. Then he looks at me and says, “I don’t know what any of us can do, Jewels. Mr. Kaye is . . . and others like him . . . are what they call civilian casualties.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, those are people who are indirect victims of war. Sort of caught in the crossfire. Like those people in Pearl Harbor who were just in their homes or walking the dog or riding a bus and well, maybe some shrapnel or bullets hit them and they died. Not because they were the target, but because they were, well, in the way of the target.”
He gets up and paces the aisle, like he’s thinking of a better way to describe how Tommy has anything to do with someone walking their dog in Hawaii getting hit by a bullet. He turns and says, “Jewels, I know it’s almost impossible to understand. Believe me, I’m just as confused and concerned as you are. But . . .”
I’ve heard it over and over and over since December 7, the date that will live in infamy. So I finish for him, “But we’re at war.”
“Yes, we are.”
There’s a church silence that is somehow more silent than regular silence. Then Father Donlevy asks, “How’s Rex?”
“Fine.” I hate to lie while sitting in a church and face to face with the man in charge, but Rex and me have a pact.
“I hear he took it pretty bad.”
Cripes! I think. Looking down at my fists, I say, “He took it. He just . . . took it.” I feel Father Donlevy’s eyes on me.
“I was welter weight boxing champ at Gonzaga. I’d be happy to give him a few pointers.”
I think about that, then say, “I thought churches were for peace, not for fighting.”
“We are. But we also have to defend ourselves, if it comes to that.” He doesn’t sound too convinced, though.
“Guess you’re in that crossfire, too,” I say.
“Maybe we all are. But tell Rex if he needs . . . you know . . .” I look at him and see both his hands are fists now, too.
“Rex doesn’t want what he needs. He needs what he wants,” I say. Mom’s been saying that for years.
“And what’s that?”
I get up to leave and look back at him. “Don’t you know?”
“No.”
“You should.” I point to the cross. “Peace.”
He starts to walk with me toward the door. “Peace comes at a price, Jewels.”
“Well, Rex paid it, all right,” I say, feeling a hurt someplace deep inside me. I’d come in here to feel better and now I’m feeling like someone just kicked me in the gut.
“Look, Jewels, any time you want to come and, you know, chew the fat . . . just say the word. I’ll be here for you. I promise.”
CHAPTER 18
Just when I think it can’t get any worse than a Christmas without sugar or lights or peace and good will on Earth, it does. Mayor George Schmidtke has come to collect all the cameras and radios owned by Tommy Kaye. Happy New Year! It’s another order from the government. Seems orders are coming every day and from every direction—getting us on the coast all geared up for war, right here on our very beach.
So, Mom and me have to go through all forty cabins at the Stay and Play and collect all the shiny new Bakelite radios Mr. Kaye just bought the year before. Well, there’s no way I’m going through any war without my radio, so I hide it in my closet, even though I think it’s legally ours since Mr. Kaye gave it to us for Christmas last year—our last real Christmas.
Mom, me, and Rex have to haul down Mr. Kaye’s big, expensive mahogany radio, the one with a record player in it. Mayor Schmidtke’s waiting with his Best Meats delivery van to haul it to wherever they’re taking all Mr. Kaye’s things.
Next come the cameras. Mr. Kaye sort of laughs as he comes out of his bedroom with three cameras around his neck and two in his hands. “Here. This should make Schmidtke’s quota. These are all Japanese. Love ’em or hate ’em, those Japanese make one heck of a camera.”
I nod my head, feeling horrible that I got to help take away anything of his and hand them over to that Schmidtke. Alls I say is, “I’m sorry. Maybe I can talk Schmidtke into letting you keep one of these.”
“Don’t bother, Jewels,” he says.
• • •
“Well, I feel just horrible about zis. It’s all for our country’s security. Orders are orders,” Mayor Schmidtke says as I hand over the cameras. He says he’s sorry, but he’s looking through one camera’s view finder and I figure it’s being confiscated, all right—right into his delivery van’s glove compartment.
“Hate orders,” Rex says.
Mayor Schmidtke sighs and says, “Yes, Stokes, we know all about your political opinions! And zeir outcome.” He grins as he points to the yellowish leftovers of Rex’s black eye.
“Don’t you point your fat finger at my son!” Mom says. Good for you, Mom! Let him have it!
There’s glaring between them.
“Where’s the list for all zis stuff? I have to sign for it,” Mayor Schmidtke asks, closing the van doors.
Mom hands him the list we’ve made of the stuff surrendered and the value.
“What’s going to happen to all that?” Rex asks, pointing to the van.
“Going to be safely stored in a warehouse up at Camp Clatsop, compliments of our national guard.”
“But we advertise that all these cabins have radios in them. It’s not fair to take them,” Rex says. “What does having a radio have to do with being Japanese?”
“We don’t question orders, son. And orders say ‘property of Japanese’ and zose radios are property of Japanese,” Mayor Schmidtke says. “And let me give you Stokes a bit of friendly advice,” he adds, through his driver’s side window. “Giving aid and comfort to the enemy is treason.” He drives off without even so much as a “happy new year” or a “danker shame” or whatever they say in German.
Rex, me, and Mom stand here watching him drive off. Finally Mom says, “That man makes my blood boil! He’s pretty darn German braggin’ about his Schmidtke’s Hand-stuffed Sausages, but not so much cartin’ off Tommy’s belongings!”
Rex says, “Yeah, and did you notice how he’s smoothed out that German accent of his? Used to be you couldn’t understand half of what that fat, old Kraut said. You gotta love what a war does to one’s social standing.”
I don’t know what tangent he’s about to go on, but I will say this: I’ve never liked the butcher/mayor even before Pearl Harbor. Even when he’s wearing his mayor suit, he still smells like blood and meat, and I don’t think he ever cleans under his fingernails.
When we get home I look up the dictionary definition of treason. Now my blood is boiling. If anyone is betraying anyone, it’s Sea Park betraying the best man in town. I grumble to Rex and he tells me to get lost. He’s working on an editorial for the school newspaper. Alls he lets me see is the title: INJUSTICE IN THE NAME OF WAR.
• • •
It’s late Sunday afternoon, February 1, 1942. Things have been pretty quiet until the newest editions of the papers get to town, then everyone starts talking about the war all over again. I’m reading an old Silverscreenmovie magazine Mom swiped from the beauty parlor and Mom’s painting her toenails. Who knows where Rex is.
There’s a knock on the door. Mom and me look at each other. We don’t get company very often, especially in winter, especially on Sundays, and most especially now that Rex’s editorial is printed and gets picked up by the Sand Dune Telegraph. We’re what Rex calls personas non gratises.
Carefully, Mom opens the blackout cloth acrost the door, keeping the chain in place so the door opens just a peep. “Who’s there?”
Th
e answer comes in the form of a card being offered by a long, big hand, white shirt cuffs, gold cufflinks, and dark suit sleeve. Mom takes the card, reads it.
“Mom, who is it?”
Mom turns around and mouths the letters “F-B-I” to me. I take the card and read SPECIAL AGENT IN CHARGE, HERMAN BOOTHBY, PORTLAND, OREGON.
“Uh, this really isn’t a good time,” she calls through the door opening.
A man’s deep voice says, “This’ll only take a minute.”
“Um, I’m really not presentable right now.” She has cotton stuffed between her toes, her old chenille robe is ajar, and her hair is in curlers.
“Please, Mrs. Stokes.”
“Uh, well, can you, uh, well, uh, just wait there then, will you?”
The hand disappears as Mom closes the door. She leans against it and looks at me. “Where’s Rex when we need him?” she says. She scrambles to her bedroom and I follow her.
“What do we do? What does he want?”
“I have no idea! Get me my black pumps!” She rushes about pulling her curlers out and popping the cotton wads from her toes as she pulls on her red, white, and blue dress, reserved for Edna’s float in the annual Fourth of July parade.
Mom says in an urgent whisper and motions to “Quick! Hide the radio!”
I snatch it up and toss it into the refrigerator, then close the door.
Mom gives her lips a fast smack of lipstick, crunches the waves of her still-wet hair, cinches her belt, and opens the door.
“Come in,” she says. “Be careful. The blackout rules, you know.” She opens the blackout cloth just a bit for him to slip through. He is so tall he has to duck to get under it.
“My,” Mom says, “you’re a tall one.”
I mean it—this Agent Boothby fills our tiny room. And man is he strange looking! His face is long and square—no, that would make it a rectangle. A horse’s face! That’s what he has—a horse’s face!
“So, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Stokes, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your . . .” he pauses.
“About my what?” she asks, fingering the dime store paste pearls she’s tossed on.
“About your employer,” he says.
“My employer?” she answers, exhaling.
“Isao Kiramoto.”
Mom’s face goes blank. Then she waves her hand in the air and says, “Oh, well, y’all have the wrong person, then. I never heard of that personage. My employer is Tommy Kaye.” Out comes the Southern accent.
“May I sit down?” he says. He indicates one of our rickety chairs and Mom suggests the sofa instead. Agent Boothby adds, his face all serious, “You see, Mrs. Stokes, according to our records, they are one and the same person.”
Most of what I know about the FBI is J. Edgar Hoover going after the likes of Baby Face Nelson, Al Capone, John Dillinger, and some of those other gangsters back east, not any of us here in Sea Park. Got to admit, I’m scared. Wisht Rex would come home.
“Shouldn’t I have a lawyer here or something?” my mother asks. “I mean, isn’t that how these things work?”
“What things?” he asks and smiles at her.
“Well, you know, y’all askin’ questions and writin’ down my answers. I mean, I might say something that might, what’s that word you G-men use, in . . . in . . . incinerate?”
I look at her. Did she really say incinerate? Then, she fumbles with, “No, insinuate.” She chuckles. “I can never get those two words straight.”
“I think you mean incriminate,” he says. I watch him watch her.
“Oh, yes, incriminate! How silly of me. Thank you.”
Look at her—smiling, gushing! Cripes, is she flirting? If she keeps going like this, she’s going to incinerate us into deep water. I glance at the clock and wisht to heck Rex would get his butt home. Forget a lawyer—if anyone knows anything about any legal FBI business, it’s Rex. His bed is held up with stacks of textbooks some law student renter left instead of paying his summer bill. I think Rex has read every one of them.
“Now, if you don’t mind, please tell me a little more about this Tommy Kaye,” the FBI agent says, licking the tip of his pencil and aiming it toward his notepad.
“Well, I’ve known him for, let’s see . . .” A freshly painted bright red fingernail goes to her powdered cheek as Mom figures out the years. While she’s figuring that out, I’m figuring out how we can get this giant FBI man out of here.
Incinerate? Yes, I got an idea! I go to the stove, grab the coffee pot, and mess around with the gas and a match.
“Owww!” I holler. I turn to my mother and whine, “Mom! I burnt my finger!” I seize a finger and squeeze it, turning it as red as Mom’s fingernails. “Owwwww!”
“Oh!” Mom says, popping up. Then, to Agent Boothby she says, “Will y’all excuse me just a minute? We got us a little emergency.” He makes a half-attempt to rise as we leave the room.
Once in the bathroom, I close the door. She grabs my finger, looks at it, then down at me. “We got to get him out of here!” I whisper up to her.
“Shhh!” she says, turning on the hot and cold water taps.
“I had to do something, Mom. What’s he want to know about Mr. Kaye for?”
“I don’t know.” She pulls open the medicine cabinet and gets the gauze out. “Here, make a bandage.”
“What should we do?”
She starts fixing her hair and looking close at her lipstick.
“Mom, you think this is the time to primp?”
“Jewels, honey, there’s a time to play it dumb and a time to play it smart. If you ever learn anything from your ol’ mom, it’s that. Now, I don’t know how the FBI got involved, but he’s here now. So you just let me do the talkin’. Now wrap that finger.” Then, she calls out, “Only be a minute, Agent. . . ” She looks at me.
“Boothby,” I whisper.
“Boothby!” she sings out.
We come out of the bathroom. I hold my bandaged finger to my chest and she says, “I’m sorry, Mr. Agent Boothby. I guess our little emergency isn’t so little after all.”
“Anything I can do? I’ve taken several Red Cross classes,” he says, rising.
“No, no,” Mom says, handing me my coat. “Can’t mess around with burns. We’re goin’ over to the clinic. Come on, Jewels. Momma’s going to get y’all fixed up.” I should have known Mom can really come through when the scene calls for a little drama.
“Well, here, let me drive you there.”
“No, thanks. I have a car. I’m sorry to cut this interview so short. But y’all’ll understand.” She hands him his hat and grabs her coat from the nail in the wall.
“Yes, but I have—”
“Jewels, keep that hand high so it doesn’t throb so much,” she says.
“But, I was going to ask you. . .” he begins. He might be FBI and all, but I don’t think he’s had much practice dealing with women of a Southern nature.
“My child is in pain!” she snaps.
“I was going to ask if there’s someplace in town to get a bite to eat,” he says, buttoning his overcoat.
Mom’s face goes blank like that’s the last thing she’s expecting him to ask her.
“Oh, yes. Uh, try the Crab ’n Cakes, just south of town. But hurry. They close at six on Sundays.”
I have my coat on and before I can say “ouch” again, she scoots him out the door. “I’ll be in touch,” he says while Mom holds the blackout cloth aside for him.
“Yes, fine. Y’all’ll excuse us now, won’t you?”
We wait about three minutes, then Mom says, “Well, come on.”
“But he’s gone.”
“And he’s probably outside waitin’ to see if we leave for the clinic.” And sure enough, there he is, still loading himself into his car.
“Good Lord, I suppose he’s goin’ to follow us,” Mom says, getting the engine to turn over. We back out, and the FBI agent backs out. We head north on Pacific, but the FBI agent heads south toward H
ighway 101.
“Sorry, Mom, this mess is my fault. I thought we could get rid of him if—”
“Never mind. He’s out of sight,” she says, looking in the mirror. She pulls over and we just sit there for a few minutes, relieved and wondering what the heck is going on. “What kind of a war is this? Lyin’, runnin’ from the FBI, and for what?”
I wisht I knew. “Hey, where we going?”
“Edna’s.”
I should have figured Alice needs a drink. “If you think I’m sitting here in this car while you go in and have yourself a few belts, you are so wrong, Mom!”
“I’m not having a few belts, Jewels. Haven’t you noticed I’ve been sober for a few weeks now?”
I think back. Hmmm, come to think of it . . . “Well, then why—?”
“To warn Edna the FBI is snoopin’ around and to . . .” Her voice trails off and we pull over again. “No, we’re not.”
There, in the parking lot, we see Agent Boothby unfold himself out of his small car and head into the Inn and Out.
So now we’re heading south, winding through the back roads toward home.
CHAPTER 19
“I don’t get any of this,” I say, unwinding the finger bandage and letting it fly out the window. “Let’s go find Rex and see what—”
“I’ll tell you exactly what this is all about,” she says, wiping the fogged-up window with her coat sleeve. “That FBI man must think Tommy Kaye is a spy for Japan or something.”
“Is he?” I asked. “I mean, he isn’t. Is he?”
“If he’s a spy, I’m Mata Hari.”
“Who’s that?”
“Never mind. I can’t see anything with that stupid slit of light and that useless defroster!” she grumbles, peering over the steering wheel. We turn right onto Occidental Street, and Mom pulls over. She turns off the headlight and we can see the full moon coming up behind the clouds, reflecting light off the ocean straight ahead of us. It’s sort of pretty and serene.
“Seems sort of stupid not having any lights when that moon’s so bright. How you going to black out a moon?” I ask. “Why do we have to have everything so black anyway?”
“I think it’s because we’re . . .” she says, sort of low, like maybe we’re surrounded by the enemy. I look at her. “Targets.”
Incommunicado Page 8
