Incommunicado

by Randall Platt

  “I swear by God they aren’t taking me anywhere! This is my home! They’ll have to blast me out of here!”

  “I got—I mean I have—a better idea,” I say. “Hurry! I’ll show you.”

  “Show me what? Jewels, this has nothing to do with you.”

  I look up at him. “Yes, it does.”

  His face softens back into his calm, kind one. “No it really doesn’t.”

  “But I have a surprise for you. You can’t go anywhere before you see it. I’ve been working hard all week and if that man is going to take you away and . . . I mean, will you ever come back?” I can’t keep the crack out of my voice.

  “Oh, Jewels,” he says, pulling me into his arms and holding me. “Please. Don’t cry.”

  He sways me a little like I’ve seen him do with my mom, as if he’s hearing music no one else can hear. I step out of his arms and look up at him. “Come on. Come with me. It’ll only take a minute. Quick, before that FBI man returns.”

  CHAPTER 24

  We go through the kitchen and back hall, down the stairs and to the darkened café. Just as we slowly open the door, I stick my head out and get the scent of cigar smoke. I plaster myself against the door.

  “Shhh,” I say, putting my finger to my lips.

  “Jewels, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you and I are making a run for it,” Mr. Kaye says.

  “No, we’re not,” I say. It’s not a lie. We are not running. Creeping is more like it.

  We ease out the door. I peep around the corner and there acrost the parking lot is the cigar-smoking FBI man, leaning against a car.

  Mr. Kaye stops on the pathway as a gust of wind reaches us. He stops, takes some deep breaths. “Oh, I love salt air,” he whispers.

  “Come on, Mr. Kaye. Just over here,” I say, leading him toward the church basement door.

  “Jewels, where are you taking me?” he says, feeling his way along the dark pathway into the basement door. “What the . . .”

  I unlock the door, slide aside the blackout cloth, and turn on the light. We stand on the landing and look down into St. Bart’s basement. Alls I say is, “Sanctuary.”

  I close the door behind us. I’ve done a pretty darn good job of creating a homey atmosphere, if I do say so myself. Chairs, rug, lamps, books, and even a homemade painting of the Last Supper someone left in Cabin 9.

  Mr. Kaye turns to me and says, “Excuse me?”

  “You know, sanctuary.”

  “What do you mean by sanctuary?”

  “The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” I say, a little miffed he doesn’t see the genius of my plan. “This is the Catholic church. You’re a Catholic. No one can get you here. Not those sword-rattlers, President Roosevelt, the FBI men, or anyone. You’ll be safe here. Come on, let me show you.” I pull him down the steps and into the main room. “Here’s your library, your den, your kitchen, and your bathroom is behind the curtain over there. Make sure the toilet doesn’t run. Father Donlevy’s a stickler about that.”

  Mr. Kaye looks like he’s just seen a ghost. “You mean to tell me Father Donlevy agreed to this?”

  “Well, not exactly. I mean, he said I could use this as a meeting place, you know, for my new club. We’re doing war work. He’s all for us doing war work.” I pause and look down at the holey Oriental rug at our feet. I add, “He just doesn’t know that you’re my war work. Anyway, he’s a priest. He has to agree to sanctuary.”

  Mr. Kaye folds himself into the overstuffed chair from Cabin 19 and puts his face into his hands and sort of quivers. Is he crying?

  “Mr. Kaye? Are you . . . ? Mr. Kaye?”

  His head comes up. “I . . . I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or spit nails. To strangle you or to hug you, Jewels.” His face is red like he’s been laughing and crying at the same time. He looks around the room. “This is probably the stupidest, kindest, worst-thought-out, most loving thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  “You think it’s stupid?” Yeah, there’s hurt in my voice. I might not be a genius like Rex, but I’m not stupid, and I’ve worked and planned and planned and worked!

  “No, no, no, Jewels. Not stupid. I take that back. Look, sweetheart, there’s no such thing as sanctuary anymore.”

  My head pops up. “Huh?”

  “The church outlawed it centuries ago.”

  “No sanctuary?”

  “Only in fiction, Jewels. I’m sorry.”

  What is he saying? “Um, well, okay, so what? No one needs to know you’re here. Even Father Donlevy. He thinks it’s just us girls down here with our club. So you can just stay here and no one will know. And everyone says this war won’t go on long and—”

  “Oh really? Have you seen how the Japanese have squashed our entire Pacific fleet? It’s going to take years just to rebuild, let alone defeat anyone.”

  “I heard what that Boothby said. They can send you back to Japan. He said Leavenworth or Japan. I heard it! They’re taking you away!”

  He looks up at me, his worn smile gone. “Yes, they are.”

  “Because you’re Issie or something,” I say. “Rex told me. He knows all about this stuff. You’re Issie because you were born in Japan.”

  His eyes search my face. “Issei. Yes, I was born there. But, Jewels, you’re just a kid. This isn’t your problem.”

  “You can’t let them send you back.”

  “Well, it’s either that or prison. So I can either get shot here as a Japanese spy or lose my head in Japan as an American spy. If I’m lucky, they’ll give me my own sword to fall on,” he says. “I’m pretty much dead either way.”

  “Don’t say that!” I holler in my loudest whisper.

  “No, I was speaking metaphorically.”

  “I don’t know what that is! Alls I know is they are going to take you far away!”

  “I’ll find a way out of this problem,” he whispers, but there is not one ounce of courage in his voice.

  “I already have found a way out of this problem,” I say, indicating the basement around us. “Sanctuary.”

  He sort of sniffs a laugh, looking around. “I don’t suppose you have anything to drink down here.”

  At least I did that right. I open the moldy curtains I hung along a wall, and there’s the liquor cabinet—well, it’s just a cupboard with dry rot that fell out of Cabin 30. I open the doors and show him all the booze I’ve been swiping from the Look-Sea Lounge. “And I’ll go get the rest, if you want.”

  He pours himself a stiff one and sips it. “Looks like you’ve thought of everything.”

  “Well, not the FBI part,” I say, my voice a bit low.

  “So, who all knows about this sanctuary?”

  “No one, I promise! I did this all by myself, Mr. Kaye.”

  “Now, if your mother came up with this harebrained idea, I would understand. But you, Jewels? Whatever made you think this could work?”

  My face goes blank. I guess I’m hurt, and okay, maybe a bit peeved. I fold my arms. “Well, what was your plan? It’s not like you can just fade into the crowd. I mean, no offense, but you look pretty dang Japanese.”

  We glare at one another. Then, slowly, out comes his strange smile. “I never thought it would come to them sending me back on a technicality. Just because my parents never legally adopted me, just because I was born in Nagasaki, just because . . . oh, Boothby’s got me and he’s got me good!”

  “No, he doesn’t. St. Bart’s has you. I don’t think the FBI has jury . . . juru . . . what is it?”

  “Jurisdiction?”

  “Yeah, that over the Pope. Do they? Well, Father Donlevy speaks for St. Bart’s and St. Bart’s speaks for the Pope and the Pope speaks for God.”

  He looks at me and says, “Jewels, sweet child. I can’t just stay here. Sooner or later, they’ll find me. And don’t you see? Running away only implicates me further.”

  “But you’re not running away. You’re staying right here in Sea Park where you can oversee your businesses and you can wait out the war
with all the comforts of home. Out of sight and out of mind. You know, like my mother when she’s incommunicado.”

  “They’ve already frozen my accounts. I can’t even write a check for a can of dog food! They’ll confiscate everything I own.” He refills his glass. “If they haven’t already.”

  “What was in that strongbox you asked me to bring you?” I’m feeling the ratty old Oriental rug being pulled out from under me.

  “The usual legal stuff that proves who I was, but not who I am. Some keys, some cash, a few memories. I should have married your mother two years ago when she asked me,” he adds. His head comes up to meet mine and he says, “Oh, I’m sorry, Jewels. That was a cruel thing to say.”

  “Rex and me have known all about you and Mom for years. I don’t know why adults think they can hide something like that. Anyway, why should you have married her? What difference would that make?”

  “Well, as my heir she’d inherit everything I’ve worked so hard for all these years.”

  “Doesn’t there have to be a corpse before there can be an heir?”

  “I’m dead six ways to Sunday and I’m about to lose everything! Sure! Give it all away!” he hollers, kicking the couch.

  Down goes another shot and it’s doing something to him. Something I’ve never seen before.

  “They’re taking me away tomorrow. Jewels, Jewels, Jewels. This is war. We are at war with Japan. I am at war with me!” He thunks his chest. “I was born in Japan. I am not an American citizen. And that’s not the least of it.”

  Uh oh. When my mother says that after downing a couple shots of booze, yelling and kicking a couch, you know to brace yourself. He says, “They have all the records of my money wires to Japan.”

  I’m seeing a long telephone wire all the way to Japan with dollar bills attached like undies on a clothesline. Funny, the things you see when you don’t want to see the truth.

  “There is no way anyone is going to believe that money was going to my sister in Nagasaki. She runs an orphanage there. The same one my parents plucked me out of and the same one they left her in. No, that’s going to be seen as funneling.”

  “What’s funneling?”

  “To J. Edgar Hoover and to Sheriff Hillary Dutton and to everyone in between, Jewels, any money sent to Japan is giving aid and comfort to the enemy.”

  Treason. “Well, then I guess I’m as guilty as you are,” I say. I indicate the basement around us. “Guess I’m giving aid and comfort to the enemy, too.” I point to the whiskey bottle and add, “Maybe a little more comfort than aid right now.”

  He truly smiles at me, then—his warm, wonderful smile that always makes me feel like everything’s going to be okay. “You’re a good kid, you know that?”

  He wobbles to the bar and polishes off another shot. I wonder how much booze this war is going to take to get him through it.

  There’s a creak up on the landing and we both look toward the door. It slowly creeps open. I didn’t latch it tight! This might be the shortest sanctuary in history!

  Mr. Kaye steps in front of me like there’s danger coming.

  Then, shyly, in pokes Hero’s long snout. He looks around on the landing, looking like Goofy with one long ear turned back on itself. He sees Mr. Kaye and bounds down the steps. I rush up and latch the door then come back downstairs.

  Mr. Kaye slumps into the couch and Hero climbs up next to him, plunking his great big head onto his master’s lap. Mr. Kaye lays his head back and closes his eyes. “Well, Hero,” he whispers. “Here’s another fine mess we’ve gotten ourselves into.” Then to me, he adds, sounding pretty old, pretty tired, “Does this establishment have a wake-up service? Tell the front desk I have a very important appointment at nine in the morning.”

  “Sure,” I say, knowing I won’t wake him or hand him over for anything in the world.

  I give him the ratty, crocheted comforter from Cabin 3. He tucks himself into it and falls fast asleep. I pat my leg and Hero follows me upstairs. I can tell he’d rather stay down there with Mr. Kaye but when this dog starts his howling, it can be heard all the way to Tok-e-yo. I turn off the light, careful to replace the blackout curtains acrost the door and padlock it behind me.

  I check around each corner now before I walk around it. I’m almost home free when someone says, “Jewels?”

  I know that deep, dark voice but I keep walking, pretending I don’t hear him.

  My arm gets pulled and I turn and look up into Boothby’s huge face, which is scary now in the dark shadows. “Are you all right?” he asks. “It’s late to be out. And it’s past curfew.”

  I’m thinking fast and scramble for my excuse. “Um, I’m scared,” I say. I lift Hero’s leash and add, “I went to take Hero back and Mr. Kaye said—”

  “You talked to him? When we went back up there, he wasn’t in his apartment or anywhere we looked. Now, you tell me, Jewels. This is about our nation’s security. I know he’s a friend of yours, but if you know something, you best tell.”

  “He, um, said he was, well, he was mad. And he said he was just . . . um . . . leaving town. Had enough. And he said he’s done with everything and he was mad as a hornet and he was getting out while the getting out was good.” Do not ask me where this is coming from!

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  Oh, someone just hand me a shovel to dig myself deeper. “Well, no. Well, maybe. Let me think. Oh yeah, he said someplace where he could breathe.” My eyes land on the old rusty, bent DRINK CANADA DRY sign outside the café. “Canada. He said he’s going to Canada.”

  Agent Boothby looks around the parking lot. There’s only one car parked there—the Stay and Play car. “And did he say how he was going to get there?”

  “No. He just grabbed a big suitcase, put on his hat, and told me sigh-o-nar-a. Locked up and left. Just like that.”

  I am glad it’s dark out because my face is stinging hot and I know my lying face is pure red right now.

  “I see,” he says, like adults say when they probably don’t believe you but don’t want to call you a dang liar until they know for sure you’re a dang liar. “Well, that certainly adds more to the case,” he says, jotting down some notes on a pad. He smiles and actually tips his hat to me and says thanks and goodbye.

  “Oh, and Jewels?”

  Uh oh. I turn.

  “Don’t forget the curfew.”

  Well, I don’t like adding more to the case, but if him and his cigar-smoking partner will just leave town then pretty soon everyone will think Mr. Kaye is gone and forgotten. Incommunicado.

  I go home and feed Hero. Now I can add lying to the FBI to my record. How old do you have to be for the firing squad? What’s the weather like in Leavenworth? Where the heck is Leavenworth? I can’t believe what I’ve done.

  Four times I get up to go unlock the church basement. Who do I think I am? It’s stupid. How come plans that seem so clever in the daylight are just plain harebrained in the dark of night?

  CHAPTER 25

  “Hey, Shorty,” Rex says, pulling on the light. “Where’s Mom?”

  I’m all foggy. I love those few brief seconds when you wake and you can’t remember the trouble you’ve gotten yourself into. “Huh?”

  “She’s not in her room. She go incommunicado again?”

  “Uh, no. She said she was going to Edna’s and then spend the night if it got too late.”

  “Well, it’s too late.”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Feed and Seed. Studying. It’s quiet there once I got it all cleaned up and the windows blacked out.”

  “Only you would study on a Saturday night.”

  “Got to ace my finals. If I do well on those, I can get out of this crappy town. Get anywhere but here.”

  I sit up and look at him straight on, not sure if my ears are buzzing or if there’s a bit of wheeze in his voice. “What’s out there besides ‘anywhere but here’?”

  “A life. College, maybe.”

  He’s the
only boy in town thinking college right now—this February after infamy. Most’re thinking about war and signing on the dotted line to go kill some enemies.

  “College costs money,” I say. “You stand just as much a chance of going as traveling to the moon.”

  “Mr. Kaye says if I can get a scholarship somewhere, he’d front the rest of the bill.”

  Mr. Kaye. Zonked out in the basement of the church one block south of us. Agent Boothby trying to pick up his fake trail to Canada. Now it all comes back to me. And you know what? It’s another good reason why maybe my plan has to work. No Mr. Kaye, no college for Rex.

  “Rex, I think there’s something I should tell you.”

  My voice is quavering and he takes notice. “What?”

  So I spill my guts, starting with the words and papers being tossed between Agent Boothby and Mr. Kaye, passing through Leavenworth then on over to Japan, and ending in the basement of St. Bart’s and my harebrained idea of sanctuary.

  “Jewels! There’s no sanctuary anymore! If there was, every church in the world would be filled with thieves and murderers!”

  “Well, I didn’t know that when I put him there!” I snap. “But I’ll be blasted if I’m going to stand by and watch that FBI man haul him off to prison! Or worse! They shoot spies, you know!”

  I think for the first time ever, Rex is speechless. He looks at Hero snoozing on the floor, then back at me. Then he screeches out, “Are you out of your mind? You can’t . . . he can’t . . . Jewels! You can’t do this!”

  “Well, I did! And as far as the FBI is concerned, Mr. Kaye has run off to Canada, so they don’t even have to bother looking here anymore.”

  “What’s that about Canada?”

  So I tell him that part of the story.

  Rex sputters in and out of a cough, “Jewels, you have no idea what you’ve done. Leaving his apartment, leaving Sea Park, leaving Oregon is one thing. Leaving the country is another. And Canada! That’s where draft dodgers and conscientious objectors go!”

  “But he hasn’t gone to Canada. He’s gone to church!” I say, pointing toward St. Bart’s. How come no one but me is getting this? “He’s only a block away. Safe and sound.”