Incommunicado

by Randall Platt

  “Bingo! He was going to log the inroads to the landing strip,” she says. “Now, the sooner you Stokes stop defending Tommy Kaye and begin to see the light about this whole war, the better off we’ll all be!”

  Rex and me look at each other. “There’s so many rumors out there about everything and you know they aren’t true!” I yell.

  “Watch it, missy!” the sheriff warns.

  Well, I won’t watch it, and I hate it when someone calls me missy. “One idiot even said Mr. Kaye was in some Japanese gang,” I go on.

  “Jewels,” Rex warns.

  “Go ahead and tell her what some dingaling said about that gang thing,” I go on.

  “Yazuka—the Japanese Mafia.”

  “I know what it means,” Sheriff Hillary snaps. She points her cigarette at us and adds, “And don’t think I’m not doing my share of detective work on all this. Like where he got all his money during the Depression when none of us had a pot to pee in! Man, you think you know someone and then, all this! Right under our noses! Now hurry up with those fliers. And this is going up!” She tacks up the 9066 flier. “Folks need to know how our government is protecting us!”

  She hands the box of tacks back to Rex and says, “I have to lock up and go on patrol.” We watch her retreat into her office.

  I look at Rex and say, “What Mr. Kaye told me is true.”

  “What’s that?”

  “War changes everything and everyone.”

  “Well, it’s not going to change me,” Rex says, tossing old fliers into the garbage. “I’m going to study, graduate, and then I’m going to hightail it out of town and pray I don’t get drafted.”

  We walk outside and the chilly February air hits us. Rex starts coughing again.

  “Don’t worry. That cough’ll get you Four F or worse, if they got it.” He spits into the road. “So when you going to do something about that cough?” I ask.

  He points toward City Hall. “Allergies. That place hasn’t been cleaned since the last war.”

  “Bull. I know you’re still strapping your ribs.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Prove it,” I say, reaching for his shirt.

  “Get lost.” He grabs his bike from the rack and takes off toward home.

  Well, I don’t need to see his ribs. I’ve caught him wrapping that bandage and belt around his chest twice in the last couple of weeks. And his coughing at night almost brings down the apartment’s walls. Mom’s been giving him cough syrup and he slugs it down. But it’s not allergies, and it’s not a cold, and it’s getting worse, and just about anything starts it off. I think he’s starting to lose weight, too. Every time I warn Rex I’m telling someone about his broken ribs, he tells me he’s on the mend. We’ll see.

  I untie Hero from the bike rack and look up at City Hall and, just as Sheriff Hillary is locking up, I run back to the steps.

  “Now what?”

  “I left something.”

  “Well, hurry up!” she growls.

  I run to the bulletin board and rip down the flier, pocket it, and run back out. I bike over toward the church, Hero lumbering by my side, wondering if we should even tell Mr. Kaye about that executive order 9066 thing.

  Hero stops. I stop. Hero bays. I hush him.

  Then, from the shadows, Father Donlevy appears, standing on the walk in front of the church.

  “Oh, you scared me,” I say, relieved it isn’t the McAloons or the SPORTS or the FBI or Sheriff Hillary on patrol or—okay, I admit it—or even the Japs invading the coast.

  “Hello, Jewels. I wonder . . . could you come with me?” he says. “Maybe answer some questions?”

  CHAPTER 31

  “You can bring your friend with you,” he says, pointing to Hero. We walk inside and through the alcove of the church. It’s cold and quiet and sort of spooky. Lots of candles flicker on the altar. Probably all for Norm Dutton. I follow Father Donlevy’s swishing black robes and squishy shoes into the church office. This room is small and musty smelling and cluttered with books. He tells me to sit, which I do. The lamp on his desk must be only a 20-watter because it doesn’t give much light. You better dang well believe my heart is thunking.

  “Jewels,” he begins, “I’ve noticed something very odd since you and your See Girls took over the basement.”

  “Really? What’s that?”

  “This,” he says, handing me a piece of paper. North Coast Public Utilities. I look at it, then back at Father Donlevy. “The meter reader wondered if there was a problem, so he comes around every week to take a reading. Just what sort of war work are you girls doing down there? Riveting battleships?”

  I’m speechless. This is what Mr. Kaye would call a technicality. Like him never being officially adopted. A mess-up in the paperwork at the head office. Red tape stuck smack dab acrost a dang light bill.

  “Jewels?”

  “Um, we’re, um . . .”

  “And there’s something else,” he goes on. He points to my side where Hero sits, panting, watching something that probably isn’t there on the carpet between his paws.

  “Hero?”

  “Yes, Hero. I know dogs bay at the moon, but this is the first one I’ve seen who bays at a basement doorknob. And the other morning, I get the most delightful aroma of bacon. You girls curing hams down there?”

  “Um. Well, we were having a breakfast meeting,” I say. This is not going well.

  He gets up. “I think you better just show me,” he says, untangling a key chain from a bunch of those Catholic bead necklaces that they use to pray with when they’ve goofed up like I’d be doing right now if I was a Catholic and might anyway if it can get out of this one. “And another thing. When I went to check, this key . . .”

  “I know. Doesn’t work.” I hold up the key and string around my neck.

  He gives me a stern look and puts his hand out for my key.

  On our way out of the church and around the side to the basement entrance, my mind is going like sixty. We have a code for an emergency like this and I’m praying Mr. Kaye remembers it.

  When we get to the basement door, I knock three times and call out, “Ollie Ollie Unguentine!” I turn to Father Donlevy and say, “That’s our password to be let in. Don’t tell anyone.”

  “But the door is locked from the outside, Jewels,” he says, unlocking the padlock. He opens the door and gestures me inside first.

  I look down and see Mr. Kaye’s digs, neat and orderly just like he always keeps it, but he’s nowhere to be seen. We go downstairs.

  “Say, this is quite a layout,” Father Donlevy says. “You girls did a great job.”

  “Yeah, but you’re right. We shouldn’t leave all these lights on. We’ll kick in some money for the bills.”

  “Yes, all the comforts of home.” He turns to me and adds with a big smile, “If one of you runs away from home, we’ll know where to find you.”

  He looks at the hot plate, the boxes and cans of food, the few dishes washed out and draining next to the dish pan. “Keeping tidy. That’s good.” From there, he looks at the stacks of newspapers. “Keeping informed. That’s good.” Then he stands in front of the four bonsai plants and the string of bare light bulbs over them for warmth and light. Father Donlevy turns and looks at me.

  Cripes, done in by a stupid midget tree, I think.

  “You know, these little guys have always fascinated me.”

  Next comes the liquor cabinet. He opens the door, examines a few bottles like he’s shopping at the liquor store, nods his head, and turns back to me with folded arms.

  Then, Mr. Kaye emerges from the darkness, holding an electric coffee pot.

  “It’s not what you think!” I holler, standing between them.

  “It isn’t?” Father Donlevy says.

  “It’s sanctuary,” I say.

  “That’s what I thought,” Father Donlevy says.

  We hear Hero wail from outside the door. “Jewels,” Father Donlevy says, “you better let that dog in be
fore the whole town comes looking down here.”

  I scramble up the steps, let the dog in, and scramble back down.

  Mr. Kaye says, “I was just about to make some coffee. Perhaps something a little stronger is in order?”

  “I see you stock my favorite scotch,” Father Donlevy says.

  I didn’t know priests drank. The two men raise their glasses. Then, to me, Father Donlevy says, “Sanctuary, huh?”

  “Uh huh.”

  He looks at Mr. Kaye, who smiles and says, “Sort of an interesting slant, isn’t it? At first it was harebrained, then it was, well, convenient. If anything, it’s allowed me time to think.”

  Father Donlevy seems to be letting it all sink in. He looks at me and says, “Jewels, this is very, very . . .” He’s searching for words. “Very . . .”

  “Serious,” Mr. Kaye says.

  “Yes, but, Tommy, you are . . .” He’s looking at Mr. Kaye almost like he’s never seen him before. “I mean, you’re wanted or . . . what exactly are you?”

  “Well, I’m a member of your flock,” Mr. Kaye says. “What I’m not is a spy or a Japanese operative. But I’m also not an American citizen, but only because my parents never legally adopted me. So now I’m a fugitive from my own government, hiding in a dank, dark, moldy basement, dependent on this girl, that dog, and her brother for everything.”

  “And there’s something else you need to know,” I say, pulling out the Executive 9066 flier. I hand it to Mr. Kaye and feel like I’m handing him Execution Order 9066.

  I’m waiting for him to go ka-blooey over it, but he just hands it to Father Donlevy. “For our own safety, I’m sure.”

  Then it hits me and I say to Father Donlevy, “So, what’s the difference if he’s locked up with the government or if he’s locked up here?”

  “I know it all sounds that simple, Jewels, but this is different. This could mean big, big trouble for all of us. I mean, there is no sanctuary, and Mr. Kaye is . . .”

  “You don’t have to mince words with me, Father. I’m the enemy. In the eyes of the State Department, I am the enemy.” He taps his chest with each word.

  “I can’t—the church can’t—harbor the . . .”

  “Enemy!” Mr. Kaye shouts. “Just say it!”

  Father Donlevy looks down at his hands and he whispers, “Enemy.”

  “He’s not the enemy!” I say. “And you know it. You can’t turn your back on him.”

  “Jewels, what a small-town priest in a rundown parish thinks has nothing to do with any of this. I have no say. I have no power. No one in the church will back me on this.” He looks at Mr. Kaye and adds, “It’s not like you just stole a loaf of bread and need food and shelter for the night.”

  “No, it’s not,” Mr. Kaye says.

  Then another angle hits me like a ton of bricks. “Well, Father, aren’t church confessions supposed to be secret? I mean, what if Mr. Kaye were upstairs in that confession room and confesses he’s hiding in your basement? Wouldn’t you have to keep it just between you, him, and God?”

  “Jewels, this is different,” Father Donlevy says. “This basement isn’t a confessional. This is—”

  “A church,” I say, pointing upstairs. “Isn’t it just a technicality where you learn about folks’ sins? Like maybe on death beds and firing squad walls and such?”

  Mr. Kaye sort of smiles and looks at the priest. “I think this is one of those ’out of the mouths of babes’ moments. I believe she has a point there.”

  Father Donlevy sighs heavy and says, “Jewels, I think the dog needs a walk.”

  I leash him and go up the steps. When I look back down, I see Father Donlevy, back turned on Mr. Kaye. He’s looking down, hands clasped. Mr. Kaye kneels.

  I close the door and wait outside.

  A few minutes later, Father Donlevy comes out. The dark afternoon makes his face look almost bluish and pale, like he’s been put through a wringer.

  “Sometimes, I wish to heaven I’d stayed in medical school,” he says, handing me back the key to the basement and brushing past me.

  I guess that brings us Allies up to a total of four—five counting Hero the bloodhound.

  CHAPTER 32

  We don’t hear much about all the Japanese–American folks being rounded up and sent off to the relocation centers, which is what they call them. There are some Japanese families down in Depoe Bay we know about and a lot more in islands in the Columbia River where they farm and fish and such. Portland has lots of them, too, and we see a few photos in the papers of them lined up with luggage. No one smiles like they usually do when they get their pictures taken for the newspaper, though, and I wonder who’s going to take care of their farms, their boats, their pets, their businesses while they’re being relocated. April 7 is the deadline for them to report and that date is coming up fast.

  As for Kaye Enterprises, well, I got to admit that ol’ Malice Alice is stepping up to the plate pretty good with all of it. Not that tourists are breaking down our doors. Everyone’s still scared we’re going to be invaded. There’ve been sightings of Japanese submarines right off the coast, and now there’s talk of big blimps coming to Tillamook where they can float above the coast and look for the enemy. Not sure what the men onboard will do if they find them. Seems to me a blimp isn’t much of a match against a ship’s cannon or a dive bomber airplane and it sure can’t turntail too fast. I know, because I’ve seen newsreels of blimps and they move slower’n glaciers.

  Most towns have raised up an official Home Guard and so the coast is pretty busy with horse and German Shepherd patrols. Some folks have taken to the hills to look for enemy planes from lookout posts. They have some outfit who does shooting practice at targets they set to float on the ocean. Latest rumor is some joker sunk a whale. Mistaking a whale for a submarine is one thing. Mistaking Mr. Kaye for the invading enemy is another, and as all this practicing for war heats up, I got to pledge to be more careful taking him out at night. Too many trigger-happy fingers around Sea Park nowadays.

  Just like Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. O’Leary said those months ago in the grocery store, we’re rationing things like sugar, meat, butter, rubber, and gasoline—another reason why we aren’t getting any tourists as spring comes to Sea Park. You might have the gas to travel, but you might not have the tires or vice versa. There’s ration books on all that and even shoes, which makes me mad because I never did get those Oxfords for Christmas.

  Our Austrian-not-German mayor appointed a few folks to be air wardens and they’ll take turns walking around town, wearing tin hats and whistles around their necks, and toting buckets of sand. At first, I thought they were supposed to throw the sand into the face of the enemy, but Rex informs me it’s to put out any fires from bombings. Yes, they are that worried the war is coming to us right here in sleepy ol’ Sea Park. The mayor has appointed himself Chief Evacuator, which I think means he gets to be first in line to evacuate town if we’re invaded.

  Us kids are asked to collect scrap metal and grease and newspapers, so everyone has something to do here on what they’re calling the war home front. I’ve got enough to do with my own war home front. In fact, I’m getting pretty worn out. And so is Rex. I don’t know how much longer we can go on like this. And Mr. Kaye, he’s starting to look pretty ghostly and pale and I think he’s losing weight. The whole sanctuary plan is wearing us all down.

  Mr. Kaye even says maybe life would be better in one of those relocation camps down south where the weather is nice and warm and where he could maybe get up a bridge game or ride a bike or help sew uniforms or roll bandages. “I sure would like to feel the sun on my face,” he says. He sort of smiles upward and closes his eyes, like he’s remembering sunlight and warmth and salt air.

  “Where’s that Leavenworth lock up?”

  “Kansas,” he says.

  “Lots of sun there,” I say.

  And he just turns, fixes himself a drink, and says, “Never mind. I’m just getting so bored, so itchy, living like this.”
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  “You like to read,” I say, pointing to the stacks of books I’ve been bringing over.

  “Wish the library wasn’t closed,” he says.

  “Maybe Rex can get some from school or something.”

  “High school textbooks?” I can tell by his face that’s not so exciting.

  “Mom’s cleaned out all your closets. Those books were all I could find,” I say, wondering if it’s going to be a sore point.

  “She’s up there and I’m down here. Of all the times I’ve asked her to move in with me . . .” he says, shaking his head. Then his eyes catch mine. The point is sore all right. He adds, “After we’d be married, of course.”

  I’m not sure what to say. It kind of makes me mad, though. The Town Hood, Town Clown, and Town Bimbo’ve been poor and struggling and getting laughed at and all and maybe Mom just marrying Mr. Kaye could have changed that. Might have gotten ourselves a little respect. Then again, maybe we’d all be getting our pictures taken boarding a train to some relocation place in the middle of nowhere or have visiting relative rights at Leavenworth. Or steaming our way to Japan. Or being shot as traitors. I don’t like this train of thought.

  “But it’s strange. She always said marrying me would be the easy way out,” he says, looking into his glass of whiskey.

  Strange, he says? I’ll say strange! “Are you kidding? Mom’s always taking the low road out and back in again. Last time toting a turkey!” I say. The embarrassment of her last stunt still stings. “She says you can’t fight city hall so you just may as well float on the tides. Like flotsam and jetsam.”

  He smiles at me and says, “Well, for every low tide, there’s a high tide.” I just want out of this basement. “Okay, no more philosophy. Say, I know where to look for books. I have some crates in storage.”

  “But I thought they, you know, the FBI, already cleared out your warehouse.”

  “I don’t think they know about this place. It’s up on the landing strip in Warrenton, off Beach Berry Road.”

  He gets a key out of his strongbox along with a five spot. “I have a hangar up there. I’ve owned it for years. Actually, your mother owns it. I needed a tax dodge. It’s all legal.”