Incommunicado

by Randall Platt

  “Mom, don’t be mad. Rex just had enough and hauled off and let that Eldon Johnson have it smack in the kisser!”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “Ah, what are you talking about?”

  “You mean to tell me our Rex hit Eldon Johnson?”

  “A . . . well . . .” I can hem and haw alls I want, but Mom sees right through it.

  “He was in a fight? Has the whole world gone mad?”

  “Well, actually, yes, it has,” I say. “Well, you know, Mom, he’s Town Hood. He has to take matters into his own hands once and a while.”

  “Town Hood is supposed to keep the peace, not—” She stops short and shakes her head. “I’ll deal with him later. What I want to know is what you kids were doin’ with my car this afternoon.”

  “Uh, ice cream cone. We went to Salty’s Sweets. We heard what with sugar rationing and cream being scarce and all that ice cream won’t be coming in much longer and—”

  “You drive a car two blocks for ice cream?”

  “My bike tire is flat,” I say, which is not a lie because it’s always flat.

  “Well, do you know what Sheriff Hillary just told me?”

  “No.”

  “She said Eldon Johnson said the back seat of my car was loaded with crates. And what were in the crates?”

  “Uh, books. Text books,” I manage.

  The bell on the door dings, and I think I’m home free. But it’s only Rex. “Hold it right there,” Mom says.

  Rex stops in his tracks. She holds her hand up to silence me, then asks, “Rex, what was in the back seat of my car today?”

  “Crates,” he replies sort of slow and looking at me. “And what was in those crates?”

  “Scrap metal. For the Lions’ drive.” Dang, why didn’t I think of that?

  She looks back at me. “Rex, sit down.”

  He scoots in the booth next to me.

  “Now, accordin’ to your sister, those crates were filled with books.”

  “Sure,” Rex says, easy as pie. “And some newspapers. For the scrap drive.”

  I just nod and add, “Yeah. Books and newspapers and scrap. Think there’s some old pots you can give us?” I ask, pointing to the kitchen ceiling where the utensils hang.

  She says, “Accordin’ to Sheriff Hillary, the crates were filled with books. Japanese books,” she goes on. Looks like we’re still on the firing squad wall.

  Rex and me know better than to look at each other, sitting side by side in the booth. One look can tell all.

  She plops a book down on the table, “Now, just where the heck did you kids get boxes of Japanese books?”

  “Uh, at the Feed and Seed,” I say. “They were in this closet in back and—”

  “Jewels, give it up,” Rex interrupts. “Just tell her. Sooner or later . . .”

  “Sooner or later what?” Mom asks.

  “Rex! No! Don’t!”

  “Tell her,” Rex says, staring at me. “Just get it over with!”

  “Well, somebody better tell me something and now!” Mom hollers.

  “We were getting books for Tommy Kaye,” Rex replies, so casual it’s like we do that every Saturday. “The books were stored in this old airplane hangar.”

  “Your airplane hangar,” I add.

  “What the devil are you talkin’ about?” she says, her eyes narrowing and her voice lowering.

  “Mr. Kaye said it was your airplane hangar. A tax dodge,” I say.

  Then I spill out the whole story. I start with The Hunchback of Notre Dame and end with four crates of Japanese books and one signature from Ernest Hemingway smuggled down to Mr. Kaye just a half hour ago. I’m trying to keep my voice calm but just looking over at Rex makes me want to cry on account of he’s the one who’s done the big suffering.

  Her face goes the blankest I have ever seen it go as she slowly drops into the booth seat acrost from us. Guess my own face would go like that, too, if I’d just learned my two kids were breaking only-J.-Edgar-Hoover-knows how many laws and right under the whole town’s noses—her’s, Sheriff Hillary’s, God’s, and everyone’s.

  I can usually figure Mom out just by her expressions. I know she’s tired, I know she’s confused, and I know she’s mad. But she gets up from the booth, goes behind the lunch counter, and I think she’s probably reaching for a drink, but instead pulls out her cigarettes, lights one, and sits on a stool while she smokes and looks like she’s thinking all this over. The silence is killing us, but Rex and me have no idea what to do. Every time we look like we’re going to say something, she raises her hand to silence us.

  At the end of the cigarette, she finally says, “I’ll be upstairs, soaking in a hot tub. You kids lock up. There’s leftovers in the fridge. Some scraps for that dog of yours.”

  “Mom, are you mad?” Rex asks.

  “At you two nitwits? No. At Tommy Kaye? Oh, yes!”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “I can’t believe he put you, me, all of this, at risk with this insanity!” she says.

  “Well, it was my idea, Mom. Not Mr. Kaye’s,” I fess up.

  “And what if that Agent Boothby comes back snoopin’ around?” she asks. She runs her hand though her hair. That’s never a good sign.

  “Why would he?” I ask. “I mean, as far as the world knows, Mr. Kaye has vamoosed to Canada.”

  “Jewels, you can’t keep a man hidden for the whole war,” Mom says, clipping her words. “What I can’t believe is how you went along with this”—she’s looking for the right word—“balloonitic idea, Rex.”

  Losing her Southern accent is not a good sign, either.

  “Would you quit giving everyone else credit for my balloonitic idea?” I shout.

  I don’t mean it to be funny, but first Rex cracks up, then Mom, then finally me. Yeah, that was a pretty balloonitic thing to say. I admit it.

  “What about Sheriff Hillary?” Rex asks. “What are we going to tell her about the books?” We all look at each other.

  Mom goes to the window and looks outside. The sky is starting to turn pink. Then, she turns to us and asks, “How long have you pulled this off?”

  “Since January. You know, since he left for Canada,” I say.

  “Hmmm.” Her pointing finger taps to her lips, a sure sign she’s thinking.

  “Mom,” Rex says. “Sheriff Hillary? Those books?”

  “Well, I’ll just tell her what you told me. I almost bought it. You found some of Mr. Kaye’s books at the Feed and Seed and were going to donate them to the paper drive. Certainly won’t be the first lie I’ve ever told that woman.” She starts toward the back stairs. “Anyway, Sheriff Hillary is the least of our problems.”

  “So, you’re not going to tell?” I ask.

  She turns. I can’t tell, but is that hurt in her face? “Do you really think I’d rat on my own children?” She looks at us and adds, “Besides, how would I run Kaye Enterprises with you two in the reform school?” She gives us a very weary smile and starts down the hallway.

  “Mom, what are you going to do?” I call out.

  “I told you, take a hot bath,” she says, taking off her greasy apron. “Then, I’m going to fix myself up, pull myself together, straighten my seams, fix a pitcher of martinis, and go down into your ‘sanctuary’ and see how in heaven’s name I am going to get us out of this mess.”

  She closes the hall door behind her.

  I get up, turn, and look at Rex, who’s fiddling with the little peg board kid’s game on the table. “Why did you tell her all that?”

  “Jewels, get off it. How much longer did you think we could keep this up?”

  “But . . .”

  “And something else! Can’t you see? Mom and Mr. Kaye—how they’ve changed? Both of them.”

  “It’s war! Of course, they’ve changed!”

  “No, you dimwit! Can’t you see? I thought girls were supposed to just feel these things! Mom and Mr. Kaye. It’s like they need each other!”

  I run
my own hand through my hair. No, I do not see that at all. “I don’t know about you, but I feel like my whole brain is coming apart.”

  “Good. Maybe that will be an improvement!” Rex starts to storm out, then turns. “I’m sorry. Look, there’re only two choices. Either Mr. Kaye comes out and surrenders, or we keep doing what we’ve been doing and just hope to high heaven that no one else finds out.”

  “Yeah, but the finger gets pointed at us if he surrenders.”

  “I know it!” Rex yelps. “I warned you from the beginning. They aren’t going to think of us as just a couple of goofy kids who didn’t know any better. This isn’t as though we’re just hiding that old bloodhound from the dog catcher!”

  “Yeah, and thanks to you, Boy Genius, now Mom’s involved! What if she gets drunk and spills the beans to, oh gee, I don’t know, everyone!”

  “I don’t think you’re giving Mom enough credit. She . . .”

  “And what if those McAloons find out?” I holler, then mimic a McAloon and add, “Say, Frank, looky here. I just killed me my first Jap!”

  At that, Rex turns on me and points his finger. “Go ahead! Make a joke out of it like you always do! But I’m telling you this, I am not going to jail for harboring the enemy! If I have to go to Canada myself, I will.”

  “Well, I don’t want to go to jail, either,” I say, tears springing to my eyes. “Or you or Mom or Mr. Kaye or Father Donlevy.”

  “Stop blubbering. I’m going back to my cabin. Let me know when Mom’s ‘seams are straight.’ We’ll all go down to talk with Mr. Kaye. And Father Donlevy better be there, too.”

  • • •

  Most interesting to me is the look on Mr. Kaye’s face when Mom descends those steps ahead of us into the basement. She stops suddenly. It’s like he can sense her or maybe smell her or knows the sound of her heels. His head comes up, they lock eyes, and for the first time ever, I think I know, I mean really understand, what Rex was talking about. They’re in love with each other.

  Mom walks down the steps, all fixed up in her Saturday best, then sashays over to Mr. Kaye and slaps him a good one acrost the chops. His hand goes to his face. Then, she turns to Father Donlevy who takes a step back like maybe he’s going to be hit next. She says, “Forgive me, Father, for displayin’ violence in the house of God.”

  He give her an air-cross and mutters, “You’re forgiven.”

  “What’d you do that for?” Mr. Kaye asks, rubbing his cheek.

  “For making’ me think you were nothin’ but a two–bit coward! How can you put my children at risk by goin’ along with this . . . fiasco?”

  “I don’t know, Alice. It sort of just happened,” he says.

  “You look horrible,” she says, handing him the pitcher of martinis she’s made.

  “So would you if you’d been living in a cave for . . .” he walks to the wall calendar from the Feed and Seed and looks at the days Xed out, “for fifty-seven days. Although I can’t really call them days because I haven’t seen the sun for fifty-seven of them! At least Dracula gets to fly around at night.”

  “I think this is a case of ‘you’ve dug your own grave, now lie in it’!” she says.

  “But he didn’t dig it,” I say. “I did. This was all my idea.”

  “Everyone, please,” Father Donlevy says. “It hardly matters how he got here. The question is how to get him out without ruining us all.”

  “Out to what?” I holler. “To jail? Back to Japan? How come he can’t just stay here until . . . ?”

  Their expressions pretty much answer my own question. “Until what, Jewels?” Mr. Kaye says. “Until peace is declared?”

  “Well, should we get Agent Boothby down here and tell him everything? He seems like a square shooter. In fact, maybe he can do something to help. Like call the adoption people or the citizens’ office or Eleanor Roose—” I stop talking. It’s pretty useless, me talking like I can actually get anyone out of this grave I’ve dug. “Oh, never mind!” I bolt up the steps and Rex follows me.

  So, the adults stay underground. I suppose they’re sipping martinis and thinking what to do next. Rex and me go back to the Kozy Korner.

  “You happy? They’re all down there now and we’re up here. How about I just lock them all in for the duration of the war?” I dangle the key around my neck. “Serve ’em all right.”

  “Well, Jewels, you can’t blame them for—”

  “I know! It’s all my fault. So shoot me!”

  Rex makes a pistol with his hand, aims at me and says, “Pop!”

  “Do you ever just wisht you’ve never been born?” I ask, plopping down into a chair.

  “At least once a week,” Rex says, sitting down. “And it’s wished not wisht.”

  I feel something scrunch in my pants pocket and pull out the old photo from the airplane.

  “Jewels! You were supposed to put that back!” Rex says, taking the photo from me. “You little thief.”

  “So shoot me twice,” I say, grabbing at it.

  “Why’d you take that?”

  “I wasn’t done looking at it. I want to see what that writing is on the bottom.”

  I hop up and grab a pair of Mom’s reading glasses next to the cash register and use them to look at the photo. Some of the ink is chipped off but I can make out “’Bar . . . storming . . . ross Was . . . gton, nineteen twenty-something.’ Bar storming?”

  “Barnstorming. Sort of a circus-type show, only with airplanes. You know, back in the olden days. Women walked on wings and pilots pretended to have dog fights. Like the airplane fights in the Great War.”

  “Tommy Kaye did that?” I ask. I take a closer look at the man in the photo. “Yeah, that’s him all right. Look how young he looks.”

  “You should show that to Mom. She’ll probably get a kick out of it.”

  “Rex. There is another person sitting in the back cockpit, waving.” I hand him the glasses and the photograph. “I swear, it’s . . . Mom.”

  CHAPTER 36

  “Look, for once, let’s just play this smart,” Rex says. “Don’t show this photo to anyone. So just put this someplace and forget it.” Rex is using his I’m-older-and-smarter-voice, so I agree.

  Now that we’ve moved into the apartment, Mom hardly ever goes to our old cabins. I’m thinking I’ll hide the photograph there and maybe after this war is over, we can all play one big game of Twenty Questions.

  Mom keeps this old wood footlocker under her bed. She says it’s her hope chest, which is something ladies keep for when they’re hoping they’ll get married. You’re supposed to put junk in it you’ll need when you get married like tablecloths, candlesticks, nighties, and a divorce lawyer’s phone number. She says I’ll want a hope chest someday but I’m still hoping just for a chest. She tells me to wait. Chests come all in good time.

  I sort of miss the talks we used to have like that—fun and sister-like. Even when she was the good-time girl, ol’ Malice Alice, she was kinda fun. It’s like this war has even changed her. Anyway, I slip the old crusty photograph through the slit between the lid and the rest of the box and shove it back under her bed. Rex is right. It’s none of my business.

  • • •

  So, what do the big, smart adults come up with as a plan for Mr. Kaye? Absolutely nothing. We are keeping things what Rex calls status quo. No one has a solution. Kaye Enterprises is hanging on by an eyelash, but it is hanging on. Mom and Mr. Kaye keep company and Father Donlevy keeps quiet. But at least Rex and me are getting help now. But, I’m worrying that it’ll be five of us now, six counting Hero, lined up against that firing squad wall if we get caught.

  • • •

  The deadline for all Japanese Americans to report for relocation in Portland was April 7, which has come and gone, and which means there aren’t any Japanese people left anywhere on the whole west coast. This also means that Mr. Kaye would stick out like a sore Japanese thumb if found. He jokes that he’s going to get a switch of long black hair, braid it, glue it to his
head, get some black pajamas, leave sanctuary, and pass himself off as a Chinaman.

  All of us are changing in some way or another, though. Or at least that’s what it seems like to me. My grades have gone from Cs to Ds, and Rex had become more of a hermit, always studying and filling out college tests and stuff like that. Sometimes I think he’s older’n Mr. Kaye. He prefers his old, cold, and moldy cabin to our warm, spacious apartment. And yes, he did see that visiting school nurse who told him broken ribs just take time to heal and wasn’t he lucky that scar on his forehead healed so good and next time lead with your right.

  Mom is now a sober chain smoker, Mr. Kaye is about as pale as sand and drinks more than he ever did before, and Father Donlevy has developed this annoying facial tick. I think Hero is the only accessory to our crime who is his same old self, as long as I don’t forget to feed him.

  I tell you, some days I wisht that Agent Boothby would drift back into town and do some real detective work. I would just let Hero’s nose point the way to the church basement. No one could arrest a dog! But I guess the FBI and police are too busy finding and locking up other people with the Japanese stain, as some editorial writer calls them.

  Not only that, we were getting our butts kicked in the Pacific War until finally, a few days ago, we learned that some flying ace named Doolittle led a bombing raid on Japan. Man, we sure needed to hear that and so did the Japs, according to the news reports. It was sort of a big, patriotic “take that!” I guess the enemy didn’t think we could hit ’em where they live and fly away to tell about it, which the Doolittle raiders did. Anyway, lots of folks are celebrating. Mr. Kaye just wanted to know what towns had been hit and he looked pretty relieved Nagasaki wasn’t one of them. After all, that’s where his sister keeps her orphanage.

  This war is forcing me to think about a lot of things I don’t want to think about. I keep thinking about poor ex-sheriff Norm Dutton, just a sailor on deck one minute then whammo!, smithereens the next. Some Japanese pilot wins, Norm Dutton loses. Then a pilot named Doolittle wins, some Japanese welder in a shipyard loses, and some Nagasaki orphans win, so how do I keep score? It all seems so, well, flip-of-a-coinish. Heads, you live. Tails, you die.