Incommunicado

by Randall Platt

  Of all of us, Rex is the one I worry about the most. He keeps typing and mailing off his essays and applications. But it’s like he’s just going through the motions. We barely have money for gas, even if we do have the ration coupons, let alone college—scholarship or no. It’s like he’s lost his spark. There was always something so hopeful looking about Rex. Talking about how he’ll go here and do this and study that. His graduation is coming up and instead of doing all the fun senior things, he just backs away. No parties, no sneaks, no nothing. He won’t turn eighteen until September, but I know he’s worried about where that number leaves him in terms of the war.

  And I’m worried about it, too.

  That’s not alls I’m worried about. See, I got a big report due so I better start worrying about my grades. Mrs. Simmons keeps harping that beginning in eighth grade, grades all start going on a transcript, whatever that is. She says we need transcripts to get into college, but alls I can think is let’s just worry about getting us out of this war before we worry about getting us into college. College is a hundred years and a million dollars away, but this report is still due in a week.

  Our library finally reopened, getting ready for summer tourists. It isn’t too big, but it’s loaded with Oregon history books and since my report is on the Whitman massacre, I know I can find what I need there. Little Janie Johnson’s wagon, loaded with enough scrap to build a battleship, is parked in front as I enter the library.

  I see the topknot of her little knitted cap bobbing up and down the short stacks in the kids’ section. “Well, Janie. Looking for a book on shipbuilding?” I ask her.

  She gives me her screwy look and says, very importantly, “No. I’m looking for a book on trees for Mother’s Day.”

  “Janie, these are library books. You can’t give them as Mother’s Day presents,” I say.

  “Well, I don’t have any money so I’m going to get a book and draw my mom pictures and rules on care and stuff.”

  “Oh, well, that’s nice. What kind of trees?”

  “This itsy bitsy tree that Eldon’s going to give her for Mother’s Day,” she says.

  I stop cold. I knew it! Of course Eldon took The Old Man, along with Sailor the Turkey and lord knows what else from the Feed and Seed. But I play it cool. “I think it’s called a bonsai. Say, that’s good news for the See Girls. Tell me more, and I’ll put it in our newsletter.”

  “How come I never get to see your newsletter?” she asks, her eyes narrowing.

  “You know, because it’s secret. Our whole club is secret.”

  She screws up her mouth while thinking that one over.

  “Come on, tell me about your tree and maybe I can help you find a book.”

  “Well, it’s about yay-by-yay big,” she says, holding her hands a few feet apart. “And all prickly if you touch it. It’s kind of ugly, but anyway, Eldon’s been hiding it in our shed so’s he can give it to Momma. And on account of he’s going to report to war in a few weeks, he says I need to help take care of it. He calls it a prisoner of war, but I don’t know why. Eldon’s stupid sometimes. How can a tree be a prisoner of anything?”

  Yeah, good question, Janie, I’m thinking. Good question.

  CHAPTER 37

  “Come on, Rex, we got to do this. We need an adventure, and besides, it’s getting back at the Johnsons. Who doesn’t want to do that? And if anyone’s going to eat that poor turkey, it’s going to be us!”

  “Stealing a bonsai and a turkey in the pouring rain is an adventure?” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Sounds like another one of your balloonitic missions.” He whirls his pencil in the air.

  “It’s not just a bonsai; it’s The Old Man! You know how important he is to Mr. Kaye! Come with me. This’ll be fun. We need fun!” I say.

  “I think you can handle swiping a plant from a garden shed all on your own, but that turkey might keep you hopping. Just don’t get caught. I’m still Town Hood for two more weeks, you know.”

  So, I scope it out and give it a good think. I can either skip school and do it in broad daylight, or do it at night under the cloak of darkness. Each has its own special risk and danger. During the day, Mrs. Johnson keeps her tattle-tailed little pug dog in the fenced backyard while she’s at work at the post office. But in our blackout hours, it’s really dark at night and a flashlight will stick out like a light house beacon. Then I might have the civil patrol, McAloons, SCOUTS, and the entire Japanese navy taking pot shots at me.

  So I choose dusk. I got it all planned out. In fact, I’m already planning the reunion between Mr. Kaye and The Old Man.

  But it isn’t as though I can take The Old Man and the turkey and hide them under my jacket like I was shoplifting a Baby Ruth or a hamster. That bonsai is pretty dang big and probably heavy, too. The old Dodge has been running on gas fumes for at least a week, so my getaway car is out.

  But we do have nine handcarts propped up against Cabin 40 so I pick the best one. I’ve got on my slicker with the hood and my rubber boots—the kind that everyone in town wears—in case I leave footprints at the scene of the crime. I put two wooden crates in the handcart and head out. To be on the safe side, I use the Janie Johnson routine and put a few pots in the crates. I’m just another kid out looking to win the scrap drive now.

  Mrs. Johnson has already pulled closed her blackout curtains. That’s a good sign. Now, about that little rat dog. I make a few short whistle-toots to see if it’s close by. Nothing. I look up and down the street. No one’s there.

  Now, this is the Oregon coast and every gate has rusty hinges, I don’t care what it’s made of or how old it is or how well you oil it. So I pull at the gate slowly. Cripes, the Johnson gate just falls off and over and clanks onto the grass! I freeze and listen. Slowly, I step over it and continue along the side of the house and into the backyard. The shed’s toward the back and I make my way through the huge collection of scrap Janie has stacked along the walkway. I pick my way carefully because one catch of my boot and I’m going to make a huge clatter if I fall.

  There’s a chicken wire pen next to the shed and I figure by the faint garbles that’s where Sailor the Turkey of War is kept. Here’s a hint: turkeys do not like flashlights flashed in their faces. I turn off the light fast. The scared bird hovers in a dark corner but I scoot him out and he makes his escape, gobbling off toward the sunset.

  Gates rust and shed doors swell. It’s an Oregon law. So I know to give the door a bit of a shove, but it opens so fast I almost fall inside. I give the shed a once over, trying to keep the flashlight low. I spy tools, cans, boxes, sacks, and a pitiful looking poinsettia leftover from Christmas. I move toward the back, thinking Eldon would probably keep The Old Man hidden until Mother’s Day. There’s another smaller room with a sign over the doorframe. I remember this place! Eldon’s old clubhouse. No GURLZ ALOUD.

  I push aside some crates and sure enough, there’s The Old Man sitting on a shelf under a high window. At least he’s been getting some daylight, but he looks pretty sad.

  “Don’t be afraid,” I whisper. “I’m breaking you out.”

  Yep, The Old Man is heavy, especially as I carefully pull him off the shelf. How could I live with myself if I end up being the one to kill him? I pocket my flashlight and get as good a grip on him as I can. It’s going to be a shaky trek back to the sidewalk in the dark, walking around all that scrap.

  I’m pretty strong for my size and I’m through the backyard and halfway down the side of the house in no time. I see some light quickly flash toward the back of the house and I think that’s a screen door slamming. Dang! To be safe, I duck into the hedge and hold still. You know how you hold your breath so you can hear better? Alls I hear is the sound of the rain. I count to thirty, then finally continue to the sidewalk, hugging The Old Man like he’s Clark Gable.

  It’s nearly dark now and I got to get home and fast. Pretty soon the Air Warden will make his first rounds, and I feel like I’m smack dab in the middle of No Man’s Land, toting a
prisoner of war no less.

  I get The Old Man into the crate and plan on taking the side streets home. I look south toward Highway 101 and think I see some shadows moving. Then I hear something. Barking. I turn toward the direction of the sound. Finally, sound and sight work together and I see them. It’s Hero chasing the turkey pell mell and Mr. Kaye on the other end of the leash running pell meller!

  Hero passes me, then catches my scent and whips around. He’s just about to galumph into my arms when I pick up another noise. A higher, faster noise. Hero spins around again as the Johnson’s little pug tears into him. Poor Hero stops and howls as the little dog nips his legs. I don’t think dogs know their own sizes. Sure can’t tell by the yelping and baying who’s murdering who. Hero’s all tangled in his leash and I think he’s getting the worst of it.

  Mr. Kaye hollers and pulls. I try to grab at the fast little dog who turns her nips on me.

  There’s such a ruckus, I figure all of Sea Park is going to be on us, but look there, it’s none other than little Janie Johnson, screaming, “Teko Teko Teko!” She swoops in and grabs her dog. And now Hero is running off toward home. So much for loyalty.

  That leaves Janie Johnson looking straight up into the face of Mr. Kaye. Her eyes triple in size, her mouth drops open. She takes that kind of deep breath that comes just before a huge holler. Then three slow steps backward.

  She turns, hugging her dog for dear life, and bellows out her warning to the town, the state, the world! “Japs! Japs! Japs!”

  How do you like that? All my hard work. Undone by a scaredy-cat bloodhound, an escaping turkey, an eight-year-old big mouth, and a pug with guts enough for all of us.

  We watch helplessly as Janie disappears, screaming, into the dusk. A miniature Paul Revere.

  Alls I can say is, “I’ll bet that little brat’s gonna tell.”

  • • •

  “Mr. Kaye! Run! Please! Back to the church!”

  But he just looks at me and says, “No.”

  “I mean it! Janie will tell everyone! How did you even get out?”

  “I broke out. Took the door off the hinges. I’ve done it a dozen times.” He turns his head to the sky and lets the rain pelt down on his face. “I miss the rain.”

  “Mr. Kaye, come on,” I say, pulling him by the sleeve.

  He shakes my hand off his arm and says, “I’m tired of this, Jewels. I’m just tired. I can’t breathe in that tomb. I need sun and rain on my face. I need life around me! I need to go bowling! I need to play eighteen holes! I need to dig clams! I need—”

  “Can we talk about this later?” I’m seeing all my work about to go down the sewer because Mr. Kaye needs gutter balls and clam bakes!

  He takes off his cap and runs his hand through his hair. “How I’ve missed the rain.” He starts to sway like he’s hearing some far off tom-tom rhythm.

  He’s going batty, nutty, balloonitic, shellshocked, stir crazy! “Mr. Kaye,” I plead, “look what I got you.” I pull the tarp off the box and show him The Old Man. “I got him back for you. I got back The Old Man. Come on, you don’t want him to see you dancing in the rain like a lunatic, do you?”

  Mr. Kaye stops twirling. “The Old Man?”

  “Quick. Help me push this cart back home. I don’t think he likes the rain, do you?” Okay, if I got to get the help of a six-hundred-year-old tree to get Mr. Kaye back into hiding, then I’ll do it. I don’t care how crazy it is. I’m not the one dancing in the rain when Janie Johnson is probably spilling her guts to her mother and Eldon and everyone else.

  “The Old Man?” he asks again, looking down at the bonsai. Then he snaps back to real life and adds, “No! No rain! Cover him back up!”

  We each take hold of the cart and push it back lickety split to St. Bart’s without tipping it over.

  “You go down,” I say. “I’ll go get Rex to help us with The Old Man. Then we have to figure out how we’re going to get ourselves out of this one.”

  “Keep him out of the rain,” Mr. Kaye says.

  I look back toward town and I bet you anything every phone behind every blackout curtain in every house is ringing with the news. I suppose there’s always the chance Janie’s reputation as a miniature con artist might mean no one will believe her.

  “Oh please please let her mother call her a liar!” I chant as I come around the corner to Rex’s cabin.

  “Whose mother?” Rex asks, scaring the bejesus out of me.

  I give him a rundown of the last half hour.

  “Well, you’ve really done it this time,” he says.

  “It was only Janie Johnson. Who believes her?” I say. “Come on. I need your help with The Old Man.”

  He follows me to the church basement door where I’ve parked the bonsai out of the rain. “I can carry it if you’ll get the door,” I say.

  “No, I’ll help.” We one-two-three hoist it.

  “Just kick the door open! Hurry! I’m losing my grip!”

  Crash!

  “Rex!” I holler.

  It isn’t a really bad fall. Not like you see in the movies when the guy goes tumbling down twenty steps. Rex has caught himself on his second roll! But The Old Man doesn’t catch himself and has fallen, splattering his six-hundred-and-some-change years on the cement floor.

  But that isn’t who Mr. Kaye or me go to. It’s Rex. He’s holding onto his side and is gasping for breath, groaning in pain.

  “Can you get up, son?” Mr. Kaye asks.

  “I . . . don’t . . .”

  We support him on each side and slowly get him downstairs and to the couch. “My chest . . . it’s . . . I can’t catch air. It . . . hurts.” He takes some breaths and his face is all white. He swallows and some color comes back. “I thought this was over.”

  “What was over?” Mr. Kaye asks, looking at me.

  Rex coughs and it’s like he’s snapped in half with pain.

  “He got into a fight way back just after Pearl Harbor. He was hurting a long time. But ribs take a long time to heal, don’t they? He was getting better, I thought.”

  Mr. Kaye has his fingers on Rex’s wrist pulse and says, “Get your mother and Father Donlevy. Now!”

  I run upstairs and outside, first to the church office and then to the café.

  “It’s Rex,” I scream out. “He’s hurt. Bad!”

  • • •

  “What’s the closest thing to a doctor we have left in this town?” Mom says, kneeling down next to Rex.

  “Me,” Father Donlevy says, helping me remove Rex’s jacket and shirt. “Easy, son.”

  “You?” Mom asks.

  “Two years of med school and five years missionary work in Alaska,” he says. “Rex, tell me when I’ve hurt you.” He gently begins to feel down Rex’s ribs.

  “You’ve hurt me!” Rex hollers.

  I step back and feel tears sting my eyes.

  “It hurts to breathe, doesn’t it?” Father Donlevy asks. “Right here?”

  “Yes,” Rex whispers, his arm over his eyes like he doesn’t want anyone to see him crying.

  “My lord in heaven, look how thin you are!” Mom says. Then to Father Donlevy, “I know he’s had more than his share of colds this year, but . . .”

  “Mom, it’s okay. Jewels ’n me, we’ve didn’t want to worry you.”

  “It’s my job to worry!” she says.

  I speak up, “He got kicked in the side really hard. But that was months ago and . . .”

  “My guess is he’s re-broken some ribs,” Father Donlevy says. “I’ll get some pain pills from my first-aid kit. That’ll get him through the night. Then, tomorrow, first light, we’ll get him up to Coastal General.”

  “Rex, honey, can you walk? Father, help me get him back home, will you?” Mom says.

  “No, he better stay right where he is, Alice,” Father Donlevy says. “Broken ribs can be tricky. Let’s not move him more than we have to.”

  Mom looks to me. “Jewels, you go find that old sleeping bag. Look in the rafters i
n our cabin. I’m sleeping right here on the floor next to him.”

  “Now, Alice,” Mr. Kaye says, “if anyone sleeps on the floor, it’s me. You take my bed. We’ll both take shifts with him tonight.”

  It isn’t until we get Rex sedated and the beds made up that Mr. Kaye’s eyes land on the corpse of The Old Man. He walks over, kneels down, and picks up a lifeless limb. He looks up at me and says, “Everything, everything is my fault.”

  Which all of us know isn’t true. Everything is my fault.

  • • •

  Father Donlevy rushes in at first light and says from the landing, “Things are a panic out there. The whole area has been put on alert!”

  “Alert to what?” Mr. Kaye asks.

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “According to Janie Johnson, the Japs have landed,” he says, bringing his first-aid bag downstairs. “How’s our patient?”

  “He’s still asleep,” Mom says. “He coughed some during the night, but he’s been sleeping pretty soundly.”

  Father Donlevy kneels next to Rex, listening to his chest through the stethoscope. He sort of nudges Rex a little. “Son, wake up.”

  “What’s the matter?” Mom jumps in. “Won’t he wake? Rex!”

  “Those pills shouldn’t have put him so deep. Rex?”

  Slowly, Rex’s eyes flutter open. Father Donlevy feels his forehead.

  “Mom?” Rex says, looking around. His lips are bluish and he looks confused. My heart is pounding.

  “I’m here, Rex,” Mom says. “How do you feel?”

  “Not so good,” he says. He coughs again and this time some blood comes up with it. He grabs his sides. “It’s so hot . . .”

  Father Donlevy takes Rex’s blood pressure. He doesn’t have to say the number. I know by his glance up at Mom and Mr. Kaye that Rex is in big trouble.

  We wrap him in a blanket and Father Donlevy carries him up the steps.

  Mom turns on Mr. Kaye as he tries to follow. “You’re staying here.”

  “The hell I am.”

  “You heard what Father Donlevy said. The whole county’s looking for Japs. Careful, Father! Jewels, get the door.” She holds the blackout curtain aside while Father Donlevy carries Rex outside. Mom turns back to Mr. Kaye and snaps down at him, “And in case you haven’t noticed, you’re a Jap!”