“The island garden had plenty of rain,” Mother says. “So much rain that it only grew shallow roots. This garden never had enough rain. So it had to grow deep roots. The island roots would never have survived the desert summer.
Mother takes the bowls I used every morning to water the garden and sets them next to my feet. She lifts my chin to look in my eyes. “You saved this garden, Daughter,” she says. “Thank you.”
Then she stands and returns to our room.
I’m not ready to go inside yet. I sit in the garden and look at what’s left of it.
Mounds with onions and garlic buried inside, hibernating through winter’s freeze.
Mounds with herbs at the end of their life cycle, growing flowers so that there will be herbs for next spring.
Mounds that sit empty, waiting for new seeds to grow new plants.
Strong plants.
Plants with deep roots.
Plants that survive.
*
One morning, Mr. Warden waits by the flagpole in the school yard. This is the first time I’ve seen him since I returned to school.
Today, he has brought camp police with him.
Mr. Warden and his policemen make me nervous.
When the students are lined up and waiting, he speaks.
“Salute! Pledge!”
My classmates’ voices drone around me. When they stop, Mr. Warden walks up and down the lines of students.
“So many of you do not pledge,” he thunders. “Why?”
My heart starts to pound and I wish I had stayed in bed.
Mr. Warden stops next to me.
“I remember you,” he says. “You are the mute one.”
Then he walks to another line. The wild boys.
“But you?” he says.
“And you?”
“And you?”
“And you?”
“You are not mute. So I ask again: Why do you not pledge?”
Ron steps forward.
“We will practice today,” Ron says. “Tomorrow…”
Ron stops talking when Mr. Warden holds up his hand.
Mr. Warden motions to the camp police standing at the edge of the school yard. Their stomping boots make dust clouds as they walk toward us. Mr. Warden holds a paper up for Ron to see.
“I’ve seen these boys skulking in shadows.”
He reads the paper. “No freedom behind barbed wires.” He shakes the paper and looks at Ron.
“They are young,” Ron says.
“Yes,” Mr. Warden says. “They are young. But they are writing subversive tracts. And they are passing their subversive tracts around the camp for others to read. Do they write this with their teacher’s guidance?”
Miss Rosalie puts her hand on her chest. But Ron is silent.
“Worse, there have been reports that they also act as messengers,” Mr. Warden says. “They carry messages for some of the men about resistance and protest and violence.”
Ron takes a step back. He looks at the wild boys. They do not look so bold anymore. Ron looks at me. Then he looks at Miss Rosalie.
“I know about the messages,” he finally says. “I’ve tried to stop them.”
Mr. Warden motions to the camp police again. “Bring him in for questioning.” Then he leaves the school yard.
The policemen grab Ron’s arms.
“I come willingly,” Ron says.
The policemen release him and let him walk.
All I can think is that the camp police are taking Ron away. And something is wrong. But I do not understand what has happened.
“Take care of her!” Ron shouts over his shoulder.
Take care of her? Mother? Is that what he means?
I want to ask him what he means.
I want to ask him what is happening.
I want to ask him where he is going and when he will return.
But my throat is covered with dust.
I sway.
Miss Rosalie wraps her arms around me.
“Ron,” she whispers.
Miss Rosalie stares at the wild boys.
“What have you done?” she says. “What have you done?”
Another teacher walks up the steps to the closest barracks and turns to face us. “No school today,” he says.
I feel the eyes of the other students staring holes in my skin.
I stand in the school yard, my arms around Miss Rosalie, her tears wetting my hair, until we are the only two left.
Take care of her.
I will.
*
By evening, everyone in the prison-village knows what has happened.
In Block 3, they say Ron is honorable. He tried to help his students, the wild boys. But they would not be helped.
In other blocks, they say Ron is a traitor. He told Mr. Warden and his policemen the names of the men who send the wild boys to pass messages.
For now, Ron is in jail.
Father is allowed to see him for a moment. Long enough to be assured that Ron has not been harmed.
That night, Mother and Father and Grandfather sit around the table in our room. Like me, they do not speak. I wonder if dust has begun to coat their throats, too.
*
The day after Ron’s arrest, rain comes. This rain pounds the remaining stalks and stems in Mother’s garden into the hard ground.
“No matter,” Mother says. “I have collected the flowers, and we have harvested all we can.”
The rain brings thunder and lightning. Dogs cower under steps. Chickens squawk and flap inside their coops.
The rain churns the paths and roads of the prison-village into frothy puddles.
Mother and Grandfather both offer to walk to school with me the first day without Ron. But I do not want their company.
I get to the school yard and see that the students have already gone inside.
I take a deep breath of the rainy-wet air.
The rain has already started to flood the school yard, turning it into slick and sticky mud.
The mud makes the school yard look different.
It makes the school yard feel different.
It makes it easier for me to go to school without Ron.
Like it is a new place now. A place Ron never was.
*
I walk past Ron’s empty classroom. His students now go to teachers in different barracks. It is temporary. Just until Ron comes back.
The students are quiet.
The teachers are quiet, too.
A worried kind of quiet. An afraid kind of quiet.
I stay after school to help sweep my classroom. Usually, Miss Rosalie chatters to fill up the empty space my throat leaves. She flits from one part of the classroom to another and shows me the curious things she’s found around the school, like a heart-shaped rock or a tiny purple sage blossom.
But today she sits silently at her desk and stares out the window until I am done. Then she hands me paper and says, “Thank you, Manami. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Already, I do not think I am doing a good job of taking care of Miss Rosalie.
NOVEMBER
When Father is home, he glowers. His anger blames the wild boys. It blames their fathers. It blames Mother and me. His anger blames Miss Rosalie.
Mother watches and waits. Her sorrow fills her eyes, brimming over when she thinks I am sleeping.
Grandfather’s hands do not stop working. In his worry, he twists wires and sands wood pieces, making tiny boats and tiny houses.
Miss Rosalie’s face grows more and more gaunt. Her grief causes shadows to ring her eyes.
Three days after Ron’s arrest, the rain finally stops. No tapering off for this rain. One minute roaring and pounding, the next minute silence.
After dinner, I run to my classroom. The light is still on. I take Miss Rosalie’s hand and bring her home with me. It is the only way I can think to take care of her.
At our small table, Mother feeds Miss Rosalie. Grandfather pats her arm. And, final
ly, Father speaks.
“He should have returned to Indiana,” Father says.
“Yes,” says Miss Rosalie.
“But he stayed here for you,” Father says.
“Not for me,” she says. “I begged him to go.”
Mother whispers to Father.
He is still angry, but his voice is softer when he speaks again.
“You should be careful,” he says.
“If you hear anything…” Mother says.
“I will tell you,” Miss Rosalie says. “Thank you for welcoming me.”
Mother grasps Miss Rosalie’s hands. Then she motions to me to open the door.
I walk with Miss Rosalie through our block.
When we reach the administration buildings, Miss Rosalie stops.
“Thank you, my dear. Ron said…” Her voice breaks. “Ron said, ‘Manami is the best little sister.’ Hurry home.”
I watch Miss Rosalie walk toward her home. When the darkness swallows her, I trudge through the mud to Block 3.
Just as our door closes behind me, I look in the direction of the school yard. In the faraway glow of a streetlight, I see the silhouette of a dog. It is hard to see clearly—the lamp is dim, the dog is far, our door closes quickly. But I think I see pointed ears. I think I see a small, firm body. I think I see a nose raised in the air. Has Yujiin finally come?
I push the door open again.
But the dog is gone.
I wonder where it has gone.
I wonder why I did not see it when I stood there with Miss Rosalie only minutes ago.
I take a step outside when something else catches my eye.
Gleaming white letters against black walls: Watch out, traitors.
The letters are so fresh that they drip.
I hurry back into our room, grab Grandfather’s hand, and pull him with me. Father and Mother follow us.
When Father sees the letters, he says, “Go inside.”
Mother and I wait in our room. After many minutes, Grandfather and Father return.
“It is gone,” Father says. His sleeves are wet around his wrists and he has white smudges on his clothes. “I have to report this. But I want you to stay inside. From now on, none of you are to go out alone.”
*
The next morning, Father doesn’t go to work.
“We’re going to visit Ron,” he says.
When I don’t move from the table right away, he picks up my coat and drapes it over my shoulders. “Come,” he says.
Inside the jail, Ron sits at a table. Behind him, there are rooms with bars. As soon as we walk through the door, Ron stands.
“Father,” Ron says in his whisper voice. He looks at the ground.
Mother hugs him. She reaches her hand up and smooths his hair back from his forehead. I do not hear what she says to him.
Grandfather hugs Ron next.
“Son,” Father says. His voice rumbles.
Ron finally looks up.
“I’m sorry,” Ron tells him.
“For leaving school?” Father asks.
“No,” Ron says. “Not school. They told me about the words painted on the wall last night. I’m sorry for shaming you this way.”
Father does not speak for a moment. Then he clears his throat. “This shame is not yours,” he says.
A soldier comes inside the room with us. “Mr. and Mrs. Tanaka,” he says. He looks at Grandfather.
“My grandfather,” Ron says.
“Please sit,” the soldier says. “We’d like to release Ron. But even before the graffiti in your block last night, we knew it might not be safe for him. We can transfer him to another camp. Minidoka in Idaho seems like the best choice. But we can consider Arizona, too.”
“Idaho? Arizona?” Mother whispers. “They are so far away.”
“Or we can release him here,” the soldier says. “But we can’t guarantee his safety.”
“What about at the other camps?” Father asks. “Can you guarantee his safety there?”
“No,” the soldier says. “But I think it would be better than here.”
“Can he return to school?” Grandfather asks.
“That might be an option down the road,” the soldier says. “But there’s a lot of paperwork to handle before that can happen, and we can’t keep him in jail that long. I’ll leave you folks to talk about it.”
After the soldier is gone, Father speaks. “You must go,” he says. “The soldier is right. It is not safe for you here.”
“I agree,” says Mother.
“Grandfather?” Ron asks.
“I think the only choice is which camp,” Grandfather says.
Ron’s shoulders slump.
“The camp in Idaho is closest to home,” Mother says.
“Maybe it will be a place where you can come, too,” Ron says.
By the time the soldier returns, Ron has told Mother what he would like her to pack for him.
“Have you made a decision?” the soldier asks.
“Minidoka,” Ron says.
“I’ll arrange for you to leave tomorrow,” the soldier says.
Mother and Grandfather and Father wait at the door when Ron bends down next to me.
“I’m sorry I can’t stay,” he says.
I wrap my arms around his neck.
“Maybe this time you will come to me,” Ron says.
I do not want to let go of Ron’s neck, but Father picks me up and carries me.
I have so many tears that Father’s shirt is wet when I rest my cheek against it.
*
Mother does not make me go to school after we leave the jail. She keeps me inside our room, folding sheets and blankets and clean clothes for Ron. She shows me where to stack Ron’s books so that she can choose which to send with him. But when she is ready to pack his suitcase, she sends me outside.
“I need to concentrate,” she says, “so I can get this done quickly before I have to go to work.”
While I squat next to the empty mounds of Mother’s garden, I can feel eyes staring at my back.
I spin around.
No one is there.
I can hear panting behind me.
I turn as fast as I can.
No one is there. Not anywhere.
I creep along the path as slow as I can. In case I feel something. In case I hear something.
But I don’t.
Then a light breeze wafts past my nose. Salty, sandy, fresh.
I run. Back to where I saw the silhouette last night. Over to the water pump, where I remember shadows and whines. I look under steps, behind barracks, inside windows. I look and I run.
I run until Grandfather catches me.
He lifts me high into his arms, tight against his chest. He carries me home.
“He is not here, little one,” Grandfather says.
I want to tell Grandfather he is wrong. I felt him. I heard him. I smelled him.
But I know Grandfather is right.
“He is not coming,” Grandfather says.
I want to tell Grandfather he is wrong about that, too. The wind carried thirty-one drawings. And a message shone in my lantern.
But I know Grandfather is right.
Yujiin did not find my drawings. He did not see my message.
“You must stop looking for him,” Grandfather says.
How can I stop looking for him?
I want to tell Grandfather: Remember? Once, I let him go. I let him go. I.
I wish dust would fill my nose so that I cannot smell. I wish dust would blow past my ears on the wind so that I cannot hear. I wish dust would cover my eyes so that I cannot see.
But mostly I wish I would not feel this big empty space inside of me. Yujiin is gone. And now Ron is gone, too.
When I am in bed that night, I overhear Grandfather’s rumbling low voice.
“Perhaps enough time has passed that Manami is ready for a dog now,” he says.
“Do you think she has forgotten Yujiin?” Father asks. “Th
en why isn’t she talking?”
“She will not forget Yujiin,” Grandfather says. “But Manami is the kind of girl who must have something to care for. Caring for the garden was good for her. And I think her heart is ready for a new friend. Especially now that Ron is leaving. Maybe her new friend will teach her to talk again.”
After a while, Father says, “I will ask the soldiers if there are any new dogs.”
The room becomes silent after their talk. Then I hear sleeping sounds: soft breaths, light snores. Is Grandfather right? Will a new friend fill the empty space inside of me? Will a new friend help me talk again? It takes a long time for me to fall asleep.
*
The next morning, Mother says, “I will walk to school with you.”
We leave early. Mother doesn’t want to meet anyone on the way, I think. She carries a bowl with a cloth wrapped around it.
Mother motions for me to wait outside when she walks up the steps to Miss Rosalie’s classroom. But I pretend I don’t see her and follow behind.
Tears slide down Mother’s cheeks when she tells Miss Rosalie, “We saw him yesterday. He has gone to Minidoka in Idaho, where he will be safe. Safer than here.”
“If only he had returned to Indiana,” Miss Rosalie says.
“If he had returned to Indiana, then he would be someone else,” Mother says.
Mother puts her arms around Miss Rosalie, hugging her close.
She puts the bowl filled with salty-sour rice balls in Miss Rosalie’s hand.
Mother is taking care of Miss Rosalie, too.
Later, in class, Miss Rosalie tells us stories about her kitten. It is not chatter, but it is not silence either.
She walks around the room, touching each student’s shoulder. It is not flitting, but it is not sitting either.
When I walk home, I wrap my scarf around my head, covering my ears. I hold my hands alongside my eyes, blocking everything except what is right in front of me. This way I cannot listen or look.
I think I will make an ocean picture in the dirt. In Block 3. In front of our barracks.
I unwrap my scarf and hand it to Grandfather.
First, I sweep the dirt in front of our barracks. The mud is gone and the dirt is hard, so it is easy to sweep it smooth.
Next, I use Grandfather’s rake to draw waves in the dirt. I have to dig into it to carve out the waves and show their curling edges.
Paper Wishes Page 8
