Deep Purple

by Parris Afton Bonds

  She shrugged, throwing her hair over her shoulder and rolling over, her arms crossed before her breasts. She took great delight in seeing the sudden hunger leap like a flame in his eyes. Recalling the night before, she felt the warmth spread upward from the pit of her stomach. “Nothing could keep me here if it were not out of necessity.”

  His brows rose. “You mean if it were not for governmental red tape, your father's illness, the state of the nation, and a host of sundry problems, you would be gone from here immediately?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Well, at least I’m benefiting in some way from the world war,” he said dryly. He dropped the tie on the umbrella-shaded table and began to shrug out of his coat. When he unbuttoned his shirt and his hand went to the zipper of his trousers, she said nervously, “What are you doing?”

  “Stripping,” he said, never taking his eyes from the nylon panties that clung to her damp skin, revealing more than they concealed. “Can’t I go for a swim in my own pool?”

  She gasped and sprang to a sitting position at the same time the telephone shrilled, as if in her defense. Nick sighed and went through the opened jalousie doors to the den. Three minutes later he returned with a glass of water. He hunched at her side. “Here, take this.” In his palm glistened a pink capsule.

  “It’ll relax you. Take it.”

  “I don’t need to relax,” she protested. “I feel just—” Seeing the grim lines about Nick’s white mouth, she broke off. “It’s Father!”

  Nick deftly slid the capsule between her parted lips. “Yes. Swallow the water.”

  Mechanically she obeyed him. “What’s happened?” she demanded.

  “A heart attack. It felled him.”

  “No,” she rasped. “No!” She began to sob hysterically, and Nick picked her up, muffling her cries against his chest as he carried her down the hall. In his bedroom he laid her on his bed. When she tried to scramble free, he pushed her down against the mattress. “Ssssh, honey,” he said. He lay down beside her and pressed her head in the hollow of his neck. “I’m not going to bother you. Just try to forget right now.”

  At that moment she did not want to forget. She only wanted to rush to the hospital. Feebly, she pushed against the rock that entrapped her. Great paws held her wrists so that she could barely twist about. At last lethargy subdued her and her body began to drift. She could remember the wiry hair on Nick’s chest tickling her face and the musky masculine scent of his skin filling her nostrils like an anesthesia before she lost consciousness.

  A slow darkness descended over her, and when she awoke, pinpricks of stars filled the sky outside Nick’s wide bedroom windows. She shot up in the bed. A figure rose from the corner, and Nick materialized out of the shadows. “My father?” she asked, hoping that what she remembered was some bad dream.

  Nick went into the bathroom and came back with a glass. “I’ve arranged for the funeral the day after tomorrow,” he said. “Your father—would he have wanted a Buddhist or a Shinto ceremony? I never heard you or him mention religion, so I arranged for a simple memorial service.”

  Then it was all true. She shook her head numbly. “No, he was of no particular religion. A memorial service will be fine.” Nick passed her the glass with another capsule. “It’s over,” she said. “The hysterics. I don’t want anything.”

  “The hysterics, maybe. But not the memories that crowd in and keep you from sleep. You’ll need all the rest you can get the next few days. Come on, Mandy,” he coaxed, “don’t be so damned stubborn for once in your life.”

  It was the old Nick speaking, and this she could cope with. She reached out and took the pill, quickly swallowing it. He placed the glass on the nightstand and turned to go back to the chair he had occupied. “I’m keeping you from your bed,” she said, embarrassed. And only then did she realize she was beneath the spread and sheets, still nude but for her panties.

  He sprawled in his chair. “It’s not the first time you’ve kept me from sleeping, Mandy,” he said with a wry smile.

  She sighed. “Well, you certainly can’t expect to get much pleasure in taking advantage of a drugged woman, and the bed’s big enough for both of us.”

  Already the pill was beginning to have its effects, and she was only vaguely aware as the bed eased beneath Nick’s solid weight and the warmth that enveloped her as he pulled her into his arms.

  Nick stood behind her as the first of the earthen clods was shoveled over her father’s casket. There were no attendants, only the two of them to mourn her father’s passing. A large wreath from Paul sat at the head of the open grave.

  Head bowed, she prayed silently that her father had found his rest, that he had found her mother.

  “Let’s go home, Mandy,” Nick said, his hands cupping her shoulders from behind.

  “Home?” she whispered. She turned around to face him. “I have no home!”

  He looked into her eyes, as if trying to gauge the grief that suddenly unleashed her angry words. “Your home is with me, Mandy,” he said in a gentle voice which he had never used before.

  “As your mistress?” she sneered.

  “It cannot be any other way.” He sighed. “We’ve been through this before. I will not divorce Danielle.”

  She shrugged. “It would make no difference if you did,” she lashed out, hurt. “I would never marry you!”

  “Did I ever say I would ask you?” he said, propelling her toward the limousine.

  “No,” she replied, tired now, her grief a dull ache in her heart and mind. “You never promised me anything.”

  “Mandy,” he said, taking her cold hands between his. “I once promised your father I would take care of you. And I will, if you’ll let me.”

  Never once had he mentioned any words of love. She pulled her hands away. “It doesn’t matter. There is no reason for me to stay. My father is dead.”

  “And where will you go? Do you think I’d let you leave so easily? I have only to make one call and the FBI would arrest you.”

  She turned on him. “Then make the call. I’ll go back to Poston before I become your mistress!”

  He stood before her, the flaps of his jacket pulled back, his hands jammed in his pants pockets. “It’s the Stronghold, isn’t it?”

  “The Stronghold is as important to me as your career is to you, Nick Godwin!”

  His gaze burned over her face. “You’re free to leave at any time!” he said and turned to enter the limousine.

  The chauffeur dropped him off at the capitol. When Nick disappeared up the marbled building’s steep flight of steps, she told the chauffeur, “Take me to the train depot, please.”

  He looked in the rear-view mirror with startled eyes. “Er— your luggage, Miss Shima?”

  “There is none.” There was so little that was actually hers at the ranch that it would make no difference. There was Trouble, but until she could find a place to stay, until she could take care of herself . . . yes, the mongrel would be better off with Nick. Still, after the loss of her father, giving up Trouble again was pain that actually twisted like a blade in her heart.

  CHAPTER 59

  Amanda had hoped to find memories of her father in Tucson. But she was wrong. After the brief hour train trip, she caught a taxi to their old house in the Barrio Libre only to find it boarded up—confiscated by the Federal Bank.

  She felt that she was worse off than when she had been incarcerated at Poston, for at least there she had had a roof over her head and food. And a job.

  A job.

  She went to the nearest restaurant, the Cushing Street Diner, bought a newspaper, and sat down with a cup of tea to look for jobs. The new Goodyear Aircraft plant at Litchfield Park outside Phoenix was advertising for women to work as riveters on the Navy plant assemblies. And the Civil Service advertised it was hiring personnel for the newly expanded Army base at Fort Huachuca. But she had no references, and she was Japanese.

  An utter gloom descended on her. She drank the remainder of he
r tea, barely tasting it, barely seeing the newsprint before her . . . until the sentence “Judge Craymore to Preside at Elks Banquet” jumped out at her.

  Why not? Why not have a judge swear her in? Unless Nick reported her to the FBI there was nothing to keep her from practicing law . . . unless she counted the money it would take to set up an office, to establish a practice.

  She set her empty cup down with renewed determination. There was much to be done. First, a trip to the Pima County Courthouse.

  Judge Craymore’s secretary told Amanda the judge was still in court but should be through within the hour. Amanda took a seat in one of the wooden chairs. Every few moments she shifted uncomfortably. What if the judge refused to swear her in? Worse, what if Nick had already alerted the FBI?

  Some time later, a small man in black robes swished through the outer office, and the stern-looking secretary grabbed up her pad and pencil and followed him inside the inner office. After a few minutes, she reappeared. "Judge Craymore will see you now, Miss Shima.”

  The old man was shrugging into his suit coat when the secretary ushered her in. “Miss Hoeffler tells me you wish me to administer the formal ceremony of admission to the bar. You have all your necessary requirements and certificates?”

  “No, your honor. My Bachelor of Law certificate is—packed away. And I was not required to take the state bar exam. But Mr. Browne, the counselor at the university, can bear witness for me.”

  “I see,” Judge Craymore said, rubbing his chin as he looked at her thoughtfully. Could she blame him for not believing her? “Shima . . . is that a Japanese surname?”

  Dear God, would it all begin again? "Yes, your honor. For the past year I have been in a war relocation camp. That’s why I’ve been unable to take the oath of attorney. But I have recently been released on sponsorship.”

  She stood straight now before his desk, bracing herself for another refusal. The judge leaned back in the large leather-upholstered chair. "You've got grit, young woman.

  Was that a negative or positive statement? The palms of her hands turned clammy. The judge leaned forward now and picked up the telephone. “Get me the dean at the university,” he told his secretary.

  “Have a seat. Miss Shima," he said, replacing the receiver. “I hope I’ll have the confirmation within a minute.”

  Even the minute seemed like an hour, and she jumped when the telephone shrilled through the office. “John!” the judge said heartily. "Glad to talk to you! Need you to verify a Miss Amanda Shima’s law credentials for me.”

  She closed her eyes, her heart barely beating as she held her breath in suspense. The judge cradled the receiver. “Raise your right hand and repeat after me. Miss Shima."

  Her hand slipped up. She could not quite believe it was really happening to her after all these years. “I, Amanda Shima, do solemnly swear:

  “I am a citizen of the United States, and owe my allegiance thereto; I will support the Constitution of the United States and of the state of Arizona; I will maintain the respect due the courts of justice and judicial officers; I . . .”

  There was more, but she could not remember it all as she left the county courthouse in a daze. With her swearing-in her bitterness at the War Relocation Authority fell behind her. There had been too many people who had helped her to let what happened at Santa Anita and Poston stand in her way . . . Mr. Browne, Larry, Kathy, and now the judge.

  She stood at the corner of Pennington and Church streets, where once had risen the adobe wall that fortified the Old Pueblo, and tried to think what next. She was an attorney now . . . without an office.

  And that was next. She took a bus to her old bank and asked to see a loan officer. The balding man looked askance when she informed him she wanted to borrow some money. "I’m sorry, Miss Shima, but certainly you must realize that we cannot just hand out money without some sort of collateral.”

  She smiled sweetly. “How about the two hundred and thirty-seven dollars of mine which your bank has frozen and the household furniture and the laundry equipment the federal government has stored in a warehouse?”

  The loan officer gulped. “Well, you see . . . uh, governmental policy forbids us to touch any such—confiscations—until the orders are listed.”

  He was as uncomfortable as she was frustrated. “But that is my money! And my belongings!”

  But, of course, the man was right. She might as well be jobless, for all the good her admission to the bar did her. She rose from the chair, defeated. “I am sorry. Miss Shima,” the man said to her bowed head. “If only you had some other collateral or someone willing to co-sign the note with you.”

  She looked up. “But I do,” she said slowly, as the idea occurred to her. “Will the President’s economic adviser do as a cosigner?”

  “The President of the United States?” the loan officer croaked. She had to smile. “His economic adviser, Paul Godwin.”

  The loan officer cleared his throat. “Can you be reached by telephone? It may take some time to get through to Washington.” She gave him the name of the Parkview Hotel, which had at one time been an opera house. It was near the courthouse, and she figured that since it was an older hotel, the cost of a room would not take too much from the twenty-four dollars she had remaining in her purse.

  All night long she kept waking, expecting to see Nick hunched over her, expecting to hear an FBI agent knocking at her door. It was the longest night she could remember.

  The next morning she stepped out of the shower to find the telephone ringing. Grabbing up a towel, she ran across the room, afraid it would stop before she picked up the receiver. “Miss Shima?” It was the loan officer.

  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Yes?”

  “Your loan has been approved,” he said, his voice awed and respectful. “We can have a check waiting for you whenever you’re ready.”

  Amanda found a small, narrow office in an adobe structure on Court Street next to the old IXL Lodging House. In the 1880s the lodging place housed many business and professional people, especially attorneys, but now it wore a rather run-down appearance. Still, the single-windowed office she leased was inexpensive and was partitioned off so that she could put a cot and a two-burner hot plate in the rear, which would serve as her domicile until she could build up her practice.

  She was able to purchase a desk and an old bookcase from a car dealer who was going out of business. In the bookcase she installed her reference volumes, the Corpus Juris Secundum, American Jurisprudence, and the American Law Reports. She was ready to begin practice—but had no clients.

  Not true. There was Betty Yasaki, whom she had promised to represent in a suit challenging the War Relocation Authority. Knotting her long, heavy hair at her nape and donning the one suit she had, the blue serge one, Amanda set out on her first day of practice for the courthouse, feeling slightly elated.

  It had taken twenty-five years of her life, but she had finally become an attorney. She only wished her father had lived to see the signman hang out her shingle before her office.

  A. SHIMA

  Attorney-at-Law

  But what she wanted most to complete her happiness, the Stronghold, she did not have. And, familiar as she was now with the law, she dismally accepted the fact that her chances of ever taking her case to court and winning were nil.

  At the courthouse she filed the writ of habeas corpus on Betty’s behalf and filled out all the many legal forms that had to be signed. While she was there a blustering old man in overalls stormed in to protest the citation he had received for double-parking his produce truck.

  “I would be glad to represent you in court,” she told him.

  The old man removed his battered straw hat. "You a lawyer?” he asked, his skepticism showing in his squinched eyes and jutting, gray-stubbled chin.

  “Yes, I am."

  He shifted his quid of tobacco. “A lawyer woman don’t know how—”

  “I shall easily win your case for you,” she coolly po
inted out, “because the city will erroneously feel that no preparation will be necessary against a female attorney.”

  The fanner’s jaws halted their chawing. His squinty eyes ran over her as if she were an old mule he was about to purchase. “All right, gal.”

  Since she had no other clients, she spent every waking hour poring over her casebooks that next week. Her days took on a reassuring routine. She rose at seven, coffee heated on the two-burner hot plate, a sponge bath from the small porcelain sink; then, at eight, she opened the outer office and sat at her desk, studying until noon, when she broke for a sandwich and usually a stroll through Tucson’s old streets. The evenings were the loneliest for her. She read until her eyes hurt and her brain was numb. Yet sleep was forever in coming as she tossed on the narrow, uncomfortable cot.

  She won the case for the farmer on a minor technicality—the officer who had issued the citation had listed the farmer’s commercial truck as only a pick-up. But from that one case she received two more—the fanner's sister-in-law, who wanted a divorce, and the parents of a student athlete injured in a football game, who wanted to sue the school district for damages.

  She was busier now, and she liked it that way. She had no spare time to think. She fell asleep at night, exhausted. Her routine was broken as she went into her second month of practice by a telephone call. “Amanda?” It was Paul! “How is your practice going?”

  “Fi—fine,” she stuttered. “Thanks to you. Where are you calling from?”

  “Washington. I’ve been wanting to call sooner, but as usual the President has had me on the run.”

  “Paul, I can’t thank you enough for cosigning the note. I promise—”

  “Amanda—it was a purely selfish reason on my part.” He hesitated, then said, “There was another reason I didn’t call sooner. When you were at Poston, I wanted to arrange your release, but Nick let me know he had staked his claim. I’ve been waiting to see if it was really over between you two.”

  “There never was anything between us,” she said flatly.