by Dean Hughes
“I don’t know. I don’t know what we’re going to get back when this war is over. These boys will never be the same, that’s certain. And I’m afraid that some of them will be lost entirely. I didn’t mean to put pressure on him. I only wanted him to keep in touch with the Lord as best he could–and come home with his testimony.”
“I’ll tell him that when I write him next time.”
“Yes. Please. Do that.”
President Clark went back to eating, and he accepted seconds when they were passed to him. But then, for no apparent reason, he began to laugh. “Bea,” he said, “I’m going to mention politics again–just this once.” He waited until Sister Thomas smiled and nodded. “I want Al to run for public office–Congress, I’d say. He and I don’t agree about this war–not entirely–but we do agree about most everything else. He’s highly thought of in this valley. Plus, he’s got some money now, which helps. I want to see the day when he’s not building weapons. Another tragedy of this war is that we’ve taken on too many defense plants–and now our state economy is going to rely too much on waging more wars.”
“I think I’d rather see my sons become the politicians,” President Thomas said. “At least in any big way. The state legislature is about as far as I would ever think of going.”
“You always forget your daughters,” LaRue asked. “I told you I might want to run for office. Except I’m a Democrat, like Mom. And I think Alex is, too.”
“I’m not a Democrat,” Bea said. “I’m not anything.”
President Clark smiled. He had tucked his napkin into his shirt collar. He pulled it out and wiped his mouth. “I don’t care whether it’s Al or his sons–or daughters.” He grinned. “I’m just saying that good people have to stand up for what’s right. We’ve lost our moral bearings during this war, and we need to get them back.”
“Can government do that?” Sister Thomas asked.
“Now, Bea, that’s a profound question.” He shook a finger at her, playfully. “Government is certainly trying to do too much already, but I’m saying we need leaders who stand for something. And I’ll tell you one more thing–now that I’ve turned this dinner table into a pulpit–we Church members have got to get back on track. The latest statistics show that twelve percent–twelve percent–of the elders in the Church are attending priesthood meeting. The Aaronic Priesthood attendance is only thirty-two percent.”
“Isn’t some of that caused by boys being shipped off to where they can’t go to church?” President Thomas asked.
“Of course. But you see what I’m saying. Bea asked how we can measure the damage of the war, and I’m saying we’ve lost our direction. We’re devoting ourselves to the wrong things. And we’ve let far too much corruption into our lives. We need to be out preaching the gospel again, not devoting our sacrament meetings to the glories of war–which is exactly what I hear these days.”
“I hate to see all these non-Mormon soldiers coming in here, and so many defense workers moving in,” President Thomas said. “I think that’s where a lot of the trouble comes from.” He glanced at LaRue.
“Well, sure. But we like to place too much of the blame on that. We’re doing just fine, growing our own corruption.”
President Thomas glanced at the big clock in the corner of the room. “President, we’re running out of time,” he said. “And we do need to eat just a small piece of sponge cake–since Bea found enough sugar to make it for us–and some of her canned peaches.”
“Now that’s the sort of corruption I can accept,” President Clark said, and he laughed in a huge burst, setting the dishes clattering again.
Bea asked Beverly to help her, and the two headed for the kitchen. President Clark looked at President Thomas. “I do have one other thing I wanted to ask you,” he said.
“Sure.”
“A young Japanese fellow–Brother Nakashima–talked to me this morning, before the meeting started. He was wondering what I could do for his brother. He said you’ve tried to help, and you’ve never gotten anywhere.”
“That’s exactly right. Ike–his brother–is certainly no spy. He simply made the mistake of visiting his family in California at the wrong time. But I’ve never been able to get anyone to budge an inch. I hear that some of the interned Japanese are starting to be released. But so far, Ike and his wife are still being held.”
“Why didn’t he go into the service? That’s one way to get out of those camps.”
“He volunteered, but they wouldn’t take him. He broke his leg when he was a kid, and it never healed just right. One leg is a little shorter than the other.”
“You mean to say he was willing to serve in the military, and they keep him stuck in that camp anyway?”
“Yes. And he’s got a little daughter now, too. He got married since he was put in the camp.”
“Well, that’s a shame. There’s no need for that. I’ll see what I can do about it.”
Sister Thomas and Beverly soon returned with the cake and fruit. President Clark and President Thomas ate quickly, and then they got up to leave. President Clark thanked Bea and then turned back toward the table, where LaRue and Beverly were still sitting. “Girls,” he said, “I hope I haven’t said the wrong things here today.” He stepped back toward the table, and he put his hand on LaRue’s shoulder. “I love America. I truly do. And I love these young men who are fighting for our country. I know how you must feel about your brothers: one lost, one in a prison camp, and one in battle. That’s a terrible price for your family to pay.” He hesitated and cleared his throat. “All I want you to know is that war is the greatest evil Satan has invented to corrupt our hearts and souls. We should honor our soldiers, but we should never honor war.”
President Thomas felt the words deeply, and he wondered about himself. He had made a great deal of money making parts for weapons, and he had always claimed his patriotism as his ultimate motive for what he was doing. But he had also been a little uneasy about his own justification at times. Now he wondered what he could do to be certain that his accumulating wealth accomplished something good.
Chapter 21
The navy hospital at Pearl Harbor had never been busier, the wards filled and overfilled; even hallways were congested with hospital beds. With intense fighting going on in the Philippines, and the Pacific war being fought on so many other fronts, every hospital ship and military hospital was packed. The Japanese were resorting to desperate means now, sending waves of kamikaze pilots to commit suicide by crashing their airplanes into the decks of American ships. Such methods weren’t turning the tide. Tokyo and other major Japanese cities were being destroyed in American bombing raids, and General Douglas MacArthur had, according to his promise, returned to the Philippines. But still, the kamikazes were killing or injuring thousands of sailors.
Bobbi hated the human suffering she saw at the hospital, but she preferred being busy. She worked long shifts and took few days off even though she often experienced the sensation that she didn’t exist in the present, that her body was going about its work while her mind and heart were not engaged. So much time had passed now, and Bobbi had accepted the truth: Richard couldn’t possibly be alive. She wasn’t going to cry the rest of her life; she would do what she had to do, and maybe someday she would be happy again. But she wasn’t dealing with this death the way she had tried to deal with her brother’s. She was only surviving it.
She could think of nothing to say to herself that helped, nor did she really want to. The occasional aphorisms and bits of advice she got from others bothered her more than helped her, and for the present, her family heritage gave her more pain than comfort. Mormons, she finally understood, didn’t have patience with mourning. They got up and got going, like her great-great–and just-a-little-too-great–grandfather, who had worked on his blessed bridge after only one day of grief. She had once admired the man for that; now she wondered whether he had a soul.
Everyone at church knew about “her loss,” and one thing about Hawaiia
n members, they said what was on their minds. So everyone had to tell her how sorry they were about Brother Hammond. And then they would tell her how strong and brave she was to continue her work at the hospital. At times she wanted to shout, “I’m not brave and strong; I’m angry.” But even that wasn’t true. She didn’t feel angry; she felt dead. She knew that a tiny corner of her was still trying to believe that Richard had survived somehow, but that was the very cause of her numbness. She had to fight off hope because that was the one impulse that enlivened her, and when she came alive, the hurt was so much worse.
Faith had the same effect on her. When she asked the Lord to help her, she had to imagine herself feeling good again, strong again, full of spirit. And that meant passing through all the pain it would take to get there. It required crying and regretting and missing; it required a whole person. And so she said her prayers almost by rote, or at least by routine, and she said nothing that mattered very much to her. And she didn’t cry.
Lately she had been testing her mind with another idea. Maybe she and Richard had been wrong for each other anyway. Maybe it “wasn’t meant to be.” Maybe she should think about David Stinson, after all. But none of that worked. She was still in love with Richard, and she knew it. She had no idea why her feelings ran so deep, given the short time she had shared with him, but those were her feelings, and having him “gone”–the word people used now–didn’t change the commitment she felt.
One evening Bobbi was alone in her room. Afton had been out with Sam, but she came home earlier than usual. Bobbi saw immediately, when Afton walked into the room, that she had been crying. Whatever it was this time, Bobbi didn’t want to hear it. But Afton never suffered alone; she had to disclose every thought or worry that came into her head. Bobbi was weary of Afton and her little tragedies, which she had to analyze–out loud–so constantly.
Tonight, however, Afton threw herself onto her bed and began to cry, audibly. Bobbi let her do it. She wasn’t going to ask. It took a while for Afton to realize she was getting no response, but she finally rolled over on her side, and with her dark hair falling across her face, she said, “Bobbi, I finally did it. I broke up with Sam.”
“That’s good,” Bobbi said. “You’ve been telling me for weeks now that’s what you had to do.” She picked up a towel and walked to her door. “I’m going to take a shower,” she said, and she stepped out.
As the door shut, Bobbi heard Afton mumble something, probably about Bobbi’s lack of compassion. But Bobbi had been through these breakups before. They never lasted long.
The truth was, Bobbi had already showered after work, but she broke all the rules about conserving water and stood in the shower for a long time. And when she returned, she pulled her robe tight around her and used the towel over her hair to cover much of her face. She wanted to hide from Afton, just get into bed somehow without saying a word, and go to sleep. More than anything, she loved sleep.
But Afton was ready for her. She had stopped crying, and she was sitting up. She seemed to have her ideas organized now. “Bobbi, I don’t know what else I could do,” she began. “Golly, he just forced me to make a decision. Before, it was always, ‘Don’t stop seeing me. Anything but that.’ But now he wants to know, ‘Once and for all,’ as he says, whether I’m going to marry him or not.”
“That’s what we all want to know.”
“What?”
“I don’t blame him, Afton. You’ve played him along for months. You told me from the beginning you would never marry him. Why didn’t you just break it off a long time ago and forget it?”
“That’s what I just said, Bobbi. He always begged me to keep seeing him.”
“Well, enough is enough. Tell him you have royal blue Arizonan blood, and you won’t mix with the inferior brown stuff running through his veins.”
“Bobbi!”
“Isn’t that it? You’re too good for him? Isn’t that what you’ve been telling me since the first day you met him?”
“No. I’ve never said that. I’ve said my parents don’t think people of different races should marry each other.”
“So which race do they consider better? Yours or his?”
“Neither. You know that,” Afton said. She looked away from Bobbi’s gaze.
Bobbi stepped closer and leaned over Afton. She could hardly believe how much anger she was feeling. “Honest, Afton?” Bobbi swung her arm dramatically, making a cross over her chest. “Cross your heart and hope to die?”
“Bobbi, I don’t feel that way. I–”
“Afton, I don’t want to hear any more about this. You just said it’s over. I assume–even though you’ve said that a few times before–that you mean it. I’ve certainly heard all your reasons. So cry softly and I’ll try to get some sleep.”
Bobbi rubbed her towel through her hair. She had had it cut shorter than ever lately, and she wasn’t going to fuss with it now. She discarded the towel and marched to her chest of drawers, where she grabbed her nightgown. Then she took off her robe and threw it onto a chair. She slipped on the nightgown as quickly as she could, ran a brush through her hair a few times, and got into bed. Then she reached and turned her lamp off, leaving her side of the room dark. She turned away from Afton, who was still sitting on her bed.
“I don’t know you anymore, Bobbi,” Afton said.
Bobbi didn’t let the words in. She knew, of course, what Afton was saying, but she wasn’t going to respond, not even internally.
“I know you’re going through a terrible time,” Afton continued, “and I’m sorry. But I never thought you’d change like this.”
Clearly, Afton wanted Bobbi to ask about that. But Bobbi wasn’t going to take the bait. She wasn’t a high school girl anymore, just dying to know what Afton really thought of her–even if Afton was destined never to grow up.
“I don’t judge you at all. I don’t know how I would behave if I were in your shoes,” Afton said softly. “I guess I’d probably go all to pieces. But I never thought you would turn bitter. Gee, you’ve always been so sweet and kind and understanding.”
“Afton, that’s enough. Just stop now before you find out what bitter really sounds like.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way, Bobbi.” And she did the last thing Bobbi wanted. She came to Bobbi’s bed, sat down by her, and put her hand on Bobbi’s shoulder. “I know you can’t help what you’re feeling right now, but Bobbi, I’m so worried about you. I don’t want you to let this ruin your whole life.”
Bobby rolled over quickly. “My life is ruined,” she said. “So spare me your pity.”
“No, it’s not, Bobbi. You just have to–”
“I don’t have to do anything.” Bobbi sat up and grabbed hold of Afton’s arm. She stared directly into her eyes. “But I’ll tell you this: If I’d found someone like Sam–a decent, good man who loved me the way he loves you–I wouldn’t be telling him, ‘Daddy thinks your skin is too brown.’ I’d be telling my daddy to straighten out his thinking.”
“Bobbi, I want to do that, but I can’t.”
“Why not? Because you’re sixteen years old–and always will be?”
Afton looked shocked. But she didn’t respond to the accusation. “Bobbi, I can’t lose my family,” she said.
“Hey, buck up. You just told me that’s what I should do. I’ve lost the man who was going to be my husband and give me children. But that’s just the breaks. Life goes on. Right?” She lay down again and turned her back to Afton.
“No, Bobbi. I wasn’t saying that. I just love you, and I don’t want to see you hurt so much. I’d do anything to help you, if I just knew how.”
Bobbi didn’t want to give in. She was searching for something else to say, something biting and defensive, but then Afton lay down next to her and put her arm around her waist. “I love you, Bobbi,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
Something in Afton’s honesty–in the use of the past tense–seemed to force the last breath of hope
from Bobbi’s chest, and she thought, “He really is dead.” Until now it was something she had actually tried to believe–as an antidote to hope and emotion. But it was suddenly a reality, and everything broke loose inside Bobbi. She began to sob, and after a time she took hold of Afton’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she tried to say. “I’m sorry.”
“Bobbi, I know. You’re just hurting so bad you can’t stand it.”
“Why, Afton? Why couldn’t I keep him? What would it have hurt for God to step in–just this one time–and let me have him for a while?”
“I don’t know, Bobbi. I don’t understand–”
“Why did anyone have to think up all this death and stupidity in the first place?”
“Oh, Bobbi, I don’t know.”
Bobbi had tried to fight off all these questions so often in the past few weeks, but they always came back. Now she let them take over, fill up her head: Where was God? Why didn’t he care?
Afton, for once, had the good sense not to say anything. And she cried too.
“I’m sorry, Afton. Your situation is hard too. I had no right to say it wasn’t.”
“But I think you’re right, Bobbi. If I love Sam, I need to stand up to my family, not to Sam. Maybe I can do it.”
“Afton, I don’t know what’s right for you. I’m just so angry that you have someone to love–and I don’t. I wanted Richard back so bad. I only had those few days with him.”
“It’s so unfair, Bobbi.”
But Afton’s words didn’t sound right. Bobbi wanted to grab onto them, wanted to curse the universe, but she heard the self-pity in the accusation, and she hated her own weakness. In a world so full of pain, why should she expect to be spared?
Bobbi stopped crying. She suddenly saw herself–recognized her own self-centeredness and visualized the way she had been treating people. She thought of Millie, who had lost Gene, and now she was making the best of things. Why should Bobbi think she was different from millions of other women in the world who were having to do the same thing? Everyone was sharing in this misery, and Bobbi had been walking around angry, as though she were the only one. She was embarrassed and, gradually, ashamed. “I need to pray,” she whispered to Afton.
