There were straight rows of trees – colonnades – growing out of the seedbed of trees that had fallen two hundred years before and sunk and become the earth itself. The forest floor was a map of fallen trees that had lived half a thousand years before collapsing – a rise here, a dip there, a mound or moldering hillock somewhere – the woods held the bones of trees so old no one living had ever seen them. Hatsue had counted the rings of fallen trees more than six hundred years old. She had seen the deer mouse, the creeping vole, the green-hued antlers of the white-tailed deer decaying underneath a cedar. She knew where lady fern grew and phantom orchids and warted giant puffballs.
Deep among the trees she lay on a fallen log and gazed far up branchless trunks. A late winter wind blew the tops around, inducing in her a momentary vertigo. She admired a Douglas fir’s complicated bark, followed its grooves to the canopy of branches two hundred feet above. The world was incomprehensibly intricate, and yet this forest made a simple sense in her heart that she felt nowhere else.
She drew up for herself, in the silence of her mind, a list of the things now cluttering her heart – her father was gone, arrested by the FBI for keeping dynamite in his shed; there was talk going around that before too long everyone with a Japanese face on San Piedro would be sent away until the war was done; she had a hakujin boyfriend she could see only in secret, who in a few short months was sure to be drafted and sent to kill the people of her blood. And now, on top of these insoluble things, her mother had only hours before probed into the pit of her soul and discovered her deep uncertainty. Her mother seemed to know about the gulf that separated how she lived from what she was. And what was she anyway? She was of this place and she was not of this place, and though she might desire to be an American it was clear, as her mother said, that she had the face of America’s enemy and would always have such a face. She would never feel at home here among the hakujin, and at the same time she loved the woods and fields of home as dearly as anyone could. She had one foot in her parents’ home, and from there it was not far at all to the Japan they had left behind years before. She could feel how this country far across the ocean pulled on her and lived inside her despite her wishes to the contrary; it was something she could not deny. And at the same time her feet were planted on San Piedro Island, and she wanted only her own strawberry farm, the fragrance of the fields and the cedar trees, and to live simply in this place forever. And then there was Ishmael. He was as much a part of her life as the trees, and he smelled of them and of the clam beaches. And yet he left this hole inside of her. He was not Japanese, and they had met at such a young age, their love had come out of thoughtlessness and impulse, she had fallen into loving him long before she knew herself, though it occurred to her now that she might never know herself, that perhaps no one ever does, that such a thing might not be possible. And she thought she understood what she had long sought to understand, that she concealed her love for Ishmael Chambers not because she was Japanese in her heart but because she could not in truth profess to the world that what she felt for him was love at all.
She felt a sickness overtake her. Her late-afternoon walks had not concealed her meetings with a boy her mother had long had intuition of. Hatsue knew she had not fooled anybody, she had not fooled herself, as it turned out, either, she had never felt completely right. How could they say, she and Ishmael, that they truly loved each other? They had simply grown up together, been children together, and the proximity of it, the closeness of it, had produced in them love’s illusion. And yet – on the other hand – what was love if it wasn’t the instinct she felt to be on the moss inside the cedar tree with this boy she had always known? He was the boy of this place, of these woods, these beaches, the boy who smelled like this forest. If identity was geography instead of blood – if living in a place was what really mattered – then Ishmael was part of her, inside of her, as much as anything Japanese. It was, she knew, the simplest kind of love, the purest form, untainted by Mind, which twisted everything, as Mrs. Shigemura, ironically, had preached. No, she told herself, she’d merely followed her instincts, and her instincts did not make the kinds of distinctions having Japanese blood demanded. She didn’t know what else love could be.
One hour later, inside the cedar tree, she brought this matter up with Ishmael. ‘We’ve known each other forever,’ she said. ‘I can hardly remember not knowing you. It’s hard to remember the days before you. I don’t even know if there were any.’
‘My memory is like that, too,’ said Ishmael. ‘Do you remember that glass box I had? The one we took into the water?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I remember it.’
‘That must have been ten years ago,’ said Ishmael. ‘Hanging onto that box. Being out there in the ocean – that’s what I remember.’
‘That’s what I want to talk about,’ said Hatsue. ‘A box in the ocean – what kind of a start is that? What, really, did we have in common? We didn’t even know each other.’
‘We knew each other. We’ve always known each other. We’ve never been strangers the way most people are when they meet and start going out.’
‘That’s another thing,’ said Hatsue. ‘We don’t go out – that isn’t the right word – we can’t go out, Ishmael. We’re trapped inside this tree.’
‘We’re going to graduate in three months,’ answered Ishmael. ‘I think we should move to Seattle after that. It’ll be different in Seattle – you’ll see.’
‘They’re arresting people like me there, too, just like here, Ishmael. A white and a Japanese – I don’t care if it’s Seattle – we couldn’t just go walking down the street together. Not after Pearl Harbor. You know that. Besides, you’re going to be drafted in June. That’s the way it’s going to be. You won’t be moving to Seattle, either. Let’s be honest with ourselves.’
‘Then what will we do? You tell me. What’s the answer, Hatsue?’
‘There isn’t one,’ she said. ‘I don’t know, Ishmael. There isn’t anything we can do.’
‘We just have to be patient,’ Ishmael replied. ‘This war won’t go on forever.’
They sat in silence inside their tree, Ishmael propped up against one elbow, Hatsue with her head perched against his ribs and her legs up against the glossy wood. ‘It’s nice in here,’ said Hatsue. ‘It’s always nice in this place.’
‘I love you,’ answered Ishmael. ‘I’ll always love you. I don’t care what else happens. I’m always going to love you.’
‘I know you do,’ said Hatsue. ‘But I’m trying to be realistic about this. It isn’t that simple, is what I’m saying. There are all these other things.’
They don’t really matter,’ said Ishmael. ‘None of those other things make a difference. Love is the strongest thing in the world, you know. Nothing can touch it. Nothing comes close. If we love each other we’re safe from it all. Love is the biggest thing there is.’
He spoke with such confidence and drama about it that Hatsue allowed herself to be convinced by him that nothing was greater than love. She wanted to believe this, and so she indulged herself and tried to be swept up in it. They began to kiss against the moss inside the tree, but the touch of it felt to her false somehow, an attempt to obliterate the truth of the world and to deceive themselves with their lips. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, drawing away. ‘Everything is complicated. I can’t forget about things.’
He held her in his arms and stroked her hair. They didn’t speak anymore. She felt safe there, as though she were hibernating at the heart of the forest with time suspended and the world frozen – the temporary safety of a quiet way station one must leave in the morning. They fell asleep with their heads against the moss until the light in the tree went from green to gray, and then it was time to go home.
‘Everything is going to work out,’ said Ishmael. ‘You’ll see – it’ll work out.’
‘I don’t see how,’ answered Hatsue.
The problem was resolved for them on March 21 when the U. S. War Relocation Auth
ority announced that islanders of Japanese descent had eight days to prepare to leave.
The Kobayashis – they’d planted a thousand dollars’ worth of rhubarb on five acres in Center Valley – negotiated an agreement with Torval Rasmussen to tend and harvest their crop. The Masuis weeded their strawberry fields and worked at staking peas in the moonlight; they wanted to leave things in good condition for Michael Burns and his ne’er-do-well brother Patrick, who’d agreed to take care of their farm. The Sumidas decided to sell at cut-rate and close their nursery down; on Thursday and Friday they held all-day sales and watched pruning tools, fertilizer, cedar chairs, birdbaths, garden benches, paper lanterns, fountain cats, tree wrap, caddies, and bonsai trees go out the door with whoever was willing to take them. On Sunday they put padlocks on the greenhouse doors and asked Piers Petersen to keep an eye on things. They gave Piers their flock of laying chickens as well as a pair of mallard ducks.
Len Kato and Johnny Kobashigawa traveled island roads in a three-ton haying truck hauling loads of furniture, packing crates, and appliances to the Japanese Community Center hall. Filled to the rafters with beds, sofas, stoves, refrigerators, chests of drawers, desks, tables, and chairs, the hall was locked and boarded up at six p.m. on Sunday evening. Three retired gill-netters – Gillon Crichton, Sam Goodall, and Eric Hoffman, Sr. – were sworn in as deputies by San Piedro’s sheriff for the purpose of guarding its contents.
The War Relocation Authority moved into musty offices at the old W. W. Beason Cannery dock, just outside Amity Harbor. The dock housed not only the Army Transport Command but representatives of the Farm Security Administration and the Federal Employment Service. Kaspars Hinkle, who coached the high school baseball team, stormed into the war relocation office on a late Thursday afternoon – everyone was just then preparing to leave – and slammed his roster on the secretary’s desk: his starting catcher, second baseman, and two outfielders, he said – not to mention his two best pitchers – were going to miss the whole season. Couldn’t this matter be thought through again? None of these kids were spies!
On Saturday evening, March 28, the Amity Harbor High School senior ball – its theme this year was ‘Daffodil Daze’ – went forward in the high school auditorium. An Anacortes swing band, Men About Town, played upbeat dance tunes exclusively; during an interlude the captain of the baseball team stood in front of the microphone on the bandstand and cheerfully handed out honorary letters to the seven team members departing Monday morning. ‘We don’t have much chance without you,’ he said. ‘Right now we don’t even have enough guys to field a team. But any wins we do get, they’re for you guys who are leaving.’
Evelyn Nearing, the animal lover – she was a widow who lived without a flush toilet or electricity in a cedar cabin on Yearsley Point – took goats, pigs, dogs, and cats from a half-dozen Japanese families. The Odas leased their grocery to the Charles MacPhersons and sold Charles their car and two pickup trucks. Arthur Chambers made arrangements with Nelson Obada to act as a special correspondent for his newspaper and to send reports to San Piedro. Arthur ran four articles on the imminent evacuation in his March 26 edition: ‘Island Japanese Accept Army Mandate to Move,’ ‘Japanese Ladies Praised for Last-Minute PTA Work,’ ‘Evacuation Order Hits Prep Baseball Nine,’ and a ‘Plain Talk’ column called ‘Not Enough Time,’ which roundly condemned the relocation authority for its ‘pointless and merciless speed in exiling our island’s Japanese-Americans. ’The next morning, at seven-thirty, Arthur fielded an anonymous phone call – Jap lovers get their balls cut off,’ a shrill tenor voice had explained. They get their balls stuffed down – ’ Arthur had hung up and gone on typing a story for the next edition of his newspaper: ‘Faithful to Praise Christ Easter Mom.’
On Sunday afternoon, at four o’clock, Hatsue told her mother she was going for a walk; her last walk before leaving, she pointed out. She wanted to sit in the forest, she said, and think about matters for a while. She left as if headed toward Protection Point, then circled through the woods to the South Beach trail and followed the path to the cedar tree. Ishmael, she found, was waiting for her there with his head propped up on his jacket. ‘This is it,’ she said to him, kneeling for a moment in the entry. ‘Tomorrow morning we leave.’
‘I’ve got something figured out,’ answered Ishmael. ‘When you get where you’re going you write to me. Then when the school newspaper comes out I’ll send you a copy with a letter from me inside it and put Journalism Class for a return address. What do you think of that plan? You think that will be safe?’
‘I wish we didn’t even need a plan,’ said Hatsue. ‘Why do we have to do this?’
‘Write me at my house,’ said Ishmael, ‘but put Kenny Yamashita’s name for the return address – my parents know I’m friendly with Kenny, you can write me at home with no problems.’
‘But what if they want to see Kenny’s letter? What if they ask how he’s doing?’
Ishmael thought about this for a moment. ‘What if they want to see Kenny’s letter? What if you collect maybe half a dozen letters and stick them all in one envelope? One from Kenny, one from you, one from Helen, one from Tom Obata – tell them it’s a request from the school newspaper. I’ll call Kenny tonight and tell him about it so it doesn’t sound suspicious when you bring it up. Collect them all, stick yours in last, send them all to me, I’ll pull yours out and take the rest to school. That should work out perfectly.’
‘You’re like me,’ said Hatsue. ‘We’ve both gotten good at being devious.’
‘I don’t think it’s devious,’ said Ishmael. ‘It’s just what we have to do.’
Hatsue undid the belt on her coat, a herringbone wraparound from the Penney’s in Anacortes. Underneath she wore an austelle dress with a broad embroidered collar. On this day she’d brushed her hair out long and tossed it to flow down the length of her back, unfettered by plaits, braids, or ribbons. Ishmael pressed his nose against it. ‘It smells like cedar,’ he said.
‘So do you,’ said Hatsue. ‘It’s your smell I’ll miss as much as anything.’
They lay on the moss, not touching, in silence, Hatsue with her hair coiled over one shoulder now, Ishmael with his hands in his lap. The March wind came up outside the tree and they heard it tossing the ferns together and the suspiration of the wind joined with the sliding of the water in the little creek just below. The tree muted and softened these sounds, and Hatsue felt herself at the heart of things. This place, this tree, was safe.
They began to kiss and touch each other, but the emptiness she felt pervaded it and she found she couldn’t put her thoughts away. She placed an index finger against Ishmael’s lips and shut her eyes and let her hair fall back against the moss. The smell of the tree was his smell, too, and the smell of the place she was leaving the next day, and she began to understand how she would miss it. The ache of it filled her; she felt sorry for him and sorry for herself and began to cry so quietly that it was only behind her eyes, a tautness in her throat, a tightening of her rib cage. Hatsue pressed against him, crying in this silent way, and breathed in the smell of Ishmael’s throat. She buried her nose beneath his Adam’s apple.
Ishmael moved his hands beneath the hem of her dress, then slowly up her thighs and over her underpants to the curves of her waist, where they stayed. He held her lightly in the curves of her waist and after a while lower, at her hips, and pulled her hard against him. She felt herself lifted, and she felt how hard he was and she pressed back into his hardness. The length of it pushed against his trousers, and his trousers pressed against her underpants and their smooth, wet silk pushed pleasantly. They kissed harder now, and she began to move as if to gather him in. She could feel the hard length of him and the silk of her underpants and his cotton trousers between. Then his hands left her hips and traced the line of her waist and traveled along up under her dress to the clasp on her bra. She arched off the moss to make room for his hands, and he undid the clasp without struggling and pulled the shoulder straps down onto her
arms and softly kissed her earlobes. His hands traveled down her body again, coming out from the dress to hold her neck under her hair, then her shoulder blades. She let her weight rest against his hands and arched her breasts to meet him. Ishmael kissed the front of her austelle dress and then began, from just below the embroidered collar, to undo its eleven buttons. It took time. They breathed into one another, and she took his upper lip between her lips while he worked on the buttons carefully. After a while the front of her dress came open, and he pulled her bra up onto her chest and moved his tongue against her nipples. ‘Let’s get married,’ he whispered. ‘I want to marry you, Hatsue.’
She was far too empty to answer this; there was no way she could speak. Her voice felt buried underneath her crying, and there was no way to bring it to the surface. So instead she ran her fingertips along his spine and against his hips, and then with both hands she felt his hardness through the fabric of his pants and felt how, for a moment, he seemed to stop breathing altogether. She squeezed with both hands and kissed him.
Snow Falling on Cedars Page 20
