“Of course, the editor printed a story that officials dictated to them. Two paragraphs on the front page of the Sunday Journal! Someone thinks we are naive, ridiculous, or dim-witted. We know that thirty-two Japanese were not at the railyards when the transport vehicles pulled in. But only two families are safe now. We could have done much more had we suspected this abrupt evacuation. There are no removals on the West Coast, yet. So why here?”
“So, the Nakashima family did not meet their rescue truck? Do we know with certainty?”
“We know; they did not. Even if they had prepared to do so, immigration and law officials showed up before they took their chance. Very unfortunate.”
“We’re heartbroken in this home. I wish you well, friend. Thank you for all you do.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Stengel. Give my regards and condolences to your brother and his wife.”
Clovie’s Papa hangs up the phone’s receiver and stands in silence for several minutes within the safe walls of his paneled study, where great ideas and stories, history and philosophy, fiction and journalism astutely line themselves as if a community of great thinkers will admire and curiously partake of his collection. He fixates on Midori’s letter that remains open on the desk. Then he hears the rustle of someone entering the study. “Papa. Did they walk away in time?”
“No, my dear.”
“Will our country treat them with some respect? Feed them and keep them warm this winter?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Will the Nakashima family stay together? Will the babies be with their parents?”
“Only if we the people are vigilant and tell our representatives what we want.”
“Come eat, Papa. We must share our grief because this is too much for each of us alone.” Clovie leads her Papa from the study to the dining table. They break bread, pour wine, pray, and eat their meal with solemnity but not in silence. Clovie is correct. Grief is a healthy emotion when shared with likeminded others who seek understanding.
By the time the old folks fall asleep, having let go of books that open readers to thoughtful ideas and stories, to uncomfortable but nonetheless stimulating questions, or to fanciful happy places, Clovie has changed out of Sunday’s respectable attire to slacks, boots, a heavy overcoat, scarves, and hat to walk outdoors. She has no destination in mind. However, Clovie wants to walk away from the railyards, away from a second tragedy – Don’t they come in threes? -- away from a dawning idea that the authorities who schoolteachers and preachers tell her to respect are not truly in charge, are not solving problems. From her perspective, most adults are functionally stupid, little more than survivalists. One teacher explained Order using this analogy: bowling pins represent the opposition to a good life, adults are the bowling ball, and the outcomes are in the hands of the Almighty bowler. Even to a class of adolescents, the analogy made little sense because the ball follows the path on which the bowler physically sends it. Wouldn’t the Almighty want to win over evil every time? Adults claim they’ve earned every reward they received. But out of the same mouth, they’ll blame others instead of accepting responsibility for sins and crises. So, adult life is a blame game. Reward me if I win; blame you if I lose. I worked hard for it; you don’t have it because you don’t work hard for it. Never mind that the It is meaningful to one group and meaningless to another. Where does privilege come into this query? I was as helpless a fertilized egg as were the Nakashimas; yet my birth entitles me to freedoms that the Nakashimas lost. This outrageous circumstance isn’t about rewards. It’s clearly about privileges, how powerful people gift themselves by stealing from others. The incompetence and malevolence are tragic. Leaders should admit that they’ve no idea what they are doing until a misfortune pulls them together for ill or for good. Even then, the powerful flail around, using outdated and disproven ideas to achieve selfish objectives. No other removal of Japanese Americans from their communities are taking place currently -- unless newspapers are not reporting it yet. Why here? Why Clovis first? Clovie looks up to see that she is within sight of Susan’s home. She decides to visit there.
“Clovie, I’m happy to see you. Please come in and I’ll fetch Susan.” Susan’s father closes the door behind her and takes her coat. “Be right back.”
Susan approaches Clovie with red eyes and nose. “Are you ill, Susan? I can come another time.”
“No! Come to my room, Clovie. Dad, we’ll grab Dr. Peppers and go to my room. Okay?” She leads Clovie to the kitchen and then to a bedroom where her younger sister, Birdie, lays sprawled on the bed reading a fashion magazine. “Your time is up now, Birdie. We want privacy. Have to commit to plans for the senior banquet, and you’re voted most likely to leak our plans.” When Birdie leaves with a whine and mild protest, they close the bedroom door and sit on the floor. After a couple minutes of awkward shuffling and staring at each other, Clovie and Susan give in to their shared hurt.
“Clovie, I can’t believe this has happened. I haven’t stopped crying, as you can see. What do we do now? Will we be able to write her?”
“Akiko is probably all right for now. Even if we can exchange letters, we must wait for hers first. I’ve no idea where she is. Here. You need another hanky.”
“It’s just fucked up. War ruined our senior year and…and now Akiko’s gone. This is supposed to be a grand time! I can’t bear it, Clovie.” Susan cries again, and Clovie reaches to touch her.
“Just imagine how horrible all this is for her. Anyway, I don’t think we can understand what is going on even if we want to understand.”
“But you don’t think that this is fate! I’ve heard you rail against that enough times.” Susan wipes her nose and curls up against Clovie.
“These events are not pre-ordained. I refuse to believe that you and I deserve our freedom, that Akiko does not. But we also cannot fully understand, much less control the events. I need time to make sense of it.” Clovie reaches to the bedside table and takes Susan’s journal from a drawer. “So. Let’s plan the senior banquet. Maybe, just maybe, we can salvage something good from the wreckage our world’s leaders have caused.”
Susan frowns at Clovie and straightens herself to take charge. “I’ll write. You seem to have a philosophical discussion going on in your head. Be creative instead. Go for it.”
“Creative? I can barely think about my hair or nails right now, much less a party that sends us off in grand style to…to work, marriage, university, and war. But let’s see. We need a banquet hall that is big enough for dancing. I want one of the ballrooms to let us have the space without cost. We do not have time for fund raisers. Not the Armory. We need classier accommodations. Most of us will be fine with paying something for the meal. Oh! The colors. I think that purple, green, and silver are ideal. We only need streamers for decorations. A live band will be the biggest chunk out of our senior-class fund. If we spend money on candles and table flowers, that leaves us with an awful band. We would have to settle for Ma and Pa’s harmonica and fiddle. So. Got it down? No to candles and table flowers. Yes, to streamers and a great band.” Clovie pauses to catch her ideas from where they float in a morass of mental images.
“Slow down, Clovie. I must sell your ideas to the senior council. By the way. Derek says that his mom is already planning the banquet. She’s a big wig with Lubbock’s own United Daughters of the Confederacy.”
“Then sell them my ideas, Susan. Baloney to Derek and to his hypocritical mom. Another thing -- no preachers or special speakers. Local shysters shouldn’t tell us how to party. Let’s invite students to give speeches, dance to our music…plan the entire program as a send-off to all of us, especially the boys, who leave soon. It’s wartime. Clovis is no longer the center of our world. We’re adult enough to fight this war; we’re adult enough to party our own way.
“I can bring it up, Clovie. But you know that our class sponsors, the school principal, and PTA moms will overrule us. They’ll insist on chaperones and bouncers. But you’re right. This might be our last hurrah; we’ll show Clovis what we’re made of!"
Excerpt from my novel, Little Texas, available in eBook form on Amazon and other sites:
Amazon.com: Little Texas eBook : Jean, Nancy: Kindle Store
Little Texas by Nancy Jean | NOOK Book (eBook) | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)
Little Texas by Nancy Jean - Ebook | Scribd