The Magic Of Ordinary Days Part 6

It wasn't a demand. I took one bite. "Sightseeing," I answered.

He rocked forward. "The truck's not for sightseeing. We get gasoline to move workers and do our business."

Of course, he was right. Because of gasoline shortages and war needs, most everyone frowned on pleasure driving, and at one time, the government had banned it altogether. In January of 1943, the government had tried making pleasure driving a punishable of- fense, but with enforcement nearly impossible, they lifted the ban later that same year, in September.

I said, "Then that's what I did."

Ray started on his dessert, stale cake from Mrs. Pratt. "It's not just the gasoline, but the tires, too. I'm using a tractor with steel wheels 'cause you can't get tires nowadays. And every fall after harvest, I have to take the tires off that old wagon hitched behind the barn and put them on the truck. Otherwise, the truck tires would be worn out, and all I could buy is reclaimed ones that don't last a hundred miles."

"That's illegal, isn't it?"

Ray gulped.

"Switching out tires? Keeping more than one set?"

"I do it 'cause I need to."

"Well, I needed to transport farmworkers."

"Who'd that be?"

"Rose and Lorelei."

He looked baffled, and then a flash of recognition crossed his face. "The j.a.panese girls."

"They're American."

He chewed with effort. I think the man hadn't a clue what I meant. "Okay. The American girls who look j.a.panese."

That chicken wasn't such a good idea after all. I shoved my plate away. "Do you dislike them because of Pearl Harbor? Because of Daniel?"

He gave me a hard look. "I'm not as stupid as you think. I know they're not the same people who bombed Pearl Harbor. And they're great people, good workers. They've kept our harvest going over the past few years."

I slumped back. "I never said you were stupid."

Now Ray looked at his dessert instead of eating it. "And I never said I disliked them. I just said they were j.a.panese, is all."

"And you keep your distance."

"I have a lot to do around here." Ray wiped his face with a napkin. "I got to keep this farm going pretty much on my own. I don't go into the fields to socialize."

Eating with him now was out of the question. I got up from the table and went outside to the porch without slamming the screen door. I sat in my chair and listened to the sounds made by crickets in the night while I tried to slow my breathing. He left me alone for close to an hour, then before he went to bed, he stepped outside.

The breeze that night came in from the direction of the creekbed, and although it ran dry, the ditch always held a pocket of cold air that chilled me each time I walked the bridge that crossed it. Ray's looming, boxy shape blocked the moonlight but not the cold air coming up from the creekbed. A chill ran up my bare forearms, and I wished I had brought out a sweater.

"You should eat something," he said.

But I couldn't even look his way.

Eleven.

The work of the harvest continued, the fields full of workers, the roads run up and down with piled-high trucks. One day as I was driving to La Junta to buy groceries, I saw some of the German POWs at work on one of the farms near us. The enlisted men were watched over by guards, Army MPs stationed at each end of the field and one in the middle. But other POWs weren't guarded at all. Ray told me later it was because they were officers and could be trusted pretty much on their own.

During long days around the house, however, all was quiet. I had no visitors except for the bulk gasoline agent who drove out one day with a tanker truck to fill Ray's storage tank. When I saw him, I wandered outside, yearning for conversation. But as he filled the tank, all we talked about was the war and both of his sons who were off fighting in Europe.

Everyone on all the surrounding farms and in the communities was busy; however, I still had few ch.o.r.es to make myself feel productive. Often I wondered how my itching feet had landed on such a stationary plot. I had already planted the bulbs in the front flower garden, cleaned the house numerous times, and thumbed through cookbooks so many times I thought I might memorize the recipes. I gathered eggs in the morning and separated the cream from the raw milk, and every couple of days I started taking eggs and cream into La Junta to sell for Ray. I read Susan Shelby Magoffin's diary, Down the Santa Fe Trail and into Mexico, over the course of one long day.

One morning, I decided to go in search of the dugout. Even though Martha had warned me not to go alone, I couldn't wait any longer. And if I took Franklin along with me, technically, I said to myself, I wouldn't be going alone.

Outside it was warm, and the sun was a b.u.t.terscotch disk on a blue paper sky. After making myself a sandwich, I headed out the front door toward the bridge, calling after Franklin to join me. He came shuffling up with tongue hanging out to one side. Following Martha's directions, I went to the creek and carefully scrambled down one side of the bank until I found myself on the ditch bottom. The bed was sandy, flat, and easy to walk, the only impediments occasional smooth stones. Franklin was sniffing up behind me.

We walked south. I saw one carved-out, semi-cave a few feet up on the bank about a hundred yards south. But it was too small. I continued walking down the creekbed until I arrived at a bend filled with tangled branches and debris that blocked my way. The creekbed dropped away at that point and began a rocky descent. I stood and thought. The indention I had seen earlier must have been the right place after all. Soon I had made my way back to it.

Looking up, I saw that the dugout was only about five feet deep and no more than ten feet across. None of the willows and reeds that had most likely been used to extend the roof and walls remained. Probably on one of the occasions when water ran high through this bed, it had all been swept away, or else the winds had taken it. I climbed up to the front of the cavelike opening, and leaning over, I went inside with Franklin on my heels. When I looked up and saw the earthen and stone roof at the back of the dugout still stained black with the smoke from fires, I knew I had discovered the right place. And for just a second, I thought I smelled something cooking.

Franklin went off to explore on his own while I sat on the cool dirt floor of a place that had once been a home. I pulled out my sandwich and bit in as I took in the same view that Ray's ancestors must have studied, day after day of their lives. Opposite from me, the far bank cut a swath of blond color across the sky. A stunted tree along the rim became a woman dancing in a long, flowing skirt. Dark stones strewn about on the pale sand of the creekbed stood out like b.u.t.tons on a white dress.

I closed my eyes. After a couple of B-25 trainers pa.s.sed overhead, near silence returned. From far away came the call of a hawk, hunting. I could hear the scuff of critters in the underbrush below me and a sigh of wind sailing through nearby juniper trees. When I opened my eyes and took another bite, I wondered about those early pioneers' lives. What had they thought about? What of their hopes and dreams? And how did they handle the solitude and not lose their minds?

After I finished eating, I searched the ground around me. Any fabric or paper would've long since deteriorated, but pieces of broken china or tools might have survived. I found droppings indicating coyotes had at one time or another used the dugout as a den, but nothing else until I arrived in the far corner. There, I pulled something long and stiff out of the dirt. It was a tarnished black fork with two missing tines, a piece of civilization that had probably been brought out as a prized possession by the first Mrs. Singleton. Not long after her arrival, she had most likely discovered how little use she had for such niceties as silverware, and when the tines broke off, she had probably just tossed this treasure away.

Back at the house, I found silver polish underneath the kitchen sink cupboard, and then I went to work on that fork. By the time Ray returned home, I had it shining mirror-silver again.

"Look what I found," I told Ray when he came in.

He took a look, then said, "It's broken."

"That's not the point," I said. "It came from what's left of the dugout, where your grandparents first lived on this land. I found it in the corner. Isn't that amazing?"

With a smile, he said, "You bet."

But once he had finished eating, he went to work again. After raking the sweaty hair off his forehead, he pulled out some ledgers and started scratching figures on the pages with a stubbed pencil. Every so often, he'd stop and rub his eyes with both fists, then resume working. Finally, he went to bed without ever touching the treasure.

For long days at a time, I managed on my own. Once Ray disappeared out into the harvesting fields, he never returned, all day. He arrived home in late evening, only after the sunlight no longer lit his workplace. But Rose and Lorelei were able to get away. Often they came by for lemonade or c.o.kes and a rest on the porch steps. One day I glimpsed them through the screen door before they knocked, and then I saw how they managed to stay looking so neat. They were taking turns brushing each other off, taking great pains to remove every fleck of gra.s.s and dirt that had landed on their clothes.

After I answered the door, they handed over a sack containing the maternity dress made of polka-dot jersey that already they had managed to sew.

"It's wonderful," I told them and held it up to get a better look. The tailoring was excellent; all the seams were perfectly smooth and flat, and the handwork, just as they had claimed, was imperceptible. The finished product looked more professional than the picture on the front of the pattern. "I'll wear it soon."

Both girls barely smiled. Rose said a shy, "Thank you."

"You did an outstanding job."

Rose looked away, and Lorelei toyed with her hair. "It's nothing."

"Really," said Rose.

Perhaps I had praised too much, embarra.s.sing them. I refolded the dress and stared at the truck sitting on the dirt drive. Ray had told me over breakfast that he would be spending the afternoon cleaning up and collecting garbage that had acc.u.mulated from the harvest. And he would be working with the tractor that day, not the truck. A few minutes later, I suggested to Rose and Lorelei that we go for a drive.

As we headed out, Rose said, "Father worries that his customers won't dress so well anymore, now that he's gone."

Lorelei said, "They're certain to miss his attention to detail."

I paused for a moment, then curiosity overcame me. "What became of the business?"

At first they didn't answer, and I feared I had pried too much, gone too far again. But then Rose replied, "We were forced to close it before evacuating. But it was just as well. Even my father's most loyal customers no longer came in."

"What of your home?"

"We had to sell it, too. Our bank accounts had been frozen, and we didn't want to come out here without any of our own money."

Lorelei blurted out, "We cleaned it for them."

"You what?"

"We had to sell our house for half its worth, yet my parents insisted we clean it for the new owners. We even waxed the floors."

Rose sighed at her sister. "I still don't understand why the cleaning angers you so. We had to leave it clean. For our own sakes."

Lorelei snickered. "I would've invited everyone I knew over for a dance and left it filthy."

"Lorelei!" Rose snapped, then turned away.

Lately I'd been reading everything I could put my hands on about j.a.panese American internment. Our former governor, Ralph Carr, was one of the only politicians who had been bold enough to welcome and defend Americans of j.a.panese descent. It hadn't been a popular stance, and some people even thought it had cost him the last election. The Denver Post expressed bigotry toward anyone of j.a.panese descent. One of their editors constructed a large effigy of a j.a.panese man complete with monkey face, whereas the Rocky Mountain News had been more open-minded, even pointing out to readers that Americans of German descent hadn't been singled out. In truth, I think the common man and woman in Denver had given little thought to the struggle of j.a.panese Americans. As long as large numbers of j.a.panese hadn't moved into their own neighborhoods, as long as nothing suspicious occurred, the average citizen went on with his or her life unaffected.

I drove on, swerving past trucks that rumbled up and down the roads, past fields swarmed with workers. With the harvest in full swing, most everyone was engaged in the effort to provide food for others. I remembered what Ray had said to me about pleasure driving, and a bit of guilt pinched me. Of course it was wrong of me. Perhaps if I could conduct some business along the way? I couldn't give up this time with Rose and Lorelei. I wanted to learn as much as I could about them, and without driving, how would I continue to get to know them?

I told the girls I needed to stop at the grocery store, but in the end, I bought only a loaf of bread. Most farmers' wives considered it lazy to buy bread in the store, but the opposite logic appealed to me. Why bake something that could so easily be bought? My preferences in shopping leaned toward ease of preparation, and already my blue point coupons for buying canned and processed foods were running low.

We drove on to Rocky Ford, a farming community that looked huge compared to Wilson. Named for the safe crossing point on the Arkansas River it had provided pioneers, it had become well-known for cantaloupes, watermelons, and honeydews. We managed to buy some of the last of the fall crop at a roadside stand. Later, we stopped for gasoline and sodas in the town of Swink, and as the girls and I relaxed around the truck in the sunshine, a conversation nearby caught my attention.

I saw a man talking to the attendant while a woman waited for him inside their car. I thought I recognized the couple from church, but wasn't altogether certain. The man glanced up at me once, but he seemed unsure if he recognized me, too. A minute later, he showed his R coupon card to the attendant and paid him, then he began to walk in my direction. He kept moving my way until his expression changed. He stopped walking.

At first I thought he was reacting to the slacks that all three of us wore. Not long ago, even some men in Denver wouldn't give women wearing slacks a seat on the streetcar. But then I saw the true reason for his displeasure. As he looked over Rose and Lorelei, something not kind crossed his face, the same look I had often seen when Negroes entered a nice restaurant in downtown Denver. The man apparently changed his mind about coming over to speak to me. Instead, he turned on a stiff heel and walked the other way.

Rose and Lorelei kept on sipping their sodas as if nothing had happened. Surely they had noticed. But I didn't know-were they able to dismiss it? Or perhaps had they become so accustomed to prejudices that it no longer found a way to pierce their reserve?

I tried to converse and keep on smiling, but I found myself unable to fathom the source of that man's displeasure. Daily, j.a.panese evacuees worked diligently and pleasantly in the farmlands around us. I had heard Ray and Hank both comment on the quality of the j.a.panese interns' work and how much they wished to please. On their occasional days off, those at Camp Amache were allowed to venture away from the camp, and all of them returned voluntarily.

I had often wondered why Rose and Lorelei were staying in the camp and putting up with all of this. The release of some college students from camps had begun as early as 1942. The Nisei were allowed to leave camps and resettle in any of forty-four states if they so chose, the only requirements being sworn loyalty to the U.S. and gainful employment. But the questionnaire required of them contained some tricky wording, and even with war jobs plentiful, most remained in the camps. Now the very thing I had just witnessed gave me my answer. Perhaps the intolerance and prejudice I had just seen kept them in confinement together, in the somewhat sheltered isolation of the camp.

As we leaned against the side of the truck, I found myself studying my friends' faces. So much alike and yet so different, just like my own sisters and me. Lorelei became more beautiful every time I saw her, but Rose's face had become beautiful to me, too. The sunlight danced off their hair like shine on black patent leather shoes. Always their posture was perfect, their exotic faces reflected composure, poise, and grace.

Rose looked back at me in a different way. She set down her c.o.ke bottle and started talking in a changed tone. "I was on my way to take a final in English lit," she said. "It was in 1941, before Pearl Harbor. A woman stopped me to ask me my views about Emperor Hirohito. And when I told her my views would be no more valuable than those of any other student, that I had never lived under his rule in j.a.pan, she thanked me for my time, and we each went on our own way."

Lorelei stopped drinking as Rose continued. "It was a pleasant conversation. But for me, it was a preview of things to come, like a prologue to a book I was someday going to have to read, although I'd not have chosen it for myself. She saw me as j.a.panese, nothing else. Certainly not American."

"We left school even before the evacuation notices went up," said Lorelei.

"When they did, I was almost relieved."

"Well, I wasn't," countered Lorelei.

Now I could see it. Despite the poise, I could see the suffering in their eyes. I tried to think of something to say, but what? The leaders of our country had determined that j.a.panese American presence in the coastal states posed a threat to national security. Loyalty had been questioned, and with so many lives and secrets at stake, perhaps most people felt that Congress had made a prudent decision. But I had begun to think they had reacted hastily and irresponsibly toward good citizens. After all, except for the American Indians, we were all immigrants or descendants of immigrants.

I longed for the right words to explain that for which there was no explanation. "It isn't you they dislike. For some people ..." I thought for a minute. "For a lot of people, it's difficult to separate those of you living and working over here from the enemy overseas. Those people probably aren't naturally hateful, just ill-informed. They tend to group all persons of a certain creed or nationality together in one category. It isn't right, but still they do it."

"We are the enemy," said Lorelei.

I sighed. "Of course you're not."

"We are j.a.panese."

"You were born in this country."

Lorelei shrugged. "No matter. We look j.a.panese, the same face as the enemy that bombed Pearl Harbor."

"Look," I said, "many others believe as I do. That a person's individual accomplishments and personality are what matter. I believe we're beginning to see a shift in this country, starting with our generation. In the future, these problems will get better."

Lorelei and Rose finished the last of their sodas, whereas mine turned warm in the bottle. As I stood there, new thoughts showered me with sharp pebbles. In Denver, there had been just as many divisions. I had grown up attending an all-white and affluent church, my father's. But in the city, there had also been Negro churches and Mexican churches, and never once did we join together for activities or socials. Soldiers were routinely segregated in the services, and there was even a separate USO for Negro soldiers located in the Five Points area of Denver. Even on the university campus, my friends and I had been a pasty collection who stood for equality for all, but did we really embrace it?

I asked, "Have you ever considered leaving the camp? Have you considered moving to Denver, going back to college, or getting a factory job?"

"We could never leave our parents and grandparents," said Rose.

"They're Issei," said Lorelei. "They aren't free to go."

Lorelei leaned around her sister to look at my face. "Would it be any better in Denver? Would others find us acceptable there any more than they do here?"

"In the city, there are more people of various views."

Lorelei asked in a louder voice, "But would it truly be any different?"

My shoulders fell. "Probably not."

Twelve.