Chapter Nineteen Violet #3
He takes a shuddering, yearning breath. Then he nods. I pluck my pencil from my sock and pick up one of the sketches I did for the council. This one won’t ever make it into the newspaper.
It’ll be for me.
At first, he sits up so I can see him clearly.
Then, as I draw, his arm wraps around my shoulders and his fingers stroke my neck.
I tsk at him because it’s hard to draw him when he’s so close, and he reluctantly pulls away.
His hand, though, remains on my ankle. I’ve never sketched anyone while they touch me, but I love it.
As we sit in the truck bed close to the lamp with its colorful mosaic of glass, it seems like we aren’t just in a house. It’s our home.
Everything is all right, and I fear nothing.
Mama is waiting for me when I return. She sits at our table with some stew in a thermos and a hunk of bread.
She’s brought it for me from the mess hall, I realize.
Our barrack is cold because she hasn’t lit the stove.
When I enter, she motions for me to sit and, once I do, says, “I know you were with him.” She sounds more tired than angry.
I don’t deny it. There’s no point. “Violet, don’t you understand?
One day there will be time for love, but not now. ”
My heart pounds. Cold settles in my lips, making them numb so that I don’t feel the words they say.
“What’s so wrong with Ren, Mama?” I ask. “If he was from a well-respected family, you’d be thrilled. You know his mother drinks and Emi was pregnant out of wedlock and it’s all you see.”
“You think it’s all I see?” Mama doesn’t back down.
“It isn’t what I see. It’s what I know. Life is hard.
It is harder if you’re with someone who doesn’t know how to love.
Even more, it is harder if you’re with someone who doesn’t know how to fight.
During marriage, you will do both. You will love and you will fight.
You learn how to do these things from your family.
Who taught that boy to love? His father who left them?
Who taught that boy to fight? His mother who drinks when she’s angry?
No, Violet. This is not for you.” She takes a breath, and this time adds spaces between her decree: “You. Are. Not. To. See. Him. Anymore.”
Cold flees me, replaced with the heat of anger. Mama says she knows things, but she doesn’t know Ren. She doesn’t know that he defies everything I know about people, about love, about life.
I straighten up and face her—and she’s doing the same. We’re preparing to battle, to lock against each other like old foes. Her eyes are steely, and her mouth is set.
But then I notice how weary she looks.
I take a quick, harsh breath of the icy air. It stings my lungs and steals the heat of my anger. I know she’s trying to protect me. In fact, I know there’s wisdom to what she’s saying, even if I don’t agree. Just as she tries to protect me, I’ll do the same for her.
“Don’t worry, Mama. I don’t have any plans to run off and get married…
After all, I wouldn’t get very far before running into the fence.
” She doesn’t smile but she does at least nod.
Her shoulders sag a little in relief. I get up and light the stove with oil from the can for warmth and sit across from her.
“Though if you’ll recall, you were younger than me when you met Otōsan. ”
“Hai.” The sliver grows into a real smile. “I was sixteen.”
“And you saw him at the library.”
“The East Los Angeles Library. I kept going because it was new and smelled so good. He was browsing books on philosophy. I told him he didn’t need them. I told him he needed books on engineering.”
“Because you thought he was handsome and wanted to make sure he had a good job.” I know the story nearly as well as she does.
“Yes. I had plans.” Mama’s eyes sparkle and I can imagine her as a girl my age, noticing an attractive boy and wanting to whip him into a promising marriage prospect. “Only, he had plans, too, and they weren’t for engineering.”
At that, we laugh. Otōsan has always been our common ground. He’s the person who loves both of us best and helps us understand each other. Even when he’s miles away.
I lean back in my chair, listening as Mama talks about their first date.
I suspect they kissed, but Mama vehemently denies it.
If she’s to be believed, they didn’t kiss until they were at the altar getting married—and maybe not even until the day after, she’s so determined to convince me of her good behavior to ensure mine.
I think she knows I’ll still see Ren. I won’t tell her about it, and hopefully she won’t worry too much. We’ll dance around each other, as we always have. As we always will.
Before it gets too late, Mama and I get ready to shower at the latrines, putting on the bathing suits she ordered us from the canteen.
Finally, we can shower without exposing ourselves to strangers.
I’ve gotten one of the trendy new bathing suits—a two-piece that shows a bit of my midriff.
Fabric shortages have led to their rise in popularity, much to Mama’s horror.
“You might as well be wearing lingerie,” Mama huffs.
“It supports the war effort,” I say. “I’m being patriotic.”
We wrap ourselves in towels and put our soap and a comb in the wire basket we use to transport our toiletries to the latrines. Then we put on our jackets. It’s freezing outside and we immediately begin to shiver. I wonder how we will manage when it starts to snow.
Camp is in the eerie transition from day to night. I look up and see Akira’s shadow settling above us. It’s always changing, and tonight it’s a thick black cloud with red dots spiraling through it like embers. My stomach twists in dread, and I glance around.
Men stand in knots, passing around cigarettes and alcohol.
A shouting fight breaks out between them.
Parents, hurrying their children past to use the bathrooms before bed, glance around in worry at the shouts.
The old lady with her daughters becomes particularly active at night and is getting worse.
She scurries along, yelling that strangers are chasing her.
Her daughters beseech her in soft voices, trying to herd her inside.
The disturbance spreads, as though it’s airborne. Someone gets knocked down.
With every new angry voice, the shadow overhead fattens, and more embers swirl through it.
A chill runs up my spine. If Akira’s shadow eventually combusts, we’ll be locked in our own inferno.
I think about Ren, Cosette, and the Wozumi kids, about Mama, Mrs. Hata, and Mrs. Hamada. I think about Mr. Nomura and Kai.
We hurry into the latrines. Recently, partitions have mercifully been installed between the toilets.
But no matter what, my stomach curls as I hear several showerheads running at once, the water striking wood slats, and the flushing roar of toilets with primitive plumbing.
It always takes me back to how things were when we first got here.
More shouting rings out and it’s close, coming from the men’s latrines. Mama and I pause and look outside. Other women who’ve come to shower do as well, peering over our shoulders.
Several young men burst out of the men’s side of the showers. I recognize Kai’s friend James. He hoots and hollers with the others. Angry men stream out after them, shaking their fists and cursing in Japanese and English. One of them has a bloody nose.
“Not good,” Mama murmurs, and we retreat back into the latrine. Even as the showerhead spits water down over my head, I hear shouting. My eyes travel back to the sky.
Akira’s shadow has grown.
As soon as I step outside the next day, the world around me seems overcast. I hurry to get to the Manzanar Free Press office to drop off the drawings before classes start.
At the very least, school is more official now with schedules broken into semesters and students segregated by grade.
Thank the Lord. It’s a slim silver lining.
If I ever have to study calculus again sandwiched between a first grader singing the ABC song and a third grader rattling off states and capitals, I’ll lose my mind.
As I survey the sky for the hundredth time as I walk, the mountains catch my eye.
They tower, rising above Akira’s shadow.
The sight of them is reassuring amid the uncertainty.
I used to think they felt like a fortification, a second layer of defense, another wall keeping us in.
But I’ve learned their names. Mount Whitney is the tallest, and the issei often muse that it reminds them of Fujiyama.
It’s nestled between Mount Hale and Mount Muir.
The morning light softens their three granite faces, and snow crowns their heads.
They seem more like witnesses than sentinels, observing our lives, our losses, our loves.
I feel as though our pain isn’t simply whisked away by the icy winter wind and is carved into those mountains somehow, engraved deep into their crevices so that our presence will remain long after we leave.
Just in the way Ren is engraved in my soul.
The Manzanar Free Press office is in one of the more sizable buildings.
When I go inside, I stop near the threshold, unprepared.
There’s a printing press, a type case, rolls of newsprint, and bottles of ink.
I feel like I’m caught in a warm wave on a sunny day from my childhood, a poignant swell of sweet nostalgia and painful homesickness washing over me, memories drying in my mind like salt water on sun-kissed skin. For a moment, I’m at Aratani Print.
I take a deep breath and step forward. A newspaper cutout is pinned on the wall.
It reads: “We want to repeat again that the Free Press belongs to the people of Manzanar, that, instead of being merely the mouthpiece of the administration, it strives to express the opinions of the evacuees in the solution of immediate and foreseen problems.”