All Good Women (27 page)

She waited until Teddy had closed the kitchen door against the horrible odor. She skimmed the card about Angela and her friend Mabel doing the town. Then she pulled out Ann's letter which Teddy had replaced fastidiously in the envelope. At least she no longer waited ceremoniously for them to open the mail together.

Dear Ladies,

I'm on my yearly ‘holiday' as they say here. One day in the country. Gloriously sunny, reminding me of legends about California and of you. Thanks for your …

Moira skipped ahead
to the
news.

Spirits are still remarkably high. Reuben is certain Germany will be crushed in six months. Papa keeps trying to pull me home. But since the end is so near …

Moira winced, remembering
that she
hadn't called Mr Rose for two weeks. She was staring at the telephone when Teddy entered with a pretty tray of toast and cheese.

‘So what do you think of the letter?' Teddy stood stiffly.

‘She sounds worn out, but OK.'

‘And about him?' Teddy settled on the floor beside Moira.

‘Like she says,' Moira shrugged, biting into the toast and pleased with her appetite, ‘she'll come back to him at the end of the war. He's had a tough time, but …'

‘Not Papa,' Teddy interrupted. ‘The man. Reuben. Do you think she's in love?'

Moira was puzzled. ‘Reuben?'

Teddy grew aware of the urgency in her voice. She glanced through the front curtains and shrugged. She remembered Angela sitting in the window seat and laughing at Teddy's sentimentality.

‘Hey, why the long face?' Moira lifted Teddy's chin with her thumb. ‘I'm sure she won't make any rash decisions.'

Teddy got to her feet, shaking away her agitation. ‘More for m'lady?'

‘No thanks, hon. I think I'll go up and rest now.'

Teddy watched her wobble to the stairs. What could have hit her so violently? She watched until Moira reached the top and turned into her room. Teddy hoped she would recover in the next couple of days. Otherwise, it wouldn't be right to leave on that visit to Wanda. She bent down, to collect the tray — and Ann's letter which Moira had left scattered around the couch.

About 10 o'clock that night,
Teddy checked on Moira to find her snoring loudly, the light burning by her bed. She tiptoed into the room, switched off the lamp and closed the door quietly. She went to her own room, crawled into bed with her mystery and was suddenly startled by a brilliant glare from the far window. Japanese planes — that was her first thought. But when the fiery light was not followed by sirens or other unusual sounds, Teddy returned to her book and wondered if she had simply imagined the glare.

The next morning they learned that an ammunitions ship had blown up in Port Chicago, 35 miles away, killing hundreds of men, most of them Negroes. Sandra, Teddy remembered, Sandra worked not far from Port Chicago.

Moira came home
to dark
silence the following night. Frightened to be alone, she switched on the lights as she walked from the living room to the dining room to the kitchen. It took a minute to remember Teddy was visiting her father in the hospital. Ever the dutiful daughter. Moira's own parents would love almost everything about Teddy.

‘Moira,' read the note on the yellow table. ‘Dawn finally got through to Sandra. She's fine. But a lot of people died, over 300. See you later tonight. Love, Teddy.'

Sandra, Moira remonstrated with herself, she had completely forgotten about Sandra this horrible day. Well, at least she was safe. Safer than herself at this point. Moira looked vaguely around the kitchen. No, she wasn't hungry. She had come here for the Scotch, the ‘national beverage' as Daddy called it. Despite the warm day, she was chilly and she knew this would ease her into the evening. She thought back to her talk with Vivian in the locker room.

‘How far along?'
Vivian seemed
irritated and sympathetic. Maybe, as usual, just resigned.

‘Don't know. My periods are never predictable.' Moira looked around for the third time to ensure they were alone. The narrow, dingy room was as vacant as a block of convent cells at rosary hour. She and Vivian sat alone amid the lockers which held the spirits of women they worked with, the lipstick and perfume and scarves and earrings which they abandoned for the serviceable gear of the shipyard. She often felt jailed when she heard the heavy clank of her locker and the quick click of the padlock.

‘Well, like I told you, this stuff worked for the last two times.' Vivian dug into her purse. ‘Just take the bottle tonight and …'

‘The whole thing?' Moira's eyes widened.

‘It ain't for cocktail hour, you know.'

Moira was petrified. Had her grandmother tried something like this before they laid her out on the kitchen table? She felt a terrible longing to phone Mother, but of course she couldn't. She would have to go back so far, untangle so many lies. You can't summon trust in emergencies.

‘Listen, if you don't want the stuff, I'm not forcing it on you.' Vivian began to sound nervous.

‘No, I didn't say that.' Moira figured she could accept the bottle now and decide later.

‘I'll give you a call about 10 p.m. Hey, you're not going to be alone tonight? Your room-mate's going to be in?'

‘Yes,' Moira lied. She had no intention of burdening Teddy with this. ‘You say it, it just comes out in the toilet?' Quivering, she held on to her locker.

‘You'll be fine.' Vivian put an arm around her shoulders. ‘I'm not giving you anything I wouldn't take myself.'

The door swung open, followed by a roar of voices.

Settling in her bedroom,
Moira
put out the bottle of Scotch, a glass and Vivian's bottle. She couldn't possibly have a baby now. Lying on the bed, she ran through the argument once more before touching the Scotch. Yes, she wanted a baby — babies, yes, three or four — some day after the war. She rolled over and thought about making love with Randy the last time, at the end of his leave.

Teddy was out dancing with Dawn and Sandra. The house was quiet that night, peaceful rather than empty. Randy was tender and slow and then so passionate. Afterward they lay together and talked about getting married after the war, about the garage he wanted to buy, about the way he would take care of her. The navy had done a lot for him, he said, although she thought the love of a good woman was worth more than military training. She remembered watching him doze off that last night and wishing he could stay until morning.

Moira stared at the Scotch again. She wanted a home and a father for the children. Her mother would be horrified at the abortion. MURDER. But she would also be horrified to be a grandmother out of wedlock. Of course maybe Randy would get back in time to marry. No, that was ridiculous. Besides, was he the father she wanted for her children? A little late to ask. He was the father of … of … what was growing inside her. She had gone over this again and again since the results. She just didn't know. She just … needed to relax. Horrible to think of anything living from her body when she herself was not a complete person. Was this thing in her belly a person? That's what the Church said. It would be a mortal sin to … but she didn't
feel
that way. It had been the same with sex. She
knew
it was a mortal sin, but her conscience didn't bother her. Making love with Randy seemed the most natural thing in the world. And having a baby didn't seem natural at all. It seemed impossible.

Pouring Scotch into the glass, she smelled its tart richness and wondered if she liked the aroma itself or the release it promised. Before she touched the drink, she ran everything through her mind again. How could she take care of a baby now? She had not lived her own life. Whatever it was that rocked in her belly would not be born. She would take Vivian's medicine first. And then the Scotch. That was her decision. It was clear. For the moment it was clear. The medicine had a bitter flavor and Moira finished the last of it with her eyes closed. Inside her lids were mother and child. ‘Take all of it, dear. That's it, lick the last off the spoon.' The Scotch was tasteless against the sharp medicine. So she poured another, bigger measure.

Vivian would call at 10 p.m. What would she do for three hours? Sleep perhaps. Surely the phone would wake her. She opened the door to her room so she could hear it, and as she turned back toward the bed her foot caught on the rug. Just one more, she thought. One more won't hurt.

‘Moira?'
Teddy tried to contain
her fear. But it was so unlike Moira to leave the lights blazing. 10.30. Teddy checked her watch. She said she would be home straight after work. ‘Moira. Moira.' She saw a glass on the stairs and bounded up, almost knocking Moira, sprawled on the landing in front of her room. ‘Moira!'

‘Hello, Vivian?' Moira noticed her nose was pressed into the carpet. She turned her head sideways and saw Teddy's shoes. She began to weep.

Teddy gathered Moira in her arms, surprised by the stink of whisky.

‘Moira, hon, you OK?'

‘It didn't work. Vivian didn't call.' She looked puzzled. ‘Or maybe she did. Maybe I fell on the way back … oh …' She passed out.

Teddy carried Moira to bed and tried to revive her. The phone was ringing. Don't die, Moira, she wanted to say, but of course that was too dramatic. She had probably just collapsed from exhaustion. And drink. Vinegar, she remembered Mom's cure from Jolene's fainting spells. Dashing down to the kitchen she became conscious that the damn phone was still ringing. Irritably, she answered it. ‘Yes?'

‘Moira, this is Vivian, where the hell … ?'

Four hours later Teddy was
admitted
to the patient's ward.

Moira's eyes were red sores against a bleached white face. ‘Pissholes in the snow.' Teddy remembered Arthur's ugly joke about the dark eyes of her fourth grade friend Sharon.

‘Oh, Teddy,' she was crying.

Teddy stroked Moira's shoulder. ‘You're gonna be OK.'

‘Yes,' Moira murmured.

‘Both of ya.' Teddy regarded her tentatively. ‘The doctor is a sympathetic sort. And he says that potion you took was harmless enough. Not very effective in any way.'

Moira closed her eyes.

‘They say you're over three months gone.' She shook her head and tried to smile. ‘Too late for anything but being a Mama.'

Moira covered her face with her hands.

‘It'll be fine. We've got lots of room. This baby is going to have a great home if her godmother has anything to say about it.'

Moira raised her head. Her eyes were curious, searching, as if meeting Teddy's for the first time.

Chapter Nineteen

Fall 1944, Lion's Head

BLACKOUT RESTRICTIONS RELAXED IN BRITAIN

US TAKES AACHEN

JAPANESE DEFEATED AT LEYTE

ST LOUIS VERSUS ST LOUIS IN WORLD
SERIES BASEBALL

LETTERS.
Wanda envisioned herself
living in a post office. The real world happened where the letters originated. In London where Ann was dodging missiles and falling in love with Reuben. In Wisconsin, where her cousin Keiko was finishing college. In Italy where Howard and Roy were liberating villages. In San Francisco where Moira was having a baby! Of course Teddy would need to help Moira now. Of course that was more important than a social visit to Arizona. Still, Wanda couldn't get over her resentment at Moira for stealing Teddy, at both of them for abandoning her. Here she was, stuck during the war, but not in it. Dead letter office. She was exiled to a desert wasteland. Wasting time. No, teaching school was not a waste of time. Betty and her friends needed to learn. And certainly the government wasn't going to pay enough for another real teacher. She must stop diminishing herself. She was a real teacher. Although she was going to be a writer. Glancing at her watch, she realized that she had better get moving or she would be unemployed on this frozen, windy day.

She had never pictured the desert as cold, yet she now knew she had never understood cold until she came here. The wind roamed recklessly for miles without obstacle and struck through you with a bitter chill. She thought about the ratany and hibiscus and other new flowers. Did they have as many names for the wind? At night, writing in her diary, she pretended she was an anthropologist, cataloguing details of their external life. It was easier to believe this extraordinary place if she didn't see herself as part of the story. Yesterday evening she had described the different insects she found in the latrines. A year ago she was frightened of those spiders and beetles, but now she inspected them curiously because she planned to write about them.

Hurrying across camp to ‘The Little Red Quonset Hut', as Mrs Wright quaintly called it, Wanda counted the ravages of last night's wind. Mr Matsumoto's bonsai trees were swept of leaves. Several plants were uprooted. Two awnings were knocked off their hinges at the latrines. Sometimes she imagined the wind as Papa, furious at the government for jailing them here. Furious at them for complying. Yes, uprooting the plants would be just like Papa. No matter how one tried to make peace here, one failed. Right now she would settle for an end to the hostility among her neighbors.

Passing the Nakashimas' window, she wondered how Mrs Nakashima was bearing up. Her husband's terrible death this month had spread deep panic through the camp. The stockade had never been used until Henry Nakashima rekindled debate about the treatment of those who had been sent to Tule Lake the previous year for refusing to sign the Loyalty Oath. People warned him that he was overdoing it with public speeches under the flagpole. They told him it was too late. But he persisted. The arrest was swift and brutal. No one could explain exactly what had passed in jail. Henry was an old man, the guards said later; he suffered a heart attack. But the bruises on his back raised heavy doubts. Wanda had a terrible time relating the story to Howard. Her brother had been especially close to Mr Nakashima since Papa's death. She didn't know if her letter would pass the censors. Ever since the ‘incident' as the officials called it, Wanda was more conscious of the barbed wire. Frequently, she could hardly see the mountains at all.

What frightened her most was the wrath splintering through the camp since Mr Nakashima's funeral. ‘Only
Issei
would make such trouble,' complained one
Nisei
who founded the
Nisei
Community League. ‘
Deru kugi utareru
,
the nail which sticks out longest takes the most pounding.'

‘We must remember the homeland,' said the
Issei
men who met every Wednesday night ‘to maintain Japanese ethics and culture.' The anger between generations festered in the disappointment that even in this camp, surrounded by Japanese faces, they were unsafe. Wanda made a note to visit Mrs Nakashima that afternoon.

Opening the classroom door, she was overcome by sour fumes from the coal furnace. She hated the smell until Ann wrote so lovingly about the romantic coal fires. Now she associated the odor with her friend sitting in a dimly lit pub after a long day at work. Five minutes to class. Half the students were present; the other half would dash in as they heard the bell. Yes, there it was. Would these kids ever feel nostalgic for the screech of that bell when they were older? What would they remember from this period of their lives? It was a period, wasn't it? Of course. The end was coming already. But because it was impossible to imagine what would happen after the end, after they returned to ‘normal', Wanda occasionally imagined Lion's Head as a life sentence.

Mrs Wright cleared her throat as she arranged papers on her large oak desk. Wanda regarded the teacher carefully, sorting out her impressions. The tall, almost gaunt woman was between fifty and sixty. It was hard to tell because everything she wore heightened her blandness. Beige blouses and brown sweaters and olive skirts. Hazel eyes were her most distinct characteristic — especially in the later afternoon during story hour. At other times, her tough Midwestern accent and her extraordinary straight back reminded Wanda of Miss Fargo. But Mrs Wright was at once softer and less wry than the typing teacher. While Miss Fargo prized efficiency, kindness was Mrs W.'s premium. Wanda, who never thought she could miss typing exercises, would gladly trade this teacher's complicated charity for Miss Fargo's impersonal discipline.

Still, Wanda reminded herself as she sat in the back row by the door, Mrs W. was a decent person. She loved children and she worked hard. The woman didn't have to teach at Lion's Head. However, while Reverend Wright was ministering to the troops in Europe, she chose to leave her cherished Chicago home and do her ‘part' in Arizona.

Wanda just wished her own position in the class were clear. Mrs W. was reluctant to relinquish control, yet she wanted to make use of Wanda. Thus she created two classes — which met together in the morning and then separated. For the rest of the day, Wanda was the teacher in grades four through eight. However, at the beginning of school, she was teacher's aide, attendance monitor, parent-school liaison or what Mrs W. called her ‘right arm'. Most often, Wanda felt like an unexpected daughter-in-law. Their amiability was growing less forced.

Now the teacher drew her pale lips into a formal welcome and nodded at Wanda to shut the door. Automatically the children stood to pledge allegiance. When they sat down, hands folded in front of them, Mrs W. announced, ‘Papers arrived today from Los Angeles and San Francisco.' They all knew what this meant and sat straighter at their desks.

‘Today we'll commence with current affairs.' She adjusted her glasses and read, ‘Jap Fleet Defeated at Leyte,' ‘Japs Destroy West Side of …' The children stared ahead — some of them listening, some daydreaming. Wanda, who thought she had grown used to this, closed her eyes against angry tears.

‘And now to the European theatre …'

Perhaps it was a stage to her, thought Wanda, simply a historical drama. She ran through all the nicknames for FDR: Hoodini, Squire of Hyde Park, The Sphinx, Batman in the White House. Could Mrs W. feel her blasphemy?

‘My father is an ally,' said Alan Morozumi and, ignoring Mrs W.'s irritated frown, he persisted, ‘The 442nd Regimental Combat Team is the bravest in Europe. We got a letter from our Daddy.'

‘Yes,' Mrs W. answered instructively. ‘It has sustained the highest casualty rate.'

‘What's a casualty rate?' Tommy Morozumi whispered to Wanda.

‘Shh, I'll explain later.' She stared at the teacher, amazed at her insensitivity, or was it sadism? No, probably insensitivity. She carried this patronizing attitude outside the classroom, too. Wanda had seen her talk to Mr and Mrs Takata last week as if they were students, speaking slowly, using simple language. Did she know that Mrs Takata had worked for the city of Oakland as a stenographer and that Mr Takata had a Master's degree from Stanford? Would it have mattered? This was the trouble developing friendly feelings for the Caucasians, it just raised uncomfortable questions.

‘Are there any more questions — or comments?' Mrs W. addressed the class.

‘Nothing? Fine then, Miss Nakatani, will you take the older girls and boys to the back room to work on essays. And the rest of us,' she winked at the smaller children in the front rows, ‘also will find something interesting to do.'

‘OK, gang,' Wanda said,
once
they were separated. Then she warned herself against appearing flippant. ‘Who wants to read the first paper?' No one responded. ‘You know, Mrs Wright's assignments about “Adventures in Lion's Head”.'

Alan's hand shot in the air. He read three paragraphs about a vulture cleaning out the carcass of a coyote. Other papers followed the same theme — city kids exploring the desert. Although Wanda was usually annoyed by Mrs W.'s Pollyanna assignments, she was surprised by how much she learned from them — how different was her experience of camp from theirs. While she was bored or aggravated or even suffocated, they were stimulated by their own inventiveness. Her nightmares were their explorations. Today Wanda was very moved by Betty's paper.

My adventure at Lion's Head has been in notes and chords. On the old piano in the rec hall I have learned to make tunes. Every day I go practice with Mr Sasaki. He listens to my terrible noises and promises that they will turn into music. He is right. I now play Chopin, Beethoven, Liszt. I am practicing for the big recital in February. One day I want to perform on stage as a piano player.

‘Pianist,' Wanda mumbled
out of
the storm in her chest. She could hardly believe her jealousy. After all, she didn't want to play the piano; she wanted to write and nothing was keeping her from that. She could do more freelance work. That was better than reporting for Mr Omi's silly camp paper.

‘Pardon me?' asked Betty, still glowing from her public reading and now suddenly distressed by her sister's expression.

Two boys in the corner were smirking and whispering ‘pianist' to each other.

‘Stanley and Ricky,' said Wanda, straining for Mrs W.'s authority, ‘your papers are next.' She was amused with herself for everything — the sentimentality, the sternness, the embarrassment. Mrs W. was wrong, she would not ‘make a very good teacher'. Even now, half her mind was on the letters she wanted to write Teddy and Roy this evening. Before that, she would have to find time to explain ‘casualty rate' to Tommy and to visit Mrs Nakashima. As she was juggling these obligations, the noon bell clanged.

The wind had died down.
She was grateful because it was exhausting enough to race to the post office, the mess hall, serve Mama lunch and make it back to class on time. Lately, Wanda was continuously tired. Nerves. She knew she had to conserve her spirit. Standing in line now, she didn't turn around, lest she encounter someone who needed something. This was selfish. She was a young woman in good health. But with Papa dead and Howard gone, there were so many demands. Everything in camp was a trial. Was Lion's Head actually a scientific experiment in cultural deprivation? Wanda sighed, remembering that she had promised to do some translation for the Yamaguchis this week. In addition to these personal demands they all made on each other, there were pressures from the Authority — blood drives and bond campaigns. How you could lock people up and then squeeze their blood and money in defense of democracy, she didn't know, but she had given up being amazed months ago. She was just frightened.

She was as frightened as Mama was enraged. During the last six months, Mama had wavered between illness and uncontrollable fury. She kept saying she would return to Japan after the war. She cried that she never should have left. She worried about her parents. The Watanabes warned her to keep quiet because they were still sending subversives to that horrible camp in Tule Lake. ‘Horrible camp,' Mama had shouted. ‘Do you think this is Shangri-La?' But she did tone down her public anger. Many of the
Nisei
shunned Mama, and even Betty and herself, as dangerous elements. When Howard enlisted, the family status improved slightly. And Mama's condition got worse. She mourned for Howard every day and seemed surprised when they received a letter from him.

In the post office Wanda saw a young woman with a baby carriage. Then another girl, carrying a child. Then three toddlers trailing after Mrs Takata, her grandchildren. Come to think of it, had Carolyn put on weight lately? The increasing birthrate was creating a whole new generation, tiny creatures who experienced life on a different scale. These children lived so much closer to the ground, playing in the rock gardens and sand piles. What was their perspective of this desert world? Did it seem strange to them? How could it if they were born here? She shuddered at the thought that Lion's Head was accepted as a natural habitat by any human being. The letter from Roy was on top. The one from Ann. Then a bill from Sears and a flyer from a Baptist organization. Wanda stuffed the mail in her pocket. How comfortable these baggy slacks were. She had lost all vanity in her dress. Everyone had. You just couldn't wear a skirt in this climate. Sometimes she was grateful Roy couldn't see her. She checked her watch: just enough time to get Mama's food and return to class. She wasn't feeling very hungry, herself.

Pea soup today, Wanda sniffed
as she approached the vats. All the more trouble with Mama who still carried heavy suspicions about mess hall food. She insisted on being able to distinguish ingredients — a little fish on boiled rice was her favorite — and grew jittery about murky soups and casseroles.