Caged Eagles (27 page)

Twice Sam had come over and talked to me for a few minutes. He'd then retreat back into the crowd, leaving me with my family. I knew that Sam thought we were crazy for having the cremation here, in a park, in front of everybody. But I also knew he liked the idea of us doing something that would defy the authorities.

“They're coming,” my father said.

“Who's …” Both my mind and my eyes answered the question that I'd started to ask.

My heart rose up into my throat at the sight of the soldiers and RCMP officers. There were two RCMP officers and four soldiers. They picked their way through the crowd. People got up and moved aside to allow the column of men to pass.

My father and I both stood. I had to fight the urge to run away from the approaching men. They were moving purposefully, quickly, and the man in the lead looked angry. He stopped right on top of us.

“We cannot allow fires,” he bellowed, “especially ones of this size, to be lit in the middle of this park. It is …” His sentence trailed off. I think he had seen the remains of my grandmother's body and realized what the fire was.

“My good Lord,” he muttered. “Who is responsible for this?”

“It is my —” my father started to answer.

“But we are all responsible,” called out a voice, cutting him off.

It was Mr. Wakabayashi. I had long since lost sight of him and didn't even realize he was still here.

“This is your doing, Mr. Wakabayashi?” the soldier asked. Obviously, he knew who he was.

“I did not arrange, but I was aware it would take place.”

“And you did not inform the authorities of your plan?” the soldier asked briskly.

“It was not my place … nor yours.”

“There are rules against such things, not just here in the park, but in society —”

“Perhaps in your society,” Mr. Wakabayashi interrupted, “but she was not of your society, and neither are we … are we?”

“I insist that this stop immediately!”

Mr. Wakabayashi looked at my father, and then at the pyre. He looked at the soldiers and police officers — all with side arms. He scanned the crowd that surrounded the clearing. There were hundreds of people. Now none of them were talking, or playing cards, or eating, or even sitting. Everybody was on their feet, watching and listening. Finally he turned once again to face the soldier — he was some sort of officer and clearly in charge.

“We would respectfully request that it be allowed to continue.”

“I don't have the authority to approve this!” the soldier bellowed.

“Then please speak to your commander,” Mr.

Wakabayashi said.

“I shall.” He paused. “And if we decide to intervene?” the commander questioned.

Mr. Wakabayashi didn't answer immediately.

Everybody was listening. I looked beyond where we stood. The soldiers and police were anxiously looking all around them. The crowd was hushed, waiting for the answer.

“We request that you do not intervene … for the sake of
all
involved,” he said.

Of course, the “all” involved not just us and the rest of the Japanese, but also the commander and his men.

Would he understand that?

“I have five men here,” the soldier said. “A hundred more could be here within a few minutes if I so desired.”

“That is understood,” Mr. Wakabayashi said. “You have the authority to arrange that.”

“And we could forcibly extinguish the flames,” the officer continued.

“You could … if you chose to do so.”

Was he going to send somebody to get the extra men? Was he going to stop it? Or try to stop it?

“Mr. Wakabayashi, I will retire to speak to the commander. I will advise him that there is a bonfire and it has some religious significance, and that you will take responsibility for it not spreading … is that correct?”

Mr. Wakabayashi nodded.

“And I would appreciate it if you could also meet with myself and the commander … perhaps tomorrow at noon?”

“It would be my honor,” Mr. Wakabayashi said, bowing slightly.

“Until then, good day, sir,” the officer said. He turned on his heel and started off through the crowd, the other soldiers following after him.

My father passed me the bag and I dug out a handful of pistachios and handed the bag back to him. I crunched one between my teeth, spitting out the shell into the mound of shells at my feet. My hands were stained red from the pistachios — I couldn't believe how many I'd eaten. They were one of my favorite things in the world … and one of my grandmother's favorites too.

My father and I had taken a seat on a bench some of the men had brought close to the fire. Eventually it would be added to the flames, but for now it was our place to sit. Behind us on the ground, huddled underneath some blankets, my mother and sisters were sound asleep. They'd been asleep for hours. I was surprised that I wasn't tired, although I would have welcomed a blanket over me. I was a little cold — at least, half of me, the back half that wasn't facing the fire, was chilly. I cracked open another pistachio.

“You can go lie down,” my father said.

“That's okay. I don't think I could sleep.”

He nodded.

As we talked, two men came into the halo of light thrown out by the fire. They were carrying between them a large branch. They brought it to the edge of the fire and then tipped it into the flames. It crashed down, spewing ashes and embers into the air. I watched as the embers drifted up into the night sky, flickering and floating and finally disappearing, absorbed by the stars.

The men were just a small part of the large crowd that remained. Most had long since gone away. Some, like the men gathering wood, were fairly young, in their early twenties, but there were a lot of old people, many from our village. They were staying to show respect, but I thought they were also here because they knew their time wasn't far away. It would be different for them than for somebody young, knowing that the fire would soon be for them. A shiver ran down my spine at that thought.

“I've been thinking about where we should go,” my father said.

For an instant I thought he meant after death, and then realized he probably was referring to after we left Hastings Park.

“The abandoned towns in the mountains or Alberta are the choices. You favor one, do you not?” he said.

“Yeah, I was thinking that maybe —” I stopped myself. This wasn't the time for me to be disrespectful.

It was my father's decision to make. “Whatever decision you make will be good.”

“I hope that will be the case,” he said. “But I do wish your opinion.”

“I really don't know that much about either,” I admitted. “I just heard that those who volunteered for Alberta were going soon … and I also hoped that we could be together.”

“Alberta,” he said in a voice barely audible. “I am a fisherman, not a farmer.”

I nodded my head.

“I have heard it is very rough … hard, hard work, but yes, we could all be together,” he said. “Together is important, but maybe not the most important thing.”

I wanted to jump in and correct him. It was the most important thing, especially now, especially for my sisters. With grandmother gone they needed the rest of us to stay together. I held my tongue. Instead I stared into the fire.

“Hard times,” my father said. “Very hard. And hard decisions still to be made.”

.22.

I heard the crack of the ball against the bat and saw a glimpse of it screaming toward me. I charged back and to my right, following it, following it, reached up and felt it smack into my glove for the last out of the inning! There was a roar of response — cheers and groans of disappointment all mixed together. I tossed the ball to the shortstop, who rolled it toward the pitcher's mound.

“Great grab,” Sam said as we trotted in toward the infield together.

“That's what happens when you have a quality glove,”

I said teasingly.

“Don't get me started about that — hey, isn't that your father?”

Sam was right. My father was standing beside the bleachers. That was strange; he'd never had any interest in baseball whatsoever. Why was he even here … “Don't worry,” Sam said reassuringly. “I'm sure it's nothing.”

Sam was right about me being worried. I just hoped he was right about it being nothing.

Over the last few days, since my grandmother's cremation, I'd been nothing but worried. Worried that the authorities were going to do something to us or that something was going to happen to somebody else in my family.

Sam joined the rest of the team on the bench and

I jogged to my father's side.

“We need to talk. We are leaving,” he said.

“Today … now?” I asked, my voice hardly a whisper.

He shook his head. “Tomorrow.”

“Hold on, please,” I said. I walked over to Sam. “Could you get somebody to take my spot in the lineup?”

“Sure, no problem.” He paused. “What's happening?”

“We're leaving. Tomorrow. My father needs to talk to me.”

“Do you know where you're going?” Sam asked.

I shook my head. “He didn't tell me yet.”

“Okay. I'll come by your place right after the game … okay?”

“Sure, I'll see you then.” I hurried to my father's side.

“Do mother and the girls know already?”

“They're packing now.”

“I should go and help them and —”

“No need. There is not much to pack. They pack. We talk.”

We started walking. I waited for him to start talking.

“I've heard more about Alberta,” my father said.

“Things are very hard.”

“I know.” I guess that meant we were going into the mountains and he was going to a work camp. I just hoped that he could come back and spend time with — “Tomorrow morning we leave for Alberta.”

“Alberta!” I said in shock.

“Is that not what you wanted?”

“Yes, I just didn't think …”

“It is my decision. Whatever the conditions or consequences, they rest on me. Understand?”

“Yes … of course … yes, sir.”

“I have heard we will all be working the fields, perhaps even Yuri.”

“We can all work.”

We walked on, not talking, my father thinking.

“It is not too late for other options,” he finally said.

“You mean the ghost towns and work camp?”

“It would be easier for your mother and sisters.”

“Grandmother would want us to be together.”

My father laughed. “Then I guess it is decided. I'm to be a farmer instead of a fisherman … but I am no fisherman now either … not without a boat.”

I'd shared the contents of the letter from Jed. There was nothing in there that he hadn't known. But he also told me other things, worse things. It wasn't just that people were destroying or stealing some of our things, but that the government was taking all of our things. All of the things that had been left behind — houses, cars, belongings and boats.

My father suddenly stopped walking. He was staring into the distance. “I think about my boat. I heard stories.

The boats are all tied together, uncared for, not tended to.

All rotting away in the water. If only I'd known.”

“Known?” I asked.

“What was going to happen. That my boat would be left to rot away or sold out for pennies. If only I'd known.”

“But even if you knew you couldn't have done anything about it,” I reasoned.

“Oh yes, I could! I could have sunk it! Sent it to the bottom! If I was standing on my boat right now I'd scuttle it!” he said defiantly.

“Even if you did that … even if you could do it right now … what would it change?” I asked.

My father shrugged. “We would still be away from our home. Your grandmother would still be gone. We would still be going farther away … but somehow … somehow, it would be a little better.”

“Do you really mean that?” I questioned.

He nodded his head. The expression on his face left no doubt what he believed.

I took a deep breath. “What if we could do it?”

“Do what?”

“Sink the boat.”

“That is just a wish … it cannot come true,” my father said.

“I just want to know. If you were standing on the boat right now, would you pull the plug and send her to the bottom?”

“Yes.”

“Then how about if we go and do that … tonight.”

As soon as I said the words I regretted them. What a stupid thing to say. Was my father going to yell at me or think I was being a silly little boy or — “Tell me … how could we do this?”

“Look, even if I get you the truck, do either of you even know where the Annieville Dyke is?” Sam asked.

“No, but there are maps. Is it far?”

“Not far at all. I've been there dozens of times on pick-ups from the fields just around there.”

“Then you could tell me how to get there,” I reasoned.

“It's not that simple. It's one of those places you go where you don't remember the names of the roads, you just sort of know which spots to turn and which roads to travel. And even if you could find your way up there what makes you think you could even find your boat? Aren't there hundreds and hundreds of them up there?”

“Twelve hundred.”

“Even worse. It would be impossible to find your boat.”

“My father says he can find it. He said he'll be able to ‘smell' it when he gets close.”

“That's crazy! I can't believe your father has agreed to do this,” Sam said in amazement.

“It was his idea to sink the boat.”

“Come on … you're joking. Right?”

“I couldn't believe it at first either. I don't really understand it, but that's what he wants to do. He said the only way it can remain his boat is if he sinks it. Does that make any sense at all?” I asked.