Sophie and the Rising Sun (11 page)
Read Sophie and the Rising Sun Online
Authors: Augusta Trobaugh
Tags: #Romance, #Literary, #General, #Historical, #Fiction
And a war it certainly became—the very next day! President Roosevelt talked on the radio about the day that would “live in infamy,” and later that same day, Congress declared that a state of war existed between the United States and Japan.
But the night of December seventh was one I would remember for the rest of my life—me making it through the late afternoon doing things that felt
normal
, but in such a complete silence.
I wound all the clocks in the house—the Seth Thomas mantel clock in the living room and the Regulator school clock in what had been the study—and yes, I still kept the study exactly as it had been the very day my husband passed on. And I took all the kitchen towels out of the deep drawer beside the sink and refolded all of them. At the last, I polished every single piece of silver in my whole house. Like maybe just wearing myself completely out would make me stop thinking about Pearl Harbor—and maybe about folks getting to hate that dear Mr. Oto for something he didn’t have a blessed thing to do with—and get myself so tired out, I’d be able to sleep.
But no matter how hard I worked, worried little feelings kept landing on me—like big buzzards that were so fat, they could hardly fly at all.
Did I really know Mr. Oto?
Wasn’t he, indeed, a foreigner?
Well, he certainly
looked
like one!
And all that bowing!
But in the next instant, all I could see was that freshly scrubbed
gentleman
taking tea at my very own table—his courteous manners, the clean-soap aroma of him, and those strong, brown hands holding one of my mama’s teacups ever so carefully!
My Mr. Oto! An
American
man!
Well, I even drank a glass of warm milk before I went to bed—and how I do hate that! Still, I had to try everything I knew so I would be able to get some sleep.
But none of it worked. Because everything had changed—no denying that. So I went to bed but not to sleep. Instead, I decided that Mr. Oto would work only in the back of the house from now on, and whenever I had the chance, I would remind folks that he was Chinese, not Japanese! But then, I heard his gentle voice reminding me—and I sure did need reminding!—that he was an
American
.
A long, sleepless, terrible night it was.
The faucet in the bathroom dripped—
plunk... plunk... plunk.
And a creaking sound in the hallway, like maybe a whole bunch of the enemy was coming to get me. And then the squawking of a strange-sounding and completely unfamiliar bird in my back garden.
Why, the beginnings of daylight were coming around the sides of my curtains before I finally fell asleep. But even then, it was a fitful sleep, full of blazing torches and white sheets and
fear
!
True to her word, Miss Anne forbade Mr. Oto to work in front of the house or to go anyplace where the people of the town would see him. Whenever they needed anything from town, Miss Anne sent Matilda or went herself. Mr. Oto remained out of sight.
The shock of the attack on Pearl Harbor and the war still seemed heavy on the town. Few people were out on the streets, but anyone walking along could hear the radios in almost every house—unseen voices droning out the terrible casualties America had endured—the USS
Arizona
, in particular, going down with over a thousand American souls lost.
Mr. Oto worked in the back garden
with slow, leisurely movements that belied the turmoil he was feeling. And when the work was done, he spent many hours sitting in his hut, going deep inside himself to determine what he should do, if anything. For he knew that
something
was coming, that the people would eventually recover from their shock. And what they would feel would be a terrible, terrible outrage. What would they do with the outrage? That was the question. Oh, yes, that was certainly the question!
Would they form up a mob and come for him? And if they did, would they also come for Miss Anne, for harboring the
enemy
?
And what about Sophie?
At the thought of her name, an involuntary sob burst from his chest.
So that slowly, slowly, he began to understand what he must do. But first, he had to see his beloved Sophie—one last time.
So he endured the longest week of his entire life, and the next Sunday—exactly one week after Pearl Harbor—he went to the river, just as usual. But this time, he awakened very early, dressed in the dark before first light, and left for the river while night would still conceal him.
He had long hours to wait—if indeed, she came at all—but he was somehow strangely grateful for those hours. He sat by the river as quietly as the stump of a tree and breathed the day in and out, as light began untangling itself from the darkness. So that everything there was to see and to be with arose bit by bit out of the obscurity of night.
First the gray Spanish moss hanging from the branches of the live oak took on the wiry texture that separated it from the smooth, dark sky. And the line of sawgrass across the river grew slowly distinct from the dark surface of the water. The sky itself slowly turned first a deep, rain-soaked gray and then pearl and finally, a soft and delicate rose. All of it so profound that Mr. Oto felt as if he were being reborn with the birth of the new day. And he was sure that Sophie would come to him there.
Finally, he began to sense her presence, almost as if he were willing her into being. He felt her walking toward him, even though he heard not a single footstep. So that when he turned his head slowly and she drifted into the edge of his vision, he was not surprised in the least.
He stood up and took a deep breath before he looked into her eyes—to see whatever was in them. And when he did look full into her face, all of his concerns that she would think of him as the
enemy
vanished into the brilliant air. Because when she looked at him, there was no scorn, no anger, no bitterness—just a slightly bruised look about her, as if something deeply sad had entered her heart. So that he longed to take her into his arms, cradle her fine head on his shoulder, encase her with his body, so that nothing hurtful should ever come near her.
“I am so glad you have come,” he finally managed to say.
Sophie took a sudden step toward him and then stopped. “I’ve been worried about you,” she said in a clear, strong voice that rose above the bruised look of her eyes.
Mr. Oto touched the center of his chest. “
You
have been worried about
me?”
“Why, yes!” She seemed surprised.
“Oh, but it is
I
who have been worried about
you!
” he stammered.
For a moment, they seemed close to laughing, but what was passing between them was far too serious for laughter.
“It’s just that I haven’t seen you since...”
“I know. Miss Anne thinks it’s better for me not to be seen at all, right now.”
“Oh.”
Mr. Oto stared at the ground, thinking of what he knew was coming, and when he looked up again, Sophie was studying his face.
“What is it?” he whispered.
“I’m afraid for you, now that all this has happened. I’m afraid for you.”
“Yes,” he said simply. And then he added, “You shouldn’t be seen with me.”
“I know.”
And the tone of her voice told him that there was already talk about Sophie and her friendship with a
foreigner
, a
Chinaman
, a lowly gardener.
“Has someone criticized you... because of me?” His concern for her was deep and most painful.
“Warned me,” Sophie confessed, and then her cheeks flamed and a look of high resolve flashed in her eyes. “But the person who warned me is the same one who cost me my best friend when I was a little girl. I won’t let her do that to me again!”
“I’m so sorry,” he muttered.
“Oh, what’s going to happen?” Sophie asked the question that she knew neither of them could answer.
“No one knows,” he whispered. “No one knows where this will lead.”
And for a brief moment, he wondered if they were speaking of the war at all, or perhaps speaking of themselves?
“It’s already led to war!” Sophie spoke the last word with a shudder.
Mr. Oto let out a silent breath. For Sophie, theirs was only a friendship. For him, much more. But he must remain silent. So he quickly reminded himself that, at least, she still thought of him as her friend—despite Pearl Harbor.
“Yes, war again!” Sophie added.
The wound her words brought to him went very deep, and almost all the pain he felt was
her
pain. And another pain, as well—knowing that the leaders of his father’s own country were responsible for this, her very visible grief.
And what can they be thinking, those leaders?
She spoke again, so suddenly that he was unprepared. “He was much taller than you,” she said. “And I was very young and maybe even a little bit pretty. And he never came back.”
“Who?” Mr. Oto whispered the word.
But she had turned away from him and was staring at the river, at the deep, black, ever-moving water. So that he stood silently, gazing at the plane of her back and with his hands hanging large and helpless by his sides. But the urge he felt to comfort her was as unyielding as the certain surge of the river sliding past the banks, and as if in a dream, he moved toward her, both afraid of her strange grief and yet compelled to share it with her.
He stood directly behind her at last, with his hands coming up to touch her shoulders. But before he could do that, she turned to face him again, and she seemed not the least bit surprised to find him standing so close to her.
“Henry,” she said. “I lost him in the war. World War One.”
At first, he could say nothing. Nothing that he knew would help her. Then, “That is a very, very painful thing,” he said. “I know, because I, too, lost someone.” He heard his own voice, but until he heard the words, he didn’t know what they would be.
“In the war?’’
“No. Not in any war. But a loss nonetheless.’’
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sophie said.
“I lost the young woman who would have been my wife.’’
“And I lost the one who would have been... my husband,” Sophie said, though her voice belied a complete conviction in the words. “The one I
believe
would have been my husband,” she amended.
“Oh, he
would
have been,” Mr. Oto said. “I’m sure of it.”
His quiet pronouncement took her by surprise. But instantly, she knew that he was right. That’s exactly what would have happened.
Yes. He would have been my husband.
It was so sweet a thought that when she looked again into Mr. Oto’s deep eyes, she almost expected them to be Henry’s eyes. Sparkling and blue and with silent laughter in them. But the eyes that looked back at her were the color of the black river. And just as fathomless.
“How did you lose her?” Sophie, too, did not know what the words would be until she heard them.
“She was from... my father’s homeland,” Mr. Oto said. “And she died of a fever on the ship, coming to this country. To marry me.’’ He did not add,
And even in the midst of this madness of war, there could have been meaning to my life, because of her. But now, it is not her face I see. But yours.
They never did get around
to painting that day, but sat by the river together well into the early afternoon, sometimes speaking, but mostly just watching the river. A man and a woman who, at last, had shared their griefs and who were closer for the sharing. And two memories—one a tall young man with blazing blue eyes and unruly hair the color of the sawgrass. The other a doll-size young woman wearing a richly embroidered red kimono.
