The Sun Gods (10 page)

“Tom! Where are you going?” Mitsuko cried, hurrying after him.

“Out,” he muttered between clenched teeth. “Just out.” He slammed the door behind him.

Tom spent the rest of the afternoon in his church office, going through his files and filling several waste baskets with useless papers. After a while, he could no longer concentrate on even this busy work, and when the power was restored he switched on the radio for the latest news. With professional calm, the announcer reported that the new Tacoma Narrows suspension bridge, the world's third longest span, had collapsed that morning. The winds had reached no more than forty miles per hour, but the bridge's oscillations became so wild and powerful the bridge ripped itself apart and plunged into the tossing waters far below.

Tom was still not ready to go home when dinner time came. He could only drive up and down the streets at random, staring at store windows and the big, round headlights of oncoming cars. The air was filled with clouds of exhaust that flowed and shifted each time a car plunged through.

Suddenly, the glowing marquee of the Roosevelt Theater lit the night.
Little Nellie Kelly
with Judy Garland was playing. Now he was sorry he had not thought to check the show time of
Gone with the Wind
before he left the office. It had first appeared about the time he met Mitsuko and won the Academy Award for Best Picture of 1939. A year and a half later, it was still playing to packed theaters. He hadn't seen a movie since before Sarah became pregnant, and at this rate he wasn't going to be able to go out with Mitsuko until the Japanese were pushed out of China. A movie alone was exactly what he needed.

Parking near the Roosevelt on a Thursday night was easy enough. He paid his thirty cents at the box office and had time for a hot dog and Coke before
Little Nellie Kelly
started. He was not really in the mood for such silly shenanigans now, though, and he hoped the second feature would be better.

First there was an intermission to sit through, and previews, and finally newsreels. The first news story showed representatives of Germany, Italy and Japan signing a 10-year military-economic-alliance pact in Berlin. Then came the drawing of the first numbers in the new national military draft followed by President Roosevelt promising not to send “our boys” to war. Another Roosevelt clip showed him denouncing the Republican National Committee Chairman for inciting a whispering campaign that he intended to commit an act of war against Japan immediately after election day. There was some respite from the subject of war with “Grieving Dog Flown to Master” and “Beauties on Display,” but then came Interior Secretary Ickes intoning solemnly into a microphone, “We should supply instruments of war to those who are fighting for our Christian civilization.” Next were shots of Japanese troops marching into French Indo-China and capturing several thousand French legionnaires. This was followed by a cartoon titled “Jap in the Box,” which showed a hand labeled “Hitler” pressing the button on a box from which popped a bespectacled, mustachioed, buck-toothed Japanese face wearing an officer's cap.

This was more than Tom could bear. He tramped out of the theater and sped all the way home.

11

“MITSUKO, LISTEN TO THIS,”
Tom called from the living room. “Mitsuko! Shut off the water a second.”

The noise of the washing of dinner dishes subsided, and Mitsuko came to the door of the living room, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Look,” Tom said, showing her the paper. “I'm on the front page of the
Star
.”

A wooden crash echoed from the kitchen, complete with Billy's vocal sound effects. He had been playing on the floor with the toy cars Mitsuko made for him. He had a large collection now, and he enjoyed knocking down piles of them.

Tom ignored the noise and read from the paper slowly, enunciating so that Mitsuko could catch every word.

“The headline is ‘CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR CONCLAVE,' and here's what it says: ‘The Christian Endeavorers of Seattle are planning for their district convention to be held next week-end, March 1 and 2, at the Covenant Presbyterian Church on Queen Anne Hill, Rev. B.A. Hotchkiss, pastor.'

“I met Reverend Hotchkiss last month when I spoke at Seattle Methodist,” Tom told her. “A very nice man—very soft-spoken, but a preacher of great authority.”

He continued reading: “‘Over 500 young people are expected for this convention, the theme of which is “Trust in the Lord.” The convention will open Friday evening with a talk by William F. Wilson, for forty years a missionary to Africa in the British Kenyan colony. Dr. Wilson, stopping in Seattle en route to his home in Boise, will also speak Saturday afternoon. Following the banquet a play will be presented entitled
The Challenge of the Cross
, under the direction of Albert Culverwell.'

“Now, here's the important part. ‘Another speaker for the convention will be the Rev. Thomas A. Morton, English Language Pastor of the Japanese Christian Church on Terrace Street.'”

“Very nice,” said Mitsuko, smiling and raising her eyebrows in anticipation of more.

“Well, that's all there is about me,” Tom said, with a wry smile. “They didn't give the title of my talk. I suppose half the audience will think I'm there to explain the latest diplomatic initiative of the Imperial Japanese Government.”

“It will go well,” she said.

“Yes,” he replied. “I always have them eating out of the palm of my hand.”

“I wish I could come and hear you,” said Mitsuko.

“Maybe sometime,” he muttered. “When the war in China is over.”

Tom knew that talk of her country's military activities made Mitsuko uneasy. It was the one thing that always seemed to come between them. They could go for weeks at a time without a harsh word, but then Chiang Kaishek or Madame Chiang would visit Washington to ask for help against the Japanese, the newspapers would proclaim the deep friendship uniting the American and Chinese peoples, and Tom would become short-tempered and sullen. He resented having to defend his flock from the welling tide of anti-Japanese sentiment.

“Oh, Lord,” Tom exclaimed. “I spoke too soon. Look at this, right next to the article on the conclave.”

“What is that?” she asked, still in the doorway.

“‘JAPAN CLAIMS SOUTH PACIFIC.'”

“Never mind,” she said, turning back into the kitchen.

“You'd better listen to this, Mitsuko. It's what's happening in the world.”

She stopped short. “All they do is make war,” she said.

He read on: “‘Foreign Minister Yosuke Matsuoka today called upon “the white race” to cede Oceania—the more than 1,000-mile square region of the South Pacific—to the Asiatics.' The fool! Talk like that only makes matters worse. ‘Speaking to a committee of the lower house of parliament, Matsuoka said the Western powers should realize that Japan and other Asiatic nations must have some place to send their excess population and that the islands of Oceania are logical places, since they now are largely undeveloped and underpopulated.'”

“I don't want to listen anymore,” said Mitsuko, her face flushed.

“It's maddening, isn't it? ‘The white race.' What arrogance!”

Lost in his thoughts, Tom realized someone had spoken to him. He looked around the banquet table. “Excuse me, Dr. Wilson, it's so noisy in here.”

“I was just saying what wonderful biscuits these are. Don't you agree?”

“Oh, yes, yes indeed, very nice biscuits.”

William Wilson, a powerful-looking man with stark white hair, a ruddy complexion, and a generous midsection struggling to pop out of his checkered vest, sat to Tom's right at the head table of the Christian Endeavorers' banquet in the Covenant Presbyterian Church. Holding up a biscuit, he said, “This is what I missed most of all in Africa.”

“Biscuits?”

“Biscuits. Dinner rolls. Any decent baked goods. They just don't know how to make anything light and fluffy like this.
White
bread is out of the question. You know, you can only teach them so much.”

He raised one eyebrow and peered at Tom through rimless spectacles.

Tom chuckled uneasily.

“Now I know how to get your attention,” said Wilson. “Talk about food.”

“I'm sorry. Have I been a poor dinner companion?”

“Anyone who can speak with the fire you have at your command ought to be a scintillating conversationalist.”

“That sounds a little bit like a compliment.”

“It is, my boy, it is! There aren't many speakers like you in Kenya, either. Lord, I'm glad to be back!”

“After forty years …”

“Incredible, isn't it?”

“You won many souls for Christ.”

“I suppose so. But never enough. Never enough.”

“You're being modest.”

Wilson leaned toward Tom and lowered his voice, using the general hubbub of the banquet to camouflage his words.

“You of all people know that I'm not being the least bit modest,” he said, looking Tom in the eye. “You never know what's in their minds.”

“I see,” Tom answered vaguely.

“I
know
you see. Do you think I'd say this to anyone else?” He looked around warily. “We're in this together, my boy. The Lord has sent us to work among the colored peoples of the world. He's given us a heavy cross to bear.”

Just then Dr. Wilson's wife, a tall, gray-haired woman in a blackish dress said from Tom's left in a high-pitched voice, “William, do stop these little tête-à-têtes!”

Wilson looked startled, then bit into his biscuit. Tom found it amusing that such a large, forceful man could be brought to heel so easily by a woman, but she did speak with a commanding tone.

“That was a marvelous speech you gave, Reverend Morton,” she said, smiling grandly. “I was deeply moved.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wilson,” said Tom. “It's very kind of you to say so.”

“Are you here alone tonight?” she asked.

“Pardon?”

“Are you married? Did you bring your wife?”

Now it was Tom's turn to be unnerved by this overbearing woman. “My wife couldn't attend this evening. She sends her regrets.”

“What a pity,” she clucked. “I would have liked to meet her.”

“Yes indeed!” piped up Lucy Hotchkiss, wife of the church pastor. She was a petite, pretty redhead sitting on the other side of Mrs. Wilson. By the way, what is her name?”

Tom's forehead was moist and he wanted to dab it with his napkin. “Her name?” he asked lamely, which brought giggles from the people nearby.

“Surely you remember your wife's name, Reverend Morton,” said Mrs. Wilson, which provoked more laughter.

Perhaps Mrs. Hotchkiss really didn't know the truth. Her question seemed innocent. And even if she did know that his wife was Japanese, she probably didn't know her name.

“Sarah,” he said at last, grinning foolishly. “Charmed by Mrs. Hotchkiss here, I momentarily forgot.”

“Oh-ho!” bellowed Wilson. “There's a man who knows his way around the ladies!”

Mrs. Hotchkiss looked demurely at her plate, and conversation shifted to the fate of the Moral Re-Armament movement, which had failed so utterly to prevent war in Europe.

Mrs. Hotchkiss observed, “The idea of the four principles was a good one: honesty, purity, unselfishness, and love. The problem was putting them into action—how did they used to say it?—'in the home, in business, the village, city, state and nation in order to banish war.'”

“Frightfully idealistic, Lucy,” interjected Reverend Hotchkiss, who was seated on the other side of Dr. Wilson from Tom. “And at the same time, strangely lacking in religious values.”

A lot of sober nodding followed this remark, and the conversation once again broke up into little constellations. With his previous conspiratorial air, Dr. Wilson glanced in his wife's direction, then bent toward Tom.

“I might not have another chance to talk to you,” he said, speaking rapidly, “so let me give you a little advice. You can take it or leave it as you wish, but let me assure you it comes from the heart and is based on forty years' experience. If you're anything like I was at your age, you're convinced of your calling and proud as punch of your abilities to win souls for Christ. Forty years from now, you'll see it differently. Oh, there will be those little victories along the way, and your faith will keep you going. But when you get right down to it, you'll never know for certain if any of those souls truly belong to God or to some black devil they keep hidden in a closet. Now, don't get me wrong. I haven't wasted my life. But I could have done a lot better. And so can you. Find yourself a nice, white congregation and stick with it. Hotchkiss here has the right idea.”

Tom was stunned at the forthrightness of the man and at the precision with which he had brought out doubts that had been lurking in the back of his own mind. But surely, he thought, the situations that he and Wilson faced must be totally different. Forty years of struggling against a surrounding black horde could not hope to yield the results that a representative of the dominant white race could expect ministering to a small, vulnerable minority.

Tom's inner debate continued through dessert and was still going strong even after the evening's play began. Less than a half hour into “1941: The Challenge of the Cross,” Tom quietly left the auditorium to drive home through a chilling rain.

Things would have to change. Something would have to change. In the ten months since their wedding, he had been telling himself to take charge of his life, to be the master of his fate and of his household. But Mitsuko was always there, increasingly the immovable axis on which the world was spinning: silent, alluring, and drawing him, it seemed, ever farther from his god, ever deeper into darkness.

Find a nice, white congregation, Dr. Wilson had told him. Finding any congregation had seemed like such a victory before. From dirt farmer's son to pastor of his own church, what more could he have asked for? After his initial disappointment, it had not seemed to matter that the Lord had called him to minister to “colored” people as Wilson put it. This was to be his life, and he had been satisfied. But now he saw that there was an opulence in this city of a kind he had never known—and certainly never thought to share in.

The night was piercingly cold, but when he put his key in the lock and opened his apartment door, he was met by a soft, warm blanket of moisture that clouded his glasses.

“I'm back,” he called, removing his glasses to wipe them, but there was no answer. He stood there in his overcoat, listening, until he heard splashing in the bathroom tub. Smiling, he hung his coat up and changed into his slippers.

“I'm back,” he called again, scuffling over to the bathroom. “Daddy!” called Billy, his voice reverberating off the hard tile walls.

“Taking a bath?” Tom asked, twisting the knob and walking into the billowing steam clouds, but he was not prepared for the sight that greeted him. Mitsuko was not kneeling outside the tub, washing Billy, as Tom had imagined. She was in the water with him, a towel wrapped around her hair. Billy was straddling her naked thighs and excitedly holding up a homemade sailboat to Tom with one hand, while the other hand was pressed against Mitsuko's breast for support. Both of them were bright red from head to foot, and Mitsuko's forehead was beaded with sweat.