The Sun Gods (3 page)

3

BILL FOUND A NOTE
in his dormitory mailbox. Clare wanted to know why he had not met her for lunch. He was not ready to explain his excursion to the Japanese district, but by the time he found her in the library, the best excuse he could come up with was that he had taken the car to the gas station—which, in a sense, was true.

“You're keeping something from me, Bill. I know it. Do you have another girlfriend?”

“Absolutely not. I swear to God. It's nothing like that.”

“So there
is
something going on. Why can't you share it with me? I'm going to be your wife, aren't I? Who else can you share your problems with?”

Who else? There was only one person he had to share his problems with at this point: his father. But he needed something to talk to him about. When Clare hurried off to her European history class, Bill went to the college's Office of Missions for the umpteenth time. He didn't have to search long before he found a newsletter from an organization called the Evangelical Alliance Mission. The Japan branch was run by an Englishwoman named Irene Webster-Smith, who described her experience of finding Tokyo in ruins after the war. Now she had an office near a big student center, where she concentrated her efforts on bringing the Gospel to Japan's new generation. This would be the perfect thing to talk to his father about.

Bill sat in the phone booth in the dormitory lobby, fingering the pebbled metal surface of the wall with one hand while the other played with the nickel in his pocket. Finally, he dropped the coin in the slot and dialed the number of his father's church.

Thomas Morton seemed to be in particularly fine spirits, and he readily consented to have a talk with Bill about his missionary plans. He had some ideas on the subject himself, he said, and he could spare an hour at two o'clock tomorrow afternoon if Bill would come to the church.

Even in first gear, the Chevy barely made it up the roller coaster slopes of Dravus St. the next day. As much as he still loved the old car, Bill half wished it would break down then and there. The closer he came to his destination, the more he dreaded the moment when he would open his mouth to speak of what had never been spoken between them. The car whirred and chugged its way past the tiny, boxlike houses to the summit of Magnolia, where wood frames suddenly gave way to brick and stucco, and the roof lines soared upward, above them all the red brick steeple of his father's church, glowing in the light that filtered through the dense gray clouds.

He parked out front and sat for a moment, staring at the white letters on black felt backing, announcing next week's sermon. “The Reverend Thomas Morton, Pastor.” Those words stood out from the others, reminding him of his own special relationship with God through his father, who seemed simultaneously to be pushing him toward the holy gate and also standing before it, challenging his right to enter.

He glanced at his watch. The time was exactly one minute before two. His father expected him to be punctual.

Thomas Morton welcomed Bill into his sparsely decorated office and invited him to sit down in an armchair by the side of his dark, heavy desk, turning in his swivel chair to face him. The ceiling lights reflected momentarily on Tom's octagonal wire-frame glasses. Rather than a son wishing to speak with his father, Bill felt like a member of the congregation who had come to see the pastor about a personal problem.

“You know I've been thinking for some time of missionary work,” Bill said.

“Yes, of course,” Tom replied, smiling and clasping his hands together atop crossed knees. Tom wore his skin like a firm leather covering stretched tight over the square jaw bone. It seemed to match the strong, almost radiant voice that Thomas Morton always projected, though it made him appear somewhat older than his fifty-one years. The impression of age was especially noticeable these days when he had his thirty-nine-year-old wife by his side.

“I think you know I've been seeing someone steadily since the beginning of summer,” Bill added.

“Well, I have had the impression that there was one particular girl, but you've been pretty vague on that topic.”

“We're, uh, thinking of getting married.”

“Oh? Not right away, I hope. Marriage is too serious a matter for young people to rush into.”

“I've been planning to bring her home and introduce her to you and … to both of you.” He hesitated to use the word “Mother” for Lucy.

“Good. What's her name?”

“Clare. Clare Korvald.”

“Ah, a Ballard girl, no doubt!” The deep slash of a smile cut across Tom's leather visage. Ballard was the sprawling Scandinavian neighborhood north of the ship canal.

“Of course,” Bill said, trying to smile back. “Her parents are from Norway.”

“Which means they're Lutherans.”

“No, surprisingly, they're Baptists. I think that's one of the reasons they left. Her father works for Boeing.”

“And she goes to Cascade-Pacific with you?”

“That's right. We're planning to do some missionary work together for a year or two after graduation and before I enter seminary. Clare wants to go to Norway.”

“Sounds perfect. Is she pretty?”

“I think so. Very pretty.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? How about this weekend? I'd love to meet her.”

Bill was not quite ready to make firm plans. “Actually, I wanted to talk about … Norway,” he was surprised to hear himself saying. His father looked just as surprised.

“You probably know more about the country than I do,” Tom said.

“Well, I mean, I don't really want to talk about Norway.”

“Oh. You
don't
want to talk about Norway.”

“I mean, I'm not too crazy about the idea of going there.”

“Well, where would you rather go?”

Bill hesitated a moment. Then he looked directly into his father's eyes and said, “Japan.”

Tom's leathery jowls began to darken in color, almost to a brownish-purple, and his eyes turned to glass. “You don't want to go there,” he said with such absolute finality that it seemed unthinkable there could be any divergence between his own determination and Bill's.

“What's wrong with Japan?” Bill asked as innocently as possible.

“What's right with it? Heathens, all of them. Look at what happened at Pearl Harbor.”

“Which is precisely why they, above all, need to hear the Gospel of Our Lord. I think this country has a moral obligation to bring the healing words of Christ to those people after what they've been through.”

“You mean, after what they put themselves through.”

“That's not a very—”

“Christian?”

“Not a very forgiving attitude. I've been reading about an Englishwoman doing missionary work in Tokyo who—”

“She's wasting her time. And you will be, too, if you go there. There's no such thing as a Japanese Christian.”

“How can you say that? Thousands are being converted every year.”

“Lies. Deception. That's all it is. Not one of them knows how to take Christ into his heart.”

“How can you be so sure?” Bill pressed.

“Believe me,” Tom concluded. “I know.”

“How do you know?”

Tom was now shifting in his chair, the muscles of his jaw working.

“Are you questioning me?” he bellowed. “You don't know anything. You're barely out of your teens. I have lived. I'm talking from experience.”

“And that's exactly what I've come to you to learn. Teach me from your experience! Show me the error of my ways!”

“How can I if you won't listen to me!”

“But I am listening. Tell me why I shouldn't go to Japan. Tell me what you have lived through. Why have you written off an entire people as heathens beyond redemption?”

Tom glared at Bill and said nothing.

“All right, then, let me ask you this,” Bill went on, emboldened now by the emotional upheaval he had caused in his father. “Who was this so-called ‘aunt' I was staying with in Kansas after my mother died?”

Bill knew that he was unleashing a bomb, and it had its intended effect. Tom rose to his full height, towering over Bill, who sat gripping the arms of his chair. Tom raised his fist, then slumped back in his chair, arms dropping limply by his sides.

“Why don't we ever hear from this ‘aunt?'” Bill continued. “Why aren't there any letters? Why aren't there any photographs? What was her name?”

“What does all that have to do with missionary work in Japan?” Tom spluttered.

“I don't know,” Bill answered truthfully. “That's what I want you to tell me.”

“The two have nothing to do with each other. They're completely separate.”

“It's not true! You're lying to me! You've always lied to me about that!”

“Do you know who you're talking to, you young fool!”

“Yes, of course! You're my father, and you're not telling me the truth! I want to know about Mitsu—who she was to me and to you!”

“Get out!” Tom shouted with such force the windows rattled. “Get out!”

Suddenly, it was as if Tom's energy was spent. He turned his face away and waved feebly toward the door.

Bill pried his fingers from the arms of his chair and struggled to his feet. He dragged himself across the office and closed the door behind him.

PART TWO:

1939

4

BILLY CHEWED ON
the end of his little brown necktie as Tom struggled to pull the groggy boy's coat on. Five months past his first birthday—the first anniversary of Sarah's death—Billy was becoming increasingly difficult for him to deal with alone.

Tom had to be at the Japanese Christian Church on Terrace Street an hour and a half early to address the older congregation. His own sermon for the English-language service was ready, but he needed at least ten minutes with Pastor Hanamori before the
Nichigo
service.

Billy rubbed his eyes as Tom placed him in the back seat of his Hudson Coach and headed from Summit Avenue down Union to Broadway. The main thoroughfare was so much more pleasant on Sundays without the long lines of black, boxy, frog-eyed cars. On Sundays you could see people on the sidewalks instead of rows of horse-drawn wagons overflowing with fruit and vegetables. Even the usual mounds of horse manure had been cleaned away, as if in deference to the Lord's day.

The gigantic white cone of Mount Rainier towered over the city like a hill of freshly ground grain. To Tom, there was nothing beautiful about Seattle's most famous landmark. He had spent endless hours under the blazing Kansas sun grinding grain for cattle feed. Whenever he saw the mountain, he could almost feel the grinder's white dust caking his sweaty arms and face.

The car's engine shuddered and coughed as he pulled up in front of his red brick church. Only a short way down the block from Broadway's bustling traffic, the place seemed closed off from the rest of the world, especially now, as the spring leaves of the oaks lining both sides of the narrow street cast their shadows on the brick facade and on the concrete stairs.

Tom carried the sleeping Billy inside, surrendering his bundle to the hands of the aged Mrs. Uchida. Her skin of wrinkled parchment drooped from every skeletal protuberance, which gave her face the appearance of having been formed of capital “U”s. Tom climbed the dark stairway to the second-story office of Reverend Hanamori, where the Japanese books were crammed into shelves from floor to ceiling and there was an ever-present smell of damp paper.

The diminutive, gray-haired Japanese pastor greeted him with the benign smile he showed to all the world, wrinkling the large, brown mole on the side of his nose.

“Good morning, Tom,” he said softly. “You are here early.”

Just as Tom had expected, Reverend Hanamori had forgotten.

“The outing,” said Tom.

“Yes?”

“Today's outing, Reverend Hanamori. I want to invite the Nichigos myself.”

The old Japanese pastor's perfectly round face slowly lit up with recognition.

Was it just the difference in language that caused this inevitable delay in communication every time? The gap between the American-born generation—the Niseis—and these native Japanese was enormous in so many ways! He had learned long ago that, whenever he spoke to the Nichigo congregation, a good deal of preliminary coaching would be necessary if his remarks were to be translated into Japanese accurately. Too often, he had assumed his words were getting through, only to find out afterward that all of the Nichigo choir members had shown up at the wrong time for practice, or that only the ones with children attending his own worship service had managed to find their way to the outing on Hunt's Point.

Oh, those children! What a God-given blessing and inspiration it was to see their hopeful faces turned up to him on a Sunday morning! He blushed to think of the resentment he had felt when he had been sent to shepherd an all-Japanese congregation. Now, each day, he thanked the Lord for the great harvest that it had been given him to reap.

After repeating to the elder reverend his mission this morning, Tom followed him down to the gloomy narthex and into the sanctuary with its three high windows. He watched the gaze of the congregation move from Reverend Hanamori and up his own tall frame to meet his eyes. They never seemed to have grown accustomed to the piercing blue of his eyes, the wheat-field yellow of his hair. He felt to see that his suit coat was buttoned and his vest straight.

Standing beside Reverend Hanamori, listening to the staccato syllables of his Japanese, Thomas Morton allowed his gaze to wander. There was Paul Morikawa, his skin blotched and sagging from years of work under the sun. Not once had the long trek and ferry ride from his Eastside farm prevented him from attending Sunday worship. The widowed Mrs. Tamura: the picture brides she had taken in after their arduous crossing from Japan were still a matter of legend, fifteen years after the floodgates had been closed by the Immigration Act of 1924. Mr. and Mrs. Nomura, among the most youthful and vigorous of the elderly Nichigo congregation: in their zeal for Christ they had boosted Sunday school enrollment to more than four hundred after the retirement of Miss Tessie McDonald, the missionary who had founded the school upon her return from Japan. Mrs. Nomura was wearing a large hat again today—her personal trademark.

The woman sitting next to Mrs. Nomura also wore a broad-brimmed hat. She seemed to be reading something in her lap, and the brim obscured her face. Just as Pastor Tom was about to look away, the woman raised her head, and he felt his legs grow weak.

She was stunning. Her eyes lingered on his for a moment, and then the wide brim of the hat came down, obscuring her face again. He had seen enough to realize that there was a strong resemblance between the woman and Mrs. Nomura. They both had prominent cheekbones and full lips and the double-fold eyelids that he preferred to the narrower single-fold kind. But where Mrs. Nomura had begun to show a middle-aged pallor, this woman had the glow of youth. Even now, with her head bowed, the thrust of her shoulders bespoke a kind of energy that had long since spent itself in the others assembled here. The original Seattle Japanese were in their fifties, the young ones usually in their teens. But this was a woman. She might be twenty-five, or possibly a little older. She was part of the missing generation, the great age gap that had been created by the immigration law.

“…welcome Pastor Tom,” he heard Reverend Hanamori saying, as if from a great distance, and he turned to see the reverend looking up at him expectantly.

He knew he must speak, but for the moment, he had forgotten what it was he had planned to announce. “Dear beloved brothers and sisters of the Nichigo congregation,” he began with practiced sonority, “today I bring you a message of the love of God.”

Now, if only I could recall that message!

“In Psalms 126:3, we read, ‘The Lord has done great things for us; whereof we are glad!' and how can we be anything but glad when we think back on our rich heritage? On May 28, 1900, with the Reverend Kenji Ishihama as pastor, our little church was founded, and a long and rich history of thirty-nine years witnesses to a great heritage.”

Why can't I stop repeating myself?

“It has been a rich heritage indeed, as we remember the sacrifice and faith of those early immigrants who became Christians.”

Lord God
, he prayed,
lift the scales from my eyes and let me see.

“It is difficult to imagine that out of their meager means and trying circumstances, these early Christians purchased land and built buildings. Their zeal for Christ and their love for their fellow immigrants impelled them to reach out over a hundred-mile radius from Seattle, even as far as Vancouver, British Columbia.”

Pastor Tom's panic began to lessen somewhat as he saw the looks of satisfaction among the congregation. All you had to do when you talked to the Nichigos was invoke the struggles of the Isseis—the first generation Japanese immigrants—and they would go with you anywhere. “In time,” he continued, “this permanent sanctuary was erected, and their faith was translated into the solidity of honest red brick. More amazing, they had the foresight to include a gymnasium in their plans—the center for all the youth activities of the Japanese community.”

A gymnasium!
That's it!
The athletic meet and picnic this afternoon!

“Indeed, they left a legacy of untiring devotion and practical service for Christ. The challenge now is for the present generation to take up this rich heritage to ensure a glorious future.”

Look at them beaming.
I could call for $100 donations now and they'd come flocking up here.

He saw the Reverend Hanamori looking at him oddly. Tom had made a point of defining precisely what his little message to the flock was going to be, and now he was wandering all over the landscape. “How my heart is moved by the love of God when I stand before you like this, and I know that you are the very chosen people who were there when it all began!” And, in fact, he
was
moved. What would these people have done? Where would they be today without the love and concern of God Almighty? Would they be kneeling before a golden idol? Prostrating themselves at the feet of some dreaming Buddha, damned forever to the fires of hell? How much more satisfying it was for him to work amid this benighted flock than among people of his own race, to see, in their very difference from himself, the souls that he had won for Christ. He felt the tears begin to well up, and he could feel the waves of emotion rushing toward him from all corners of the sanctuary.

“Good people,” he went on, his voice husky now. “Forgive me if I have gotten off the track. Whenever I see you, I can't help but think of those pioneer Isseis. They gave so much of themselves that we may have this abundant life, as God gave His only begotten Son that we may have everlasting life.” He drew his handkerchief from his back pocket and, chuckling and hanging his head, he wiped his eyes behind his spectacles, then looked up, glowing and triumphant. “Please, Reverend Hanamori,” he said, his voice ringing, “please explain to them how important it is to me and to all of us in the English-language congregation that all of our Nichigos be with us this afternoon in Jefferson Park. If there are any without rides, we will provide them. Let them come to see me, personally, after your service, and even if it means delaying the start of ours, they will be provided for.”

Pastor Tom sent his smile once again to all in the sanctuary, and this time he saw the woman with Mrs. Nomura looking at him with intensity. He strode down the aisle and out through the door.

Ordinarily, while the Nichigo service was in progress, Tom would be in his office, polishing the details of his sermon, but today he paced restlessly back and forth in the broad narthex, greeting the members of his congregation as they began to arrive. When that became tiring, he headed for the darkness of the back corridors.

“Daddy!” he heard Billy's squeaky, little shout as he passed the choir room. His son came running out with Mrs. Uchida close behind.

“He's quite a handful for you, isn't he?” Morton said to the old woman as she picked Billy up.

“Oh, no, Pastor Tom,” she puffed, the enormous bags under her eyes seeming to sag more than usual. “Come, Beelee.”

Billy squealed and reached out for his father.

“You must learn to behave yourself,” said Tom, starting to walk away.

“Pastor Tom, we go with you?” asked Mrs. Uchida.

“Well …” Tom hesitated. “All right.”

“You not busy?” she asked.

“No, not today. Not until the service begins.

“Come, Beelee,” she murmured again, walking ahead of Tom down the hall.

Billy loosened one arm from around Mrs. Uchida's neck and put a finger in his mouth, rolling his eyes up as if in deep thought. Then, his forefinger glistening with saliva, he pointed down the corridor, smiling.

“Wah-tah!” he demanded.

Tom knew that his son loved the drinking fountain in the narthex and would pester anyone in sight into lifting him up to it over and over again. Poor Mrs. Uchida had probably brought him to the choir room just to get away from the fountain.

“Wa-
ter
,” Tom corrected him. “Wa-
ter
!”

“Wa-
ter
,” mimicked Billy.

“That's it,” Tom said, pleased. Mrs. Uchida's influence on the boy's pronunciation would probably not be permanent, but he wished he could find a young Nisei member of the English language congregation to take care of Billy.

Mrs. Uchida continued on down the corridor with Billy pointing the way and squeaking, “Wa-
ter
, wa-
ter
.” In the narthex, she bent to let the boy slurp loudly at the arc of water. When Billy was satisfied, she made a circuit of the narthex, then let him take another drink.

Just then, the doors to the sanctuary opened, and the Reverend Hanamori came out. He stood in the front entrance, bowing and shaking hands as the Nichigos filed past him. Taking Billy from Mrs. Uchida, Tom joined his fellow pastor at the door.

“Remember what I said,” he announced to no one in particular, “anyone who needs a ride this afternoon, just talk to me. And be sure to come!”

Several of the grey-haired churchgoers bowed to him as they passed, murmuring things in Japanese. He recognized the words “
fukuin
,” meaning “gospel,” and “
kokoro kara
”—“from the heart”—among the syllables that Shinichi Kawamoto directed to him, but the rest of it passed him by, and Reverend Hanamori was too busy chattering with other Nichigos to translate for him.

Billy demanded “Wa-
ter
” a few times, but when he saw that he would have to wait for his next drink, he wrapped both arms around his father's neck and laid his head on his chest.

“Pastor Tom,” he heard a soft male voice saying to him, and he turned to see the grey temples and round spectacles of Mr. Nomura. “I want you to meet my sister-in-law.”

Now the woman was standing close to him, her high, clear brow conveying a serenity that only added to his unease. She looked straight at him, the hint of a smile on her full lips. At this point, Mrs. Nomura took over. Her English was much better than her husband's. “This is my sister, Mitsuko,” she said, pronouncing the name “MEETS-ko.” “She's visiting us for a while from Japan.”