Paper Wishes (11 page)

Inside the jail, Ron sits at a table. Behind him, there are rooms with bars. As soon as we walk through the door, Ron stands.

“Father,” Ron says in his whisper voice. He looks at the ground.

Mother hugs him. She reaches her hand up and smooths his hair back from his forehead. I do not hear what she says to him.

Grandfather hugs Ron next.

“Son,” Father says. His voice rumbles.

Ron finally looks up.

“I'm sorry,” Ron tells him.

“For leaving school?” Father asks.

“No,” Ron says. “Not school. They told me about the words painted on the wall last night. I'm sorry for shaming you this way.”

Father does not speak for a moment. Then he clears his throat. “This shame is not yours,” he says.

A soldier comes inside the room with us. “Mr. and Mrs. Tanaka,” he says. He looks at Grandfather.

“My grandfather,” Ron says.

“Please sit,” the soldier says. “We'd like to release Ron. But even before the graffiti in your block last night, we knew it might not be safe for him. We can transfer him to another camp. Minidoka in Idaho seems like the best choice. But we can consider Arizona, too.”

“Idaho? Arizona?” Mother whispers. “They are so far away.”

“Or we can release him here,” the soldier says. “But we can't guarantee his safety.”

“What about at the other camps?” Father asks. “Can you guarantee his safety there?”

“No,” the soldier says. “But I think it would be better than here.”

“Can he return to school?” Grandfather asks.

“That might be an option down the road,” the soldier says. “But there's a lot of paperwork to handle before that can happen, and we can't keep him in jail that long. I'll leave you folks to talk about it.”

After the soldier is gone, Father speaks. “You must go,” he says. “The soldier is right. It is not safe for you here.”

“I agree,” says Mother.

“Grandfather?” Ron asks.

“I think the only choice is which camp,” Grandfather says.

Ron's shoulders slump.

“The camp in Idaho is closest to home,” Mother says.

“Maybe it will be a place where you can come, too,” Ron says.

By the time the soldier returns, Ron has told Mother what he would like her to pack for him.

“Have you made a decision?” the soldier asks.

“Minidoka,” Ron says.

“I'll arrange for you to leave tomorrow,” the soldier says.

Mother and Grandfather and Father wait at the door when Ron bends down next to me.

“I'm sorry I can't stay,” he says.

I wrap my arms around his neck.

“Maybe this time you will come to me,” Ron says.

I do not want to let go of Ron's neck, but Father picks me up and carries me.

I have so many tears that Father's shirt is wet when I rest my cheek against it.

*   *   *

Mother does not make me go to school after we leave the jail. She keeps me inside our room, folding sheets and blankets and clean clothes for Ron. She shows me where to stack Ron's books so that she can choose which to send with him. But when she is ready to pack his suitcase, she sends me outside.

“I need to concentrate,” she says, “so I can get this done quickly before I have to go to work.”

While I squat next to the empty mounds of Mother's garden, I can feel eyes staring at my back.

I spin around.

No one is there.

I can hear panting behind me.

I turn as fast as I can.

No one is there. Not anywhere.

I creep along the path as slow as I can. In case I feel something. In case I hear something.

But I don't.

Then a light breeze wafts past my nose. Salty, sandy, fresh.

I run. Back to where I saw the silhouette last night. Over to the water pump, where I remember shadows and whines. I look under steps, behind barracks, inside windows. I look and I run.

I run until Grandfather catches me.

He lifts me high into his arms, tight against his chest. He carries me home.

“He is not here, little one,” Grandfather says.

I want to tell Grandfather he is wrong. I felt him. I heard him. I smelled him.

But I know Grandfather is right.

“He is not coming,” Grandfather says.

I want to tell Grandfather he is wrong about that, too. The wind carried thirty-one drawings. And a message shone in my lantern.

But I know Grandfather is right.

Yujiin did not find my drawings. He did not see my message.

“You must stop looking for him,” Grandfather says.

How can I stop looking for him?

I want to tell Grandfather: Remember? Once, I let him go. I let him go.
I.

I wish dust would fill my nose so that I cannot smell. I wish dust would blow past my ears on the wind so that I cannot hear. I wish dust would cover my eyes so that I cannot see.

But mostly I wish I would not feel this big empty space inside of me. Yujiin is gone. And now Ron is gone, too.

When I am in bed that night, I overhear Grandfather's rumbling low voice.

“Perhaps enough time has passed that Manami is ready for a dog now,” he says.

“Do you think she has forgotten Yujiin?” Father asks. “Then why isn't she talking?”

“She will not forget Yujiin,” Grandfather says. “But Manami is the kind of girl who must have something to care for. Caring for the garden was good for her. And I think her heart is ready for a new friend. Especially now that Ron is leaving. Maybe her new friend will teach her to talk again.”

After a while, Father says, “I will ask the soldiers if there are any new dogs.”

The room becomes silent after their talk. Then I hear sleeping sounds: soft breaths, light snores. Is Grandfather right? Will a new friend fill the empty space inside of me? Will a new friend help me talk again? It takes a long time for me to fall asleep.

*   *   *

The next morning, Mother says, “I will walk to school with you.”

We leave early. Mother doesn't want to meet anyone on the way, I think. She carries a bowl with a cloth wrapped around it.

Mother motions for me to wait outside when she walks up the steps to Miss Rosalie's classroom. But I pretend I don't see her and follow behind.

Tears slide down Mother's cheeks when she tells Miss Rosalie, “We saw him yesterday. He has gone to Minidoka in Idaho, where he will be safe. Safer than here.”

“If only he had returned to Indiana,” Miss Rosalie says.

“If he had returned to Indiana, then he would be someone else,” Mother says.

Mother puts her arms around Miss Rosalie, hugging her close.

She puts the bowl filled with salty-sour rice balls in Miss Rosalie's hand.

Mother is taking care of Miss Rosalie, too.

Later, in class, Miss Rosalie tells us stories about her kitten. It is not chatter, but it is not silence either.

She walks around the room, touching each student's shoulder. It is not flitting, but it is not sitting either.

When I walk home, I wrap my scarf around my head, covering my ears. I hold my hands alongside my eyes, blocking everything except what is right in front of me. This way I cannot listen or look.

I think I will make an ocean picture in the dirt. In Block 3. In front of our barracks.

I unwrap my scarf and hand it to Grandfather.

First, I sweep the dirt in front of our barracks. The mud is gone and the dirt is hard, so it is easy to sweep it smooth.

Next, I use Grandfather's rake to draw waves in the dirt. I have to dig into it to carve out the waves and show their curling edges.

I add a beach and my sitting rock.

Grandfather sits on the steps in front of our room and looks at the ocean waves.

“Listen to the waves roll in and out,” Grandfather says. “Watch them. Breathe in and out with them.”

The waves reach beyond the prison-village. Beyond the mainland. All the way to the island.

I breathe in and out.

And suddenly, I hear a yap.

I see a fluffy little body run across the waves and along the beach.

I hear Grandfather take in a quick breath.

I see Father and Mother coming toward me.

I jump up and run.

For a second I think, Yujiin!

Only, now that I hold him in my arms, I see that it is not Yujiin. He is white, like Yujiin. Fluffy, like Yujiin. Soft, like Yujiin.

He puts his nose in my neck, like Yujiin.

He licks my chin, like Yujiin.

Father speaks. “A soldier said someone abandoned this dog by the gate. It's been following him around, but he does not want it.”

Mother speaks. “He is not Yujiin. But he is yours, if you will have him. He needs someone to take care of him.”

Grandfather speaks. “He will not replace Yujiin in your heart. But he will make your heart bigger to fit himself inside, too.”

I take this fluffy white dog—who is not Yujiin and will not replace Yujiin—inside the house. I pour water from a pitcher into a small bowl and set it on the floor. I break a hard cookie into pieces, put the pieces in a small bowl, and set the bowl next to the water. After he eats and drinks, I make a nest for him on my bed. I curl up beside him, tucking him into my arms. He snorts and sighs and sleeps. Grandfather was right. I have taken care of him. And I feel my heart growing bigger.

 

DECEMBER

As hot as the summer was in this prison-village, winter is that cold. Winter is not wet, like on the island. It is dry. Cold and dry.

Sores stretching across my chapped knuckles rip open and bleed. Skin peels from my lips. My eyes sting and burn.

At least there is no fresh dust to coat my nose and mouth. At least there is a soft body to warm me at night.

Father calls my small friend Seal.

“Dark eyes, dark nose,” Father says. “White, just like a seal pup.”

Seal and Grandfather walk me to school in the morning. They sit on the steps of our barracks during the day, having long conversations, which are just between themselves, Grandfather says. They meet me near the flagpole in the school yard at the end of the day.

During school hours, Seal is sometimes Grandfather's dog, resting by his side. He is sometimes Father's dog, trotting around the work crew. He is sometimes Mother's dog, waiting at the door of the mess hall.

But in the hours before school and after school, Seal is my dog. He bounces and yaps at me even though I cannot laugh. He whines and follows me even though I cannot call. And when his body is pressed close to my chest, or when he wags his tail while he laps up potatoes and chicken, or when he flops onto the steps watching the path, my heart squeezes closed.

It should be Yujiin who bounces and yaps.

It should be Yujiin who whines and follows.

It should be Yujiin who wags and flops.

My heart hurts and I remember that it is my fault that Yujiin is wandering alone out there.

Then Seal rests his nose on my neck and my heart opens up again.

*   *   *

But even with Seal pressed against me, I am not happy.

Not happy in this prison-village.

Not happy without Ron.

When I watch Father and Mother, it is not unhappiness I see. It is fear.

Fear on the faces of many in Block 3. The air hums with the stomping boots of soldiers and policemen.

Until one night, I hear sirens and screams.

The next morning we hear the news:

A man was beaten.

By men wearing masks.

By men who, under those masks, have faces just like mine.

I remember the wild boys and their talk of spies and traitors.

I am glad that Ron has gone away.

*   *   *

Fear swells all day. A few people gather by the administration buildings. Then a few more and a few more. The crowd grows until it is bigger than all of the people in Block 3. More people than many blocks combined.

Fear grows from a hum to crackles and sizzles. Softly at first, then louder and louder.

“Riot! Stay inside!” is whispered from barracks to barracks in Block 3.

But even inside, I can hear crackles and sizzles turn into roars.

Shouts.

Shots.

The next day, we hear whispers:

Two boys shot.

One is dying.

One is dead.

*   *   *

After the riot, school is canceled.

Kimmi and Coco stay in our room while Kimmi's mother works. Kimmi tries to teach Seal to balance a paper ball on his nose.

No one goes out alone.

No one goes out for long.

We receive a letter from Ron.

It is creased and a little dirty.

Mother passes the note to me to read.

Minidoka is cold, even colder than where we are now. Otherwise, it looks the same. Blocks of barracks. Endless space, but no ocean. There is snow already. This camp just opened. It is not full yet. It has few families and few children. The people who are in the camp are from Washington and Oregon.

When Father comes home, Mother hands Ron's letter to him.

“There are few families there,” Grandfather says. “But there are families.”

“There are few children there,” Grandfather says. “But there are children.”

“Shall we try to go there?” Mother asks.

“Yes,” Father says.

“Yes,” Grandfather says.

Yes, I think.

*   *   *

A week after the riot, the prison-village starts to return to normal.

That morning, Mother puts a note in my hand for Miss Rosalie.

Even though school hasn't started again, I find Miss Rosalie in her classroom.

“Yes!” Miss Rosalie says, after reading the note. “This is what I was thinking, too!”

I can guess what Mother wrote: We will try to go to Ron.

Grandfather and Seal are waiting for me outside. On our way home we run into Kimmi.

“Hello, Mr. Ishii,” she says. She drops onto the ground next to Seal and scratches his ears.