Private Life (54 page)

bestrode the Rockefellers' university, until he was pushed here and shunted there, sent to

an out-of-the-way island, only to be elbowed out of there, now confined to this

ramshackle house and mostly (completely) forgotten unless he was recollected as a mere

nuisance. She pitied him as a wife should, but that very pity, that wifely impulse, made

her susceptible to ideas like Einstein blowing up London and the Kimuras spying and

Pete not being Pete at all, but someone else--perhaps Einstein in disguise? If she listened

to Andrew long enough, she would believe that anything was possible, and yet everything

wasn't possible, and so there you were--at an impasse.

That day, she simply kept to herself except for two forays to the kitchen for tea.

All Andrew said, looking up from his paper, was "Perhaps you will feel like cooking

again tomorrow."

And then he was gone completely. When she came down toward midday for a cup

of tea, Stella was confined to the kitchen. Andrew's empty coffee cup was sitting on the

morning paper, and with it, he had secured a note. It read:My dear,You will be most

surprised to learn that I have taken the train to Washington, D.C., on pressing business.

For the last week, I have been torn as to my responsibilities as a navy captain. I

understand what I must do here in Vallejo, but I have come to believe that my larger duty

is to personally deliver my report to the Secretary of the Navy. It is urgent that the

movements of certain persons be restricted. I have been unable to speak to Secretary

Knox over the telephone, as I am not as well known to him as I have been to others in the

past, and so I see with regret that I will have to return to my old haunts, and do what must

be done. I am sure that, once I have spoken to Secretary Knox, the recommendations I

intend to make will be speedily implemented. As for your own activities, my dear, it is

my belief that they can make no further difference to our national security at this point.

She went upstairs, put on her clothes, and went out with a very happy Stella,

though not before calling Pete, who didn't answer.

The knowledge that Andrew was somewhere between their street and

Washington, D.C., and speeding away from her was thrilling. She suspected that his

sense of mission would only grow more pressing as he acted on it--every step would

reinforce every thought; every thought would motivate another step.

The weather, neither bad nor good, seemed glorious. The intervals of sunlight

were dazzling, the intervals of fog invigorating. Daffodils were up, though not blooming.

Pruned stubs of rosebushes had developed tiny shoots. There was a fragrance in the air of

sweet grasses. Stella trotted in front of her, jaunty and alert. They walked toward the

center of town.

In the period of her confinement, the crowds on the streets and in the shops and

cafes had doubled. At the Warrington, she could hardly get in the door, so busy was it.

She had to pick up Stella and carry her in. The lobby was crowded; every phone booth

held a caller. More people were lined up, their nickels in their hands, waiting. Behind the

desk, Cassandra and her daughter (now sixteen) were checking in guests, and there was

another clerk busy, too. The customers lined up five deep. As she passed them, looking

for Mrs. Wareham, she heard Cassandra say to one young man, "Sir, we are putting men

four to a room. Otherwise, we have nothing for you. We are that full."

Then she saw Mrs. Wareham, sitting reliably in the parlor off the lobby. Mrs.

Wareham was doing some embroidery, but stood up when she saw her. Margaret hugged

her tightly.

"Margaret! Sit down right here." Mrs. Wareham patted the chair next to hers and

poured her a cup of tea from the pot on the table beside her, but her face was alive with

curiosity. "What has become of you? And Andrew? I haven't seen him in weeks."

Margaret sipped the tea and told her friend about their strange interlude of spousal

imprisonment--in spite of herself, she made it sound more eccentric than frightening-then about his departure for Washington. Mrs. Wareham clucked with such comforting

disapproval that Margaret felt a bit of horror set in. Yes, he had imprisoned her--that was

not too strong a word--and so she said, vehemently, "I don't care about him! Good

riddance! But where is Pete? And whatever happened to the Kimuras? The last I heard

they'd been--He wouldn't let me even use the--"

Mrs. Wareham pursed her lips and started shaking her head. She had seen nothing

of Pete in weeks, and as for the Kimuras, Lester had been charged in connection with an

illegal gambling operation, and given no bail. That was as much as she knew. "Where

Kiku and Naoko are, I cannot tell you. They are lost in the melee."

They both glanced through the door into the lobby. Even here, Margaret thought,

the melee was frightening. She said, "But Lester's in jail?"

"I say this as a Canadian citizen, Margaret: the sheriff's department will make use

of any excuse to keep a healthy young Japanese fellow behind bars." She leaned forward

and said in a low voice, "Someone from the base who shall remain nameless told me that

the very fact that there has been no sabotage is the clearest proof that some huge act of

sabotage is in the works!"

"Was that Andrew?" The back of her neck prickled as she said this.

"No, Margaret, not Andrew."

Reprieve.

Mrs. Wareham put her hand on Margaret's knee. She said, "Time to be patient and

hope for the best. We don't know what they are doing, or if they were picked up."

"I know they were picked up! I went to Japantown two days after the attack, and a

neighbor told me they were picked up. They weren't doing anything." But she couldn't go

on. The "melee" was too big, too chaotic. Her imagination could not follow the tiny

figures of Mrs. Kimura and Naoko into it. She had that odd feeling again, that terror of

her own life, as if she had not lived it yet and didn't know whether she would survive all

the events she had already survived. All of the sense of freedom and pleasure that she had

been feeling vanished, right then and there, no matter that Andrew was probably to

Sacramento by then. She rearranged Stella on her lap, and felt that she might never speak

again.

The letters from Andrew began about four days later. They came every two days.

Other than hefting the envelopes, which were thick, and looking at the postmarks--Salt

Lake City, Kansas City, Pittsburgh, Washington, D.C., Washington, D.C., Washington,

D.C.--she didn't open them. She decided to follow the promptings of her heart and pitch

them. She occupied her days by walking to the Warrington and doing as Mrs. Wareham

did, working for the Red Cross. They knitted four nights a week, all in khaki yarn--vests,

hats, socks, mufflers, even a child's one-piece suit or two (but in navy blue). During the

days, they packed supplies to be sent off--surgical dressings, washed and mended articles

of clothing from the Salvation Army, decks of cards, copies of books, stationery,

envelopes, pens, and other items wounded soldiers and dispossessed civilians might find

useful or entertaining. When the ladies asked after Andrew, Margaret said that he was

doing secret war-work in Washington. Since everyone seemed to be doing secret warwork, no one probed any further.

One day, when she was walking to the Red Cross center, she saw in the
Examiner
,

"Ouster of All Japs in California Near!" She walked right past. In the next few days, she

found she could follow the story entirely by means of headlines and gossip--internment

camps, relocation centers. Once again, Pete had been prescient, but she had had no word

from him, either. Fortunately, there was a lull in Andrew's letters, but then a thick one

arrived. She held it in her hand and stared at it. He had been gone for weeks now, the

only pleasure of her existence. She almost opened the letter, but then she put it in the

drawer of her bedside stand. Two nights later, though, when she came home from the

knitting, after she changed and got into bed and turned out the light, she began to sense

Andrew's letter. It chilled the room, an ice cube, a black dot in space, infinitely cold. She

turned on the lamp, opened the drawer, took it out, carried it down the staircase and into

the kitchen, where she opened the back door and tossed it into the yard.

1942

1942

ONCE P ETE PULLED AWAY from the curb, she couldn't help stepping out on the

porch and watching his car for a few moments--he turned north on Marin Street and

disappeared. How long did she stand there then, staring blankly across the street at the

front door of the Rutherfords' house? As long as it took for Lydia Rutherford to open the

door and shout, Margaret? You okay? Margaret summoned up a smile and waved her

hand, then turned and went back inside. She closed the door. She locked the door.It was

almost four.She went into the kitchen and let Stella out, then fixed a bowl of food for her-some leftover rice and some small scraps of pot roast and boiled carrots. I have, she

thought, no reason to be alive. Thinking this was a sort of pleasure, so decidedly did it

contrast with every thought that Andrew had ever entertained. Through the window she

could see his last letter. In eighteen hours it had turned into a wet white rectangle in the

lily bed.She was in bed but not asleep when Andrew stepped onto the porch. Stella, who

was downstairs, barked twice--her bark that said, Someone is here; I know who it is. The

door to Margaret's room was open, and she went out into the dark hall without making a

sound, but not down the stairs. She had locked the front door; he had a key. The door

opened and closed. He set down his bag and greeted the dog. Not having read the

telegram, she hadn't kept the light on--he stumbled on the hall rug, knocked against

something, then found the light. Margaret shrank back into the shadow. After a moment

that was punctuated by his sighs, he went into the kitchen. The kitchen light flooded into

the hall. Now she heard him open cabinet doors, pull out a chair. She untied and retied

the belt of her wrapper, then twisted back her hair, which was falling in her face. She

went back to bed.But she could not stay away after all. When she at last entered the

kitchen, he was turned so that his back was to the door. His elbow was on the table and

his head was propped on his hand. Stella, in her basket by the stove, lifted her head but

didn't get up. Margaret's first sensation was resentment at the renewed tedium of it all.

Her second was of the cold, now that she was out of her warm bed and in the clammy

kitchen. It would be colder at the racetrack, in that immense building, of course.When she

sat down at the table, Andrew lifted his head as if its weight was almost too much for

him, and turned to her. He sighed. She knew he wanted her to ask him how he was, or

how his train trip had been, but she didn't say a word. After a very long time, he said, My

dear, you are up. May I offer you a cup of tea?She shook her head. Andrew, you should

know that I didn't read any of your letters, and so I have no idea about your trip. I don't

even know for sure why you went.Well, Einstein ...I was afraid of that. You went to

report Albert Einstein's activities in Vallejo to the navy. How did they take it? She

couldn't keep an edge of mockery out of her voice.They ... He paused but then soldiered