The Magic of Ordinary Days (9 page)

“Let us pray for the relief of all suffering, for comfort and prosperity for all, for the end to every skirmish, battle, and war in this world.”

“Amen,” we said together.

After the service ended, Reverend Case held me back in the sanctuary for a moment. With one of his gracious smiles, he said, “I'm so happy to see you again. How are you liking it here?”

I didn't want to lie. “It's peaceful.” But still, he looked concerned. “I enjoyed your sermon.”

He put one hand on my back and gave a soft pat. “You're among friends here, Olivia.” Then he led me into the kitchen area, where we chatted with Martha, Hank, and the children.

Ray then introduced me to the infamous Mrs. Pratt, who indeed handed over a cake. She grinned and touched my sleeve. “What a wonderful thing that Ray has finally married.” Cake in hand, Ray headed for the door. Mrs. Pratt moved closer. “And how did you and Ray meet?”

In one instant, I knew why I hadn't wanted to attend church.

My father planned to tell everyone in Denver that I had eloped. During the war years, two people taking off together and marrying on the sly was a perfectly acceptable thing to do. Rushed weddings happened every day, sometimes just hours before a soldier was shipping out. Not until the baby came would people realize that I had to get married.

I said, “I eloped.”

Mrs. Pratt looked baffled. Then Ray was back at my side. “We met in Denver several months ago.”

“How romantic.” She was genuinely pleased. “I never knew you traveled to Denver,” she said to Ray, then winked.

Although a potluck was planned for noontime, we declined to stay, as Ray said he had another place he wished to take me. On the way home, he explained, “There's a fishing hole nearby. Thought you might like to see it.”

Truthfully, I'd never liked fishing. Once my uncle had taken Abby, Bea, and me out to a pier on a lake, but after a few minutes of no bites, my sisters and I had abandoned our poles and gone off exploring in the woods on our own. But anything would be an improvement over spending the rest of the day at the house. So when Ray drove us home, we changed into denims and shirts, then headed out again. At the edge of Holbrook Lake, Ray led me to an overturned rowboat. He righted it and slipped the bow into the water, keeping the stern on shore so I could hop in without getting wet. A minute or so later, he pushed us off. Ray dipped the oar on one side and then the other. Soon we were in the center of the lake surrounded by dragonflies courting over the surface of the water.

“Middle of the day's not the best time for fishing,” Ray said. “But maybe we'll get lucky.”

Rimming the bank were stands of cottonwoods and fingery willows. Pheasants prattled about in the branches near the ground, and in the top of the tallest tree, a bleached bone of spindly arms, I saw a tangled nest that could only have been home to something quite large, perhaps a hawk or an eagle. Ray cast out a line and waited. I leaned back on the wooden slat that served as my seat and closed my eyes into the sunlight. I had to admit it was restful here, on this pond.

“It's nice,” I said to Ray without opening my eyes. “Thank you for bringing me.” And thank you for lying to Mrs. Pratt.

I could barely hear his voice over the sound of whirring dragonflies and tender licks of water against the sides of the boat. “Hoped you'd like it.”

I kicked off my sneakers in the bottom of the boat and fanned out my toes. Later, I felt Ray shift his weight, then I heard him reeling in his line. In the bright light outside my lids, I saw that he had caught something. “Cutthroat,” Ray said as the fish flipped in the water at our side. Ray lifted it into the air, where the creature began its struggle for life.

But I had to look away.

“Trout are good eating. And this one's fair size.” I could hear him working on getting the hook out of its mouth.

“I don't think I could eat anything I've seen breathing.”

“Well,” he said, still working. “Fish don't really breathe.”

“I know. Gills instead of lungs.”

“Look,” Ray said.

I saw that he had removed the hook, that he was slowly sinking the trout back in the water. He held that fish so gently in his large drum of a hand that it surprised me. For a few seconds, he held on, letting the fish move within his hand. He explained, “Got to let it get used to the feel of water on its gills again.” After a few more seconds he let it go. “See, it's okay. It's swimming off now.”

I watched the silver shadow disappear into deeper water. “You didn't have to do that.”

Ray took off his hat, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, then replaced the hat. Looking off into the willows, he said, “Being out here is the point. Fishing is just...” He searched for the right word. “An excuse, I suspect.”

“Thanks for letting it go.”

“You bet.”

“I can't fillet a fish anyway.”

“I can,” he said, nodding. “But it's a heap of trouble.”

The surface of the lake became flat and still and solid as marble. I stretched out in the boat like a cat on a windowsill. To my surprise, I enjoyed this day. Ray was enjoying it, too, and that worried me more than being miserable.

Seven

The next day, in late afternoon, Rose and Lorelei showed up on my porch, smiling and looking as if they'd just come from the beauty shop, not from the fields. Their hair looked freshly curled and styled, their cotton shirts still held creases along the tops of the sleeves, and their denims showed no sign of dirt, no tears or faded patches, either. Only their dusty, scraped shoes gave away that these girls had just come from working in the dirt. How did they do it? Obviously they wore gloves to protect their hands, but how were they able to keep their clothing so untouched?

“We skipped off from our overseer,” Rose explained.

“She's Issei, very strict,” said Lorelei.

I welcomed them in as I recalled the meaning of the name, Issei. First-generation Japanese emigrated to the U.S. were called by this name; they retained much of their traditional values and mores. These two sisters were clearly Nisei or Sansei, second- or third-generation American citizens by birth. As we later sat on the steps sipping Cokes out of green bottles through paper straws, they told me they had both been enrolled at UCLA before the evacuation notices went up.

Rose said, “When I was only seven, I won first place in the spelling bee at my school. And ever since, I've wanted to teach English.” She finished her Coke and set the bottle down on the porch step without making a sound. “The language and the words,” she said, “must be perfect.”

“And perfectly spelled,” Lorelei said, elbowing her sister.

Rose spoke back, but her quiet voice could barely manage to criticize. “At least I've set my plans.”

Lorelei played with her hair, flipping it just under her ear. She explained to me, “Back at school, I hadn't settled on a major yet. Too many things interested me, so I was taking all the required courses first.”

Rose snickered. “She studied the senior boys.”

Lorelei laughed aloud, covered her mouth, and then blushed. “Only the clever ones. Or the dashing ones,” she said. She hung her hands over her feet and sat so that their shadow covered her work shoes.

Later I told them about the history studies I, too, had abandoned. That once I had planned to go on expedition to Egypt, to help decipher the hieroglyphs, to aid in recording the excavation of tomb chambers buried in the sands.

“Ah, King Tut,” Rose said.

At last, a conversation about another part of the world, off this farm. The discovery of King Tut-ankh-amen's tomb in 1922 had awakened much of the general population to the wonders of ancient Egypt, but I doubted that its reach had extended to many others in the onion fields. “And so many other tombs, so many other kings and princesses, as well,” I said. “I was particularly interested in studying the pharaoh who ruled before King Tut, named Akh-en-aten.”

They looked as if they wanted me to continue.

“Historians think he had a misshapen head and hips because portraits reveal this about him. And he believed in only one god, Aten, and he built a great holy city, Horizon-of-the-Aten, in his honor.”

Rose looked at her hands, then she turned and asked me, “Do you miss it?”

I hadn't expected such a direct question. “Yes,” I answered her. Then I hugged my knees to my chest. “But in many ways, just listening to the radio news is a study in history. Especially now.”

Rose looked out over the open fields. “I miss all the lively conversations, the sharing of ideas. A classroom of students may read the same piece of poetry or the same passage in a novel, and each person will interpret it differently.”

I turned to face her. “It's the same,” I said. “Exactly the same way with history, too.”

“Is it?”

“Think about it,” I told her. “Even the facts of history are tainted by personal views. Depending on beliefs, every side in every conflict has been seen as both right and wrong.”

Rose answered softly, “Of course.”

Then it dawned on me. These girls would understand differences in views better than most. After all, they had been moved and confined by a country at war with the country of their ancestors. They were living among people who assumed our white brains superior to theirs. The surprise attack on Pearl Harbor and the hardships of the war in the Pacific had come as a shock to those Americans who thought Japan incapable of executing anything intelligent or difficult. Yet Rose and Lorelei were as American as I was. What internal struggles must torment them?

“In years to come, all of this present history may be viewed differently,” I said.

“Just as books and poems are continually being reread and reevaluated,” said Rose.

“Literature has had a profound effect on history.”

“For example,
Uncle Tom's Cabin.”

“Exactly.”

Later we walked about the farm, visited the pond, and tossed sticks for Franklin to lazily retrieve. I invited them to come over again, and when I explained I had a truck available to me, one with plentiful gasoline, their faces lit up like tinfoil left out in the sun.

“We could look for butterflies in the thickets,” said Lorelei.

“Or on the open prairie,” added Rose.

I could hardly wait. “Come again and we'll go driving.”

That night, I found myself moving without effort. I remembered running on younger legs, the wind whipping between campus buildings, and the feel of new book pages beneath my fingers. I remembered the classroom discussions that had taken my thoughts down new paths, records played on the radio, and whispered thoughts only girlfriends have the courage to share.

As I was cooking dinner, Ray came up behind me. He looked over my shoulder at the tuna fish casserole I was stirring up in a bowl. Something surely did seem to please him, and I thought it was the food. “Does it look good?” I asked him.

“Sure enough,” he said. “But that's not why I'm standing here. I wanted to listen better.”

I stopped stirring. Then he told me, “You were singing to yourself.”

Eight

Ray and I began to attend church every Sunday. Despite a few sets of questioning eyes, I didn't object because it was my only chance to escape the farm, and I enjoyed the peaceful messages of Reverend Case's sermons. And, too, I enjoyed seeking out Martha and trying to piece together an early picture of life on the land where now I lived.

“Ray tore down the old shack,” I told her on a Sunday in early October.

“Oh, dear,” she said with a smile. “Hank would have done the same, I'm afraid. But you ought to be able to find the dugout.”