Weedflower (7 page)

Bull, who had probably never given a speech in his life, said a few soft words about what he called the world of change. In the world of change you accept the changes that can’t be helped. You suffer so you can learn, and you learn so you can be a better person in your next life. The cool night air blew on Sumiko’s face while Bull spoke. She sniffed softly at the scent of flowers, much weaker at night than in the mornings, when the air was thick with fragrance. She had often tried to decide which was nicer, the mysterious night scent or the intense day scent.

Ichiro started talking about how angry he was over everything that was happening to them. Bull nodded his head. Sumiko knew he admired and respected Ichiro a great deal. But he didn’t express anger himself.

When Ichiro stopped talking, Sumiko prayed for safety for her uncle and grandfather and Mr. Ono. She’d once heard their Buddhist minister say that it wasn’t the Buddhist way to pray for something specific for yourself. But it’s my way, Sumiko thought. And she repeated to herself in her head, Please keep them safe.

8

I
CHIRO BROUGHT HOME NEWSPAPERS EVERY DAY
. H
E
made Sumiko wait until he was finished with every word before she could touch the papers. She tried to read from the back, but if he caught her, he made her stop because he said it annoyed him. In the evenings the family listened to the radio together. It was strange to hear governors and other important people talking about her as if she were dangerous. One of the strangest things she heard was when one American general said of the
Nikkei,
“The very fact that no sabotage has taken place to date is a disturbing and confirming indication that such action will be taken.”

Sumiko would sit at her window at night and think about the puzzle of those words:
The very fact that no sabotage has taken place to date is a disturbing and confirming indication that such action will be taken
. She’d memorized that line. As far as she could tell, what the general was saying was that since not a single instance of
Nikkei
sabotage had occurred, that confirmed such sabotage would take place in the future. So if the Japanese behaved themselves perfectly well and didn’t break any laws, their
good
behavior could be taken as evidence of bad intentions. But she also knew that if they did break laws, their
bad
behavior would also be taken as evidence of bad intentions. Either way, they were doomed.

In February anyone of Japanese ancestry was restricted to a nighttime curfew until 6
AM
. Ichiro broke curfew every day to travel to the flower market.

One night Sumiko got up to talk to him before he left. He was eating the breakfast she’d prepared for him the night before.

“Ichiro?”

“Why aren’t you in bed?” he said tiredly.

“I wanted to ask you something.” She felt wide awake. “What if some soldiers stop you?”

“They stop me almost every day.”

“They do? What do they say?”

“They ask me what I’m doing, and I show them the flowers in the truck, and they let me go. Get to bed now. Don’t you have to work on the carnations tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Get your rest, then.”

Back in bed she thought about how much she liked the flower mart. Someday when she owned her shop, she would go to the market to pick out the best flowers. She imagined being on the outside of the market instead of on the inside. The most exciting moments of the morning at the market were when the opening bell rang, the accordion gate opened, and the customers rushed in like a wave. She liked to imagine riding that wave right into the flowers.

By the end of February more than two thousand
Nikkei
had been arrested without being charged with a crime. Many elders, as well as anyone who was a leader in the community, had been arrested. Uncle had once been president of a
Nikkei
flower growers association, plus he was born in Japan. Ichiro had heard that the FBI had been keeping files on
Nikkei
leaders for years.

Auntie got a letter from Uncle saying that he and Jiichan were in a prison camp in North Dakota. He warned Auntie to cooperate with authorities. Some of his letter was blacked out by censors. Sumiko took
the letter outside and held it up to the sun to see if she could read beneath the black marks, but she couldn’t read a thing. Maybe the blacked-out parts were about the weather. Jiichan hated the cold. She worried he’d get sick.

Then suddenly
Nikkei
residents of the fishing community on Terminal Island were told by the government that they had forty-eight hours to evacuate the island, bringing only what they could carry. Many fishermen had been arrested as potential spies, and the wives who remained spoke little English. Some Japanese, even those without much money, owned beautiful wood furniture. From her cousin, Auntie heard stories about swarms of people who had descended on the island and bought up all the beautiful furniture for a fraction of its worth.

Every new law and development sent the community into an uproar. But the weird thing was that throughout all the furor, Sumiko’s daily life hardly changed. She disbudded flowers, she graded and bunched them, she heated the bathwater. And she never went to school.

In March people of Japanese ancestry were given one week to evacuate Bainbridge Island near Seattle. Unlike the evacuees from Terminal Island, those from Bainbridge Island were to be taken to “reception centers.” Ichiro said “reception centers” meant “big jails.” The evacuees could bring only what they could carry
and needed to dispose of all their personal effects beforehand. As at Terminal Island, people swarmed over the neighborhood to buy up household goods— and property—for a cheap price.

Sumiko went outside many nights and knelt among her peach
kusabana
. She filled her lungs with the smell of cloves and dirt. Amid all that was going on, she managed to feel calm out there among her flowers.

A few weeks later Ichiro called a family meeting after dinner. They sat in the living room waiting for him to speak. Finally he said, “I’ve decided we need to think about abandoning the farm and getting out of California.”

Auntie laid her palm on her chest. “The Miyamotos tried to leave for Nevada. Some men with rifles met them and turned them back.”

“How would we make a living in another state?” Bull said. “Should we just leave behind the flowers?”

Nobody asked Sumiko’s opinion, but she gave it anyway. “I want to stay on my farm,” she said.

“Where would we go?” Bull said doubtfully. “And what if they decide not to evacuate us after all?”

“The governor of Colorado spoke out in defense of us. I thought we could go there.”

Bull frowned. “Here we can support ourselves. And—” He frowned even more deeply. “And the flowers. How can we leave them?”

“We can’t leave the flowers!” Sumiko said. “Who’ll take care of them?”

“What does it matter?” Ichiro said.

“But it does matter!” She tried to think why. “It matters because the flowers are—they’re—everything we do depends on the flowers!”

Auntie said, “We should stay here where we’re with other Japanese.”

Ichiro said, “All of you think about it, and we’ll have another meeting tomorrow.”

But the meeting never happened, for the next day the decision was made for them when the government announced that
Nikkei
were prohibited from voluntary evacuation of the West Coast. They were, basically, under arrest. They could not leave the area.

9

O
NE MORNING
S
UMIKO NOTICED THAT THEY’D ALL
begun to look at their belongings differently, assessing what items might be worth good money. They started eating at the kitchen table for dinner to avoid getting the dining-room table dirty, just in case they needed to sell it.

More areas had been evacuated. But a couple of reliable men in the neighborhood had heard that Sumiko’s community wouldn’t be evacuated until June. So Sumiko’s family was pretty surprised in May when a sign appeared in a neighborhood not far from where they lived. The sign announced that in one week all
Nikkei
in the area would be evacuated to a
temporary center at a racetrack. Sumiko was filled with a weird feeling then, a feeling she never would have expected: relief. Finally the moment they’d feared was here!

Bull and Ichiro went out the next day, as required, to register the family with the government and receive a family ID number.

Suddenly hundreds of people in the area were selling cars, furniture, and tractors. Auntie moaned at her stupidity for not selling their furniture earlier. Whenever Sumiko looked out the front window, she saw
hakujin
driving down the dirt road. Sometimes the cars stopped at Sumiko’s house. Their house had become a store. People by the dozens tramped through, touching their things and offering them much less than the items were worth.

Every day men looked at Baba but declined to buy her. Sumiko and Tak-Tak would spend an hour each evening sitting on the stable floor with the horse. Sometimes Tak-Tak would brush Baba down, but other times he would just sit on the ground and sing songs with Sumiko, to keep Baba company during these last days with her as their horse. Tak-Tak even begged to sleep in the stable, but Auntie said no.

One day Sumiko and Tak-Tak were in their room playing cards when Bull entered. He set Tak-Tak in his lap and said, “Someday I’ll get you all the horses you want.”

Tak-Tak’s eyes lit up. “I want twenty—twenty-one counting Baba!”

“Okay, I’ll get you twenty.” Bull seemed exhausted. Nobody spoke for a moment, and Bull continued quietly. “I’ve sold Baba. At least she’ll have a home now.”

Tak-Tak’s mouth fell open, and he made a little choking noise. His face got all screwed up, but at first he didn’t cry at all. He ran outside, Sumiko following.

When they reached the stable, it was, of course, empty. Then Tak-Tak cried and cried. Sumiko sat with him in the hay for an hour, until his sobs turned to whimpers. They went inside and found their beds had been sold.

That night they lay on the floor where their beds used to be. Auntie wanted them to keep sleeping in their room because she had the crazy idea that this would help “keep things normal.” But no curtains hung in the window, and moonlight slashed shadows across the barren room. Tak-Tak seemed all cried out.

Bull came in to say good night. First he went to Tak-Tak and said that he had decided to make him a special box to carry his crickets in when they evacuated. “Thank you,” Tak-Tak said glumly.

When Bull said good night to Sumiko, he asked, “Is there anything you need?”

“No. Bull, I’m sorry about Baba.”

“It’s over now,” he said.

“What was the man like who bought her?”

Bull didn’t answer, and Sumiko knew that the rest of Baba’s life would not be pleasant. Finally Bull said resignedly, “How much did you sell that scarf for?”

“A dollar.”

“Almost as much as for the horse,” he said.

“There are more horses for sale than expensive silk scarves.”

“All right,” he said, instead of “good night.” The shadows cut his back in two as he walked out. Sumiko lifted her blankets and went over to Tak-Tak. She lay down and put her arms around him.

He felt strange and cold, not like a living boy. “When do you think you’ll have your flower shop?” he said.

“Maybe when I’m twenty-five.”

“Do you think Baba will still be alive?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. She pressed her nose into his hair. He pulled away.

“Do you think Ichiro will make a lot of money?”

“He says he will.”

“When?” he said.

“I don’t know.”

“Before you own your flower shop?”

She thought that over, then said, “Yes, he’ll be successful first because he’s older.”

“Do you think he can buy Baba back?”

She started to say she didn’t think so, but instead she said, “Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she lied. “I’m sure.”

10