Garden of Stones (9 page)

The tag made five.

10

Word got around that Miyako had no husband to protect her, and she could no longer walk freely in the streets without suffering unwanted attention. Adolescent boys followed her; men made catcalls and rude invitations as she walked to the laundry, the ironing house, the general store. Even the wizened, broken-toothed Issei who crouched under the barracks’ eaves, out of the wind, watched her unabashedly.

Men had watched Miyako in Los Angeles too, but they were covert about it there, glancing over a hymnal at church or letting their gaze linger too long at Miyako as they held the door for her at the post office. But here in the camp, the conventions of polite society were unraveling. Overwhelmed families were fracturing. Gangs of young men, bored and emboldened, roamed the camp. Men fraternized with each other in the evenings, drinking smuggled liquor and smoking.

Miyako wore her sunglasses and wrapped her hair in scarves and kept her chin held high, but the strain showed in her hollow eyes, her lack of appetite. She went out less and less, refusing even the invitations from the other women in the block to attend church, to join in efforts to spruce up the barrack, to share precious hoarded tea.

Aiko came to visit one warm afternoon in April. She had surprised those who knew her by being one of the first to take a job. All the internees were encouraged to work, but unskilled workers were paid eight dollars per month, a sum that made Miyako curl her lip contemptuously since, as she told Lucy, she used to spend more than that on hats alone. Still, most people jumped at the chance of a job, any job at all; former merchants labored as mess-hall workers; artists toiled alongside ministers in ditches and warehouses. Those lucky enough to have a skill that was in demand—doctors, nurses, teachers, dentists—were paid for their labor the sum of nineteen dollars per month.

Aiko had secured a position in the net factory inside Manzanar, which made camouflage nets for use by the troops fighting overseas. The nets were made by weaving strips of fabric through a large mesh that was suspended from the ceiling twenty feet high, and the workers had to wear masks to prevent the fibers from aggravating their lungs, but the pay was better than most jobs available inside the camp—and more important, Aiko said she liked to stay busy.

“You need to get outside,” she chided Miyako, as they had tea in Lucy and Miyako’s room. The porcelain tea set that had belonged to Renjiro’s mother was one of the few luxuries Miyako had shipped to Manzanar. “You’re even more pale than before!”

It was true; most people spent time outside in the sun, from sheer boredom and a desire for a change of scenery, if no other reason, but Miyako stayed in her room nearly all the time. Lucy herself had developed lines where the sun browned her skin below her sleeves from roaming the avenues and building sites from breakfast until dinnertime.

“You need a job,” Aiko said decisively, ignoring Miyako’s protests. “Soon Lucy will be in school, and then you’ll have nothing to occupy your time at all.”

The start of school was imminent and unavoidable. Lucy had enjoyed her freedom from the classroom, but already evacuee parents were organizing classes and nursery schools. Each block had a barrack set aside for use as a recreation center, and some of the men were building simple tables and benches for the children to use. There were rumors of classroom materials arriving any day, and donations of used textbooks, paper and other supplies had been made by churches.

Lucy had no wish to return to a classroom—her final days in school in Los Angeles had left a sour taste. Besides, she was learning to relish her freedom, the ability to leave their barrack in the morning and return whenever she felt like it, sometimes taking her lunch in other blocks’ mess halls. She’d met kids from all over, compared experiences with children whose families fished off Bainbridge Island in Washington or grew produce in the central valley or attended schools in Sacramento much like hers. She moved from group to group with ease, but it was her own company she kept the most, because Manzanar had stoked in her the explorer’s spirit that she had only begun to discover in the weeks following Pearl Harbor.

As she watched workers put the finishing touches on the auditorium being built near the entrance one day, she noticed a sign posted on the newly constructed façade. It advertised for boys to serve as runners, delivering documents and mail all around the camp. Interested parties should come to the main administrative office.

“I’m going to the library, Mama,” she said the next morning after breakfast, hoping Miyako would neither notice nor remark upon the extra care she’d taken getting dressed: she was wearing her best skirt and blouse and had rubbed a little rouge into her cheeks and borrowed her mother’s pearl brooch, which she shielded with the strap of her book bag until Miyako shrugged and turned away; then she slipped the bag from her shoulder and left it lying on her bed. She’d mentioned the library because she thought it was least likely to draw an objection—in fact she
had
been a frequent visitor to the trove of donated volumes ever since a few volunteers had begun collecting and cataloging them in a block rec hall. “I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

Lucy practiced her speech on the walk to the main administration building. Sure, they wanted boys—that just meant that she would have to be particularly convincing in her appeal. In her experience, even allowing for the bitter disappointment of the loss of her turn as lunch monitor, girls were more adept at all the tasks at her old school than boys, who were far more prone to cutting up and slacking off. Here, at least, no one could deny her the job because of her race. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her skirt and collar, tucked her hair behind her ears and went inside.

A woman wearing half-moon glasses looked up from her typewriter and gave Lucy an efficient smile. “May I help you?”

“Yes, please. My name is Lucy Takeda and I would like to apply for the job of courier that you are advertising.”

The lady raised her eyebrows and looked Lucy up and down. “I am sorry, but Deputy Chief Griswold is hiring boys only for that position.”

At that moment a tall, sandy-haired man stepped out of an office in the rear of the building. “Did I hear my name?” he asked in a friendly voice. “Well, hello, young lady. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Yes, sir, I would like a job as a courier. I know that you are looking for boys, but, sir, soon we will be in school and you will need additional help to take care of all the deliveries that pile up during the day.”

Deputy Chief Griswold’s smile widened. “Is that so?”

Lucy risked a glance at the secretary, whose fingers were still above the typewriter keys. “Yes,” she said hurriedly. “And also, girls are smarter than boys, and so there is less risk that I will fall behind in my studies if I work for you.”

The chief laughed out loud, a booming sound that filled the office. “Well, Mrs. Kadonada, what do you say to that? Mrs. Kadonada has a boy about your age who is already working for us.” He winked at Lucy, and for a moment she was afraid she’d just insulted the secretary and ruined her chances at the job, but then Mrs. Kadonada laughed too.

“I might agree with you sometimes,” she said, not unkindly. “My son is fifteen—how old are you?”

“I am fourteen. I was in eighth grade in Los Angeles. I made very good marks there.”

This was not entirely true, but Lucy figured there was no way the administration would know that. Besides, she never had trouble understanding the material; she just got bored and allowed her mind to wander. If she had a job to look forward to—a chance to get outside rather than being cooped up all day—she was sure she could do better.

“What’s your name, young lady?”

“Lucy Takeda.”

“And how long have you been at Manzanar?”

Lucy counted quickly in her mind. “Five weeks and three days.”

“You know your way around pretty well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell you what, Mrs. K,” the deputy chief said. “Let’s give this girl a try. See what she’s made of.”

Already the secretary was reaching into her in-box for a stack of letters. Lucy felt the first stirring of excitement and anticipation that she’d experienced in a long time.

* * *

The job was a welcome break in the monotony of camp life. Mrs. Kadonada and the other steno workers gave her memos, letters, packages and signs to be delivered to every corner of the camp: to the various administrative buildings and the staff quarters, the net factory, the warehouses, the motor pool and garages. Lucy delivered papers to every block captain and block recreation center; to the volunteer-built churches throughout the camp; to the theater and fire station and the various makeshift nursery schools and classrooms that were springing up throughout the camp. On the other side of the camp, more than a mile from the administrative buildings, were the temporary hospital and the Children’s Village for the children who came from orphanages in Los Angeles and San Francisco.

Lucy loved everything about the job, from the neat stacks of papers with their mimeograph smell and purple ink, to the packages and envelopes postmarked from as far away as Washington, D.C. She loved the stamps and ink pads that Mrs. Kadonada sometimes allowed her to use on incoming mail, the small postal scales, the Teletype and adding machines.

But most of all, Lucy loved walking along the avenues, admiring the gardens created by the internees. Seed was provided for victory gardens, but even before the first shoots grew above the soil, the outline of traditional rock gardens began to appear between barracks. Children were put into service to find smooth, round stones down in the creek, and boys carried boulders for the older men whose designs mimicked the gardens they remembered from childhoods spent in Japan. Former gardeners joined forces with stonemasons and landscape designers to create large pond gardens and landscapes reminiscent of towering mountains, but there were also tiny patches of leaning stones set carefully on raked sand, sources of serenity in the midst of the chaos of camp. Young men, impatient and bored and desperate for something to do, learned the principles of the
Sakuteiki
as their elders selected and set stones and borders; it was not uncommon to see men walking with their eyes cast down, searching for the perfect stone.

Lucy waved to the gardeners as she made her deliveries. She loved how the gardens grew and changed with every passing day, how bridges, paths, arches, even “waterfalls” of pebbles slowly emerged from the dusty earth. The gardens were evidence that beauty could exist even here, that meaning could be found in the humblest objects.

* * *

She didn’t meet Mrs. Kadonada’s son until her second week on the job, because they had opposite shifts: he worked in the mornings, and played baseball in the afternoon when Lucy worked. Baseball fever had seized the camp, since there were so few recreational opportunities, and already there were half a dozen leagues. Jessie, according to Mrs. Kadonada, was a crack first baseman, and his coach, Mr. Hayashi, couldn’t spare him from the thrice-weekly practices.

But on Thursday, when his team ceded the practice field to other boys’ teams, he showed up late in the afternoon as Lucy was returning from her final run of the day. Lucy’s first glimpse of him was a figure disappearing at a run around the side of the administration building; a moment later he was back, a squirming, laughing toddler slung over his shoulder. Lucy knew this had to be Mrs. Kadonada’s son; not only was he about her age, but he was wearing a Padres baseball cap. He was tall, with a wide grin and a little gap between his front teeth.

When he saw Lucy he stopped abruptly, his grin disappearing, and the little boy tumbled to the ground, coughed with surprise and then started to wail.

“You’re fine,” Jessie said without looking, and the boy wailed more loudly. A moment later, Mrs. Kadonada hurried out of the building, looking worried.

“Jessie, what on earth have you done to him?”

“He’s fine, Mom, he just tripped.”

Lucy kept her face impassive; she wasn’t about to challenge his story. Besides, there was something intriguing about a boy who would lie before being properly introduced. She shifted subtly, putting a hand on her hip the way she’d seen the high school girls do when there were boys around.

“Is that right.” Mrs. Kadonada’s skepticism faded when the little boy’s tears trailed away and he dusted himself off. “Come here, Bunki, let me see your hands. Oh, no, you’re filthy! Jessie, where did you take him?”

Jessie shrugged. “The creek.”

Mrs. Kadonada sighed and shook her head. “Lucy, this is my son, Jessie. And this is Bunki Sugimoto, our neighbor. Jessie was supposed to be watching Bunki while his mother does the wash.”

“I
did
watch him!” Jessie protested, but he looked directly at Lucy and winked. She felt her face flush with something other than embarrassment.

After that, Jessie occasionally lingered after his shift long enough to run into Lucy—especially if she got there early. If Mrs. Kadonada noticed, she didn’t say anything. Mostly, Jessie would toss his baseball in the air and grin and Lucy would pretend to be interested in the newspapers, which were delivered in a twine-bound bundle. When he left, he always said the same thing—“See ya, Luce”—and Lucy would give a half wave. No one else had ever called her Luce, and she thought she might like it.

Those first few minutes of her shift were the best. But as five o’clock neared, her spirits began to sink, and once the vest was hung in the closet next to Mrs. Kadonada’s wool coat and she was on her way back to Block Fourteen, Lucy’s feet dragged. She dreaded finding her mother in bed late in the afternoon, purple circles under her eyes. Sometimes her mother refused to come to the dining hall and Lucy would have to bring her portion back to the room and coax her to eat. Their barrack neighbors were bewildered by Miyako; since they had stopped trying to include her in their outings and socializing, they seemed to have grown suspicious of her.

One afternoon when the temperature had passed one hundred degrees, Lucy came out of the admin building after her shift to find Jessie sitting in the shade of the porch. When he saw her, he got to his feet and jammed his hands in his pockets. “Hey, Luce. Want to walk down to the creek? It’s cooler there.”