Missing in Action (5 page)

“Come on, Gordy, you shouldn't be shooting horny toads,” Lew said. “They don't hurt nothing.”

“What difference does it make? There's millions of 'em out here.”

“You just shouldn't do it, that's all.”

Jay was watching the lizard, still twitching. Its legs were working, like it was trying to run, but it was on its back and most of its middle was torn away. Gordy didn't
pay any attention to that. “Try that shot, mister natural shooter,” he said. “A horny toad's a mighty small target, and I shot him from about thirty yards.”

“Try twenty.”

“No way.” Gordy spun around and started pacing his way back, but then an argument started about where he'd been standing when he shot.

Jay was still watching the lizard. It had mostly stopped moving, but now and then it would jerk. Its blood had soaked into the dirt, just a brown spot. He thought of what his Navajo grandma had told him. She had come to Salt Lake a couple of times. She had worn long skirts, purple and blue-green, and she hadn't spoken very good English. One time he had smashed a spider, and she had said, “Don't kill. Not good to kill.”

His dad had said, “Navajos don't kill anything unless there's a reason. For food, or something like that. That's probably how we all ought to be.”

“What are you talking about?” his mom had said. “You kill bugs around the house all the time.”

“I'm just saying that it's probably right, not to kill things for no reason.”

Jay wondered if the horny toad felt pain. He wondered if there was a heaven for animals. His grandpa Reid had told him that every life had a spirit. Maybe that was sort of the same thing that Navajos believed.

He had been thinking about dying lately. He
wondered what it felt like to drown. He wondered if it hurt, and he wondered how scary it was. Gordy and the other guys liked to swim in the irrigation canals, and they had asked him if he wanted to go with them, but he didn't want to.

The boys stayed in the desert for a long time that morning. They never said anything about arrowheads. They just shot their BB guns. Even Lew thought it was all right to kill sparrows. “You shouldn't kill robins,” he told Jay. “There's nothing wrong with robins, but sparrows are worthless. We have too many of them around. It's not bad to shoot barn swallows, either, especially if they get too thick around your place and they're pooping all over everything.”

Jay hated that word “worthless.” It was a word his dad had said sometimes.

“Nothing wrong with killing jackrabbits, either,” said Buddy. “They eat up our gardens, and they carry sickness, like rats. We shoot at 'em with our BB guns, but they're hard to hit, and their hides are too thick anyway. If you hit one, you don't even know it for sure.”

“I've killed plenty with my .22,” Gordy said. “Me and my dad killed thirteen of 'em one day, and we sold the pelts over in Fillmore. Got ten cents each for 'em.” But he was staring past Jay. “Okay, here's your chance. Look at those sparrows sitting in the brush over there. Shoot yourself one, Chief.”

Gordy handed the BB gun over to Jay. He turned and looked at the birds. Gordy had let him shoot a few times, and it didn't seem very hard to do. But he had only picked out targets—cans and rocks and things. He didn't know if he wanted to shoot a bird. Still, he lifted the rifle to his shoulder so he didn't have to say anything to Gordy. He took aim at one of the birds that was sitting still. He pulled the trigger, jerked it really. He was surprised when he saw a puff of feathers. The sparrow leaped up, like it was going to fly, but then it rolled in the air and dropped behind the brush.

“Nice shot, Chief. Talk about a natural. You're a good shot already. You and me, we'll join the army someday and you'll kill as many Japs as me.”

“We might have to kill us some right here in Delta one of these days,” Buddy said.

He wondered if the sparrow was dead, or if it was trying to fly, maybe rolling around on the ground like the horny toad. He didn't want to go look.

“That's right,” said Gordy. “You know about Camp Topaz, don't you, Chief?”

He nodded.

“There's about a million Japs out there, right out that direction.” He pointed sort of north.

“It's only a few thousand,” Eldred said.

“Well, it's a lot more people than we've got in Delta, and those guys want to get back to California to help the Japs from Japan drop bombs on us. They want
to break out, a bunch of them, and then they'll need cars. They'll come into Delta and steal all the trucks and cars and everything they can get. And if anybody gets in their way, they'll just slit their throats.”

“I know,” Buddy said. “That's exactly what my dad says.”

“They don't have guns out there at the camp. The government took them all away. But some of those guys hide away knives and stuff like that. Japs are sneaky, and if they can, they'll figure a way to crawl into your bedroom and cut your throat. Some guys I know keep a gun right by their bed at night. My dad's one of 'em. I keep my BB gun by my bed, and if one comes, I'll shoot him right between the eyes.”

“That won't stop nobody,” Buddy said.

“It will for a minute. It hurts, getting shot like that by a BB.” He took his gun back and raised it toward Buddy. “Do you want me to shoot you in the face and see if it stops you?”

“Go ahead. But you do and I'll crack you over your head with the butt of my gun. That's what I'd do if a Jap came after me.”

“Oh, sure. Laying on your back in bed. How're you going to do that?”

The argument kept going on like that. But Jay was thinking about Ken and the things he'd said about the camp—how the people out there were all Americans, the same as in town. And how he was going to fight
for America. Maybe he was lying, but he was almost sure Ken wouldn't cut anybody's throat.

He looked out across the desert. Out far, the desert looked better, a shade of gray-blue, and there were gray mountains behind that. But it couldn't be a good place to live, out here. He could see what Ken was talking about.

“NO!” KEN YELLED AT HIM.
“You're reaching down for the ball, but you're not
getting
down. Your rear end ought to be scraping the ground.”

“Okay,” Jay said, just soft. He understood what Ken wanted him to do, but when the ball came at him hard, he was scared it would hit him in the face—or maybe in the throat again. The grass in the pasture was short, but the ground was lumpy. He didn't know what kind of hops the ball might take.

Ken hit another grounder, maybe softer, and this time Jay kept his mind on getting low. He watched the ball all the way into his glove. The ball took a hop to the side, but he shifted, and he gloved it just right.

“All right. Perfect. Now come up, set your feet, look at your target, and throw.”

He cocked the ball and threw toward Ken, who had dropped his bat and was waiting barehanded. His
throw was too high, though. Ken turned and chased it, but as he ran he yelled, “You're still trying to aim the ball.” Ken found the ball in the long grass near the fence, picked it up, and turned around. “You can't be thinking that you might make a bad throw. You have to have confidence. Just look at me and fire away. If you try to aim, it never goes where you want it to.”

Jay knew that, but he always worried that he wouldn't do things right. How was he supposed to stop thinking that way?

Ken kept hitting ground balls, though, and Jay was starting to field better than he ever had before. No one had ever told him the right way to do it. He made better throws, too.

After a time Ken said, “Well, we better get back to work. Our lunch time is gone. But you're getting better.” He grinned at Jay.

“Thanks for helping me,” Jay said. He didn't want to smile, but he did. Ken probably thought they were starting to be friends.

Ken walked past him toward the house, and he followed. He hadn't thought much about the heat when he was fielding, but he felt the trickles of sweat on his face now. “Didn't your dad ever teach you any of this stuff?” Ken asked, glancing back.

“Yeah, he taught me a lot of stuff. How to throw a football and everything like that. But I think I forgot.”

Jay's dad had showed him how to put his fingers across the strings of a football. Jay had wanted to come outside and practice, but his dad had been drinking beer, sitting in the big chair he liked. “I'm too tired right now,” he'd told Jay. “We'll do it tomorrow. We've got all day tomorrow.” The next day was Sunday, and Dad had slept in late, and they never had gone out to throw. When he came back from the war, though, Dad wouldn't be like that. Mom had even said one time that the war would change how he was.

“Does your dad get any furloughs or anything like that?” Ken asked. He stopped at the back porch and set down the ball and bat. He picked up his jar, dumped out the warm water, and walked over to the pump. He filled it again and took a long drink.

Jay stepped into the shade behind the house. He didn't want to answer the question.

“Where is he exactly?”

“He was on a ship that got torpedoed. He's missing in action.”

“Oh, man, are you serious?”

Jay saw the change in his face, the way his mouth came open. Ken felt sorry for him. But he didn't want that. He nodded, sort of shrugged, like it wasn't so important.

“Wow. That's rough. How come you never told me that?”

“I don't know.”

“I guess you're worried about him.”

“No, I'm not. He's going to be all right.”

“Did you get word from him or something?”

Jay wiped his forehead and then put his hat back on. “No. I just know. He can swim real good.” Ken was squinting from the sun in his eyes; his forehead was wrinkled up. “He told me when he left that he would come back for sure.”

“What do you mean? Did he make a promise?”

“Yes.”

Jay remembered the morning his dad had left, when he was getting on the train. “Don't look so worried,” he'd said. “I'll be all right. I won't get myself killed.” He'd laughed the way he always did, with his head back. “That's a promise.”

That was what he'd said. Exactly. He'd promised.

He knew his dad wouldn't stop swimming, no matter what. And he wouldn't give up if the Japs beat up on him or even tortured him.

“So what is it you think, that he's a prisoner of war?” Ken let his hand drop. He looked down at the dirt. He was so thin that his T-shirt, wet with sweat, clung to his ribs, all of them showing.

“Probably. Or maybe he's on an island, hiding out.” He didn't tell Ken about all the prayers he'd said.

“Being a POW is pretty rough. They don't treat people the way we do. They don't even feed them enough to get by on.”

Jay stared at Ken. Didn't the guy know it was
Japs
who did that stuff to Americans? Didn't he know he was a Jap himself?

Ken finally pumped some more water and then put the top on his jar, and he pulled his work gloves out of his back pocket. Jay walked to the pump and filled his own jar. He took a big drink and the water tasted good. June was almost over now, and it seemed like the days were getting hotter all the time. In Salt Lake, summers had been hot, but never like this, and he had never had to work outside all day. He and Ken had started early that morning, at six, and they planned to knock off early—by three or so—but right now he could hardly stand to think of working for a couple more hours.

They walked back toward the field, the dust kicking up around them. “I know what you've been thinking all this time,” Ken said.

“About what?”

“You're thinking I'm a Jap, just the same as the guys who maybe have your dad.”

Jay couldn't think what to say.

“That's what everybody thinks. That's why people hate us.”

He remembered what Gordy and the other boys had said about the people at Topaz.

“I can't do anything right,” said Ken.

Jay tucked his hand in his pocket and just walked
along. He tried to act like he wasn't embarrassed or anything.

“I get it from both sides,” Ken went on. “I walked into town yesterday, and the people I passed on the streets all turned their eyes away. I'd say hello to them, and then they'd look at me kind of crossways.” He let his head swing and his eyes get big, to show how they'd looked at him. “They'd grunt or something, but they didn't want to speak to me. But I get caught on the other side too. My dad thinks I'm too American. He doesn't like anything I do—entering dance contests and all that kind of stuff.”

Ken lifted the weather-beaten leather strap that held the gate shut. He pulled the gate back and let Jay step through before he shut it again.

Jay knew he had to say something. “How come he lets you do it, then?” he asked.

“I don't know. Things aren't like they were in Japan. Us kids don't do everything our parents tell us all the time. My dad knows that, but he doesn't say anything. I think it shames him to tell me something and then have me pay no attention, so he just stops telling me.”

Ken walked ahead, with Jay behind.

“I'll tell you what, Jay. Everybody in this world wants me to be nobody, but I'm not listening. Those people on the street, they think I'm just a Jap, and that's nobody, and my dad thinks I'm not Japanese, so that's
being nobody. But I thumb my nose at all of them.” He made the motion, catching his thumb under his nose. “I'm going to the war, and I'm going to make a name for myself. And then I'm going to college, get a good job, and make some bucks. I'm going to look people right in the eye and say, ‘You're talking to
somebody.
'”