The Buddha in the Attic (10 page)

PALE GREEN BUDS
broke on the grapevines in the vineyards and all throughout the valleys the peach trees were flowering beneath clear blue skies. Drifts of wild mustard blossomed bright yellow in the canyons. Larks flew down from the hills. And one by one, in distant cities and towns, our older sons and daughters quit their jobs and dropped out of school and began coming home. They helped us find people to take over our dry cleaners in J-town. They helped us find new tenants for our restaurants. They helped us put up signs in our stores.
Buy Now! Save! Entire Stock Must Be Sold!
They pulled on their overalls in the countryside and helped us prepare for the harvest one last time, for we had been ordered to till our fields until the very end. This was our contribution to the war effort, we were told. An opportunity for us to prove our loyalty. A way to provide fresh fruits and vegetables for the folks on the home front.

JUNKMEN SLOWLY DROVE
their trucks down the narrow streets of our neighborhoods, offering us money for our things. Ten dollars for a new stove we had bought for two hundred the year before. Five dollars for a refrigerator. A nickel for a lamp. Neighbors with whom we had never exchanged a word approached us in the fields and asked us if there was anything we wanted to get rid of. That cultivator, perhaps? That harrow? That plow horse? That plow? That Queen Anne rosebush in our front yard they’d been admiring for years? Strangers knocked on our doors. “Got any dogs?” one man asked. His son, he explained, badly wanted a new puppy. Another man said he lived alone in a trailer near the shipping yard and would be happy to take a used cat. “It gets lonely, you know.” Sometimes we sold hastily, and for whatever we could get, and other times we gave away favorite vases and teapots and tried not to care too much, because our mothers had always told us:
One must not get too attached to the things of this world
.

AS THE DAY
of our departure drew nearer we paid our final bills to our creditors and thanked the loyal customers who had stood by us until the very end. Sheriff Burckhardt’s wife, Henrietta, who bought five baskets of strawberries every Friday at our fruit stand and left us a fifty-cent tip.
Please buy yourself something nice
. Retired widower Thomas Duffy, who came to our noodle shop every day at half past noon and ordered a plate of chicken fried rice. Ladies’ Auxiliary Club president Rosalind Anders, who refused to take her dry cleaning anyplace else.
The Chinese just don’t do it right
. We continued to work our fields as we always had, but nothing felt quite real. We nailed together crates to box up crops we would not be able to harvest. We pinched the shoots off of grapevines that would not ripen until after we had left. We turned over the soil and planted tomato seedlings that would come up in late summer, when we were already gone. The days were long and sunny now. The nights were cool. The reservoirs full. The price of sugar snaps was rising. Asparagus was nearing an all-time high. There were green berries on the strawberry plants and in the orchards the nectarine trees would soon be heavy with fruit.
One more week and we would have made a fortune
. And even though we knew we would soon be leaving we kept on hoping that something would happen, and we would not have to go.

PERHAPS THE CHURCH
would intervene on our behalf, or the President’s wife. Or maybe there had been a terrible misunderstanding and it was really some other people they had meant to take. “The Germans,” someone suggested. “Or the Italians,” said someone else. Someone else said, “How about the Chinese?” Others of us remained quiet and prepared to leave as best we could. We sent notes to our children’s teachers, apologizing to them in our broken English for our children’s sudden and unexpected absence from school. We wrote out instructions for future tenants, explaining to them how to work the sticky flue in the fireplace and what to do about the leak in the roof.
Just use a bucket
. We left lotus blossoms for the Buddha outside our temples. We made last visits to our cemeteries and poured water over the gravestones of those of us whose spirits had already passed out of this world. Yoshiye’s young son, Tetsuo, who had been gored by an angry bull. The tea merchant’s daughter from Yokohama, whose name we could now barely recall.
Died of the Spanish influenza on her fifth day off the boat
. We walked the rows of our vineyards one last time with our husbands, who could not resist pulling up one last weed. We propped up sagging branches in our almond orchards. We checked for worms in our lettuce fields and scooped up handfuls of freshly turned black earth. We did last loads of wash in our laundries. We shuttered our groceries. We swept our floors. We packed our bags. We gathered up our children and from every town in every valley and every city up and down the coast, we left.

THE LEAVES
of the trees continued to turn in the wind. The rivers continued to flow. Insects hummed in the grass as always. Crows cawed. The sky did not fall. No President changed his mind. Mitsuko’s favorite black hen clucked once and laid a warm brown egg. A green plum fell early from a tree. Our dogs ran after us with balls in their mouths, eager for one last toss, and for once, we had to turn them away.
Go home
. Neighbors peered out at us through their windows. Cars honked. Strangers stared. A boy on a bicycle waved. A startled cat dove under a bed in one of our houses as looters began to break down the front door. Curtains ripped. Glass shattered. Wedding dishes smashed to the floor. And we knew it would only be a matter of time until all traces of us were gone.

LAST DAY

S
ome of us left weeping. And some of us left singing. One of us left with her hand held over her mouth and hysterically laughing. A few of us left drunk. Others of us left quietly, with our heads bowed, embarrassed and ashamed. There was an old man from Gilroy who left on a stretcher. There was another old man—Natsuko’s husband, a retired barber in Florin—who left on crutches with an American Legion cap pulled down low over his head. “Nobody win war. Everybody lose,” he said. Most of us left speaking only English, so as not to anger the crowds that had gathered to watch us go. Many of us had lost everything and left saying nothing at all. All of us left wearing white numbered identification tags tied to our collars and lapels. There was a newborn baby from San Leandro who left sleepily, with her eyes half closed, in a swaying wicker basket. Her mother—Shizuma’s eldest daughter, Naomi—left anxiously but stylishly in a gray wool skirt and black alligator pumps. “Do you think they’ll have milk there?” she kept asking. There was a boy in short pants from Oxnard who left wondering whether or not they’d have swings. Some of us left wearing our very best clothes. Others of us left wearing the only clothes we had. One woman left in fox furs.
The Lettuce King’s wife
, people whispered. One man left barefoot but freshly shaven, with all of his belongings neatly wrapped up in a square of white cloth: a Buddhist rosary, a clean shirt, a lucky pair of dice, a new pair of socks, to be worn in better times. One man from Santa Barbara left carrying a brown leather suitcase covered with faded stickers that said
Paris
and
London
and
Hotel Metropole, Bayreuth
. His wife left three steps behind him carrying a wooden washboard and a book of etiquette she had checked out from the library by Emily Post. “It’s not due until next week,” she said. There were families from Oakland who left carrying sturdy canvas seabags they had bought the day before at Montgomery Ward. There were families from Fresno who left carrying bulging cardboard boxes. The Tanakas of Gardena left without paying their rent. The Tanakas of Delano, without paying their taxes. The Kobayashis of Biola left after bleaching the top of their stove and washing the floors of their restaurant with buckets of scalding hot water. The Suzukis of Lompoc left little piles of salt outside their doorway to purify their house. The Nishimotos of San Carlos left out bowls of fresh orchids from their nursery on their kitchen table for whoever was moving in next. The Igarashis of Preston packed up until the last moment and left their place a mess. Most of us left in a hurry. Many of us left in despair. A few of us left in disgust, and had no desire to ever come back. One of us left Robert’s Island in the Delta clutching a copy of the Bible and humming “
Sakura, sakura
.” One of us came from the big city and left wearing her first pair of pants.
They say it’s no place for dresses
. One of us left after having her hair done at the Talk of the Town Beauty Salon for the first time in her life.
It’s something I’ve always wanted to do
. One of us left a rice ranch in Willows carrying a tiny Buddhist shrine in her pocket and telling everyone that things would turn out all right in the end. “The gods will look after us,” she said. Her husband left in muddy field clothes with their entire life savings stuffed into the toe of his boot. “Fifty cent,” he said with a wink and a smile. Some of us left without our husbands, who had been arrested during the first weeks of the war. Some of us left without our children, whom we had sent away years before.
I asked my parents to take care of my two oldest so I could work full-time on the farm
. One man left East First Street in Los Angeles with a white wooden box filled with his wife’s ashes hanging from a silk sash around his neck.
He talks to her all day long
. One man left downtown Hayward with a tin of chocolates given to him by the Chinese couple who had taken over the lease on his store. One man left a grape ranch in Dinuba carrying a grudge against his neighbor, Al Petrosian, who had never paid him what he owed for his plow.
You can never trust the Armenians
. One man left Sacramento shaking and empty-handed and shouting out, “It’s all yours.” Asayo—our prettiest—left the New Ranch in Redwood carrying the same rattan suitcase she had brought over with her twenty-three years ago on the boat.
It still looks brand-new
. Yasuko left her apartment in Long Beach with a letter from a man who was not her husband neatly folded up inside her compact at the bottom of her purse. Masayo left after saying good-bye to her youngest son, Masamichi, at the hospital in San Bruno, where he would be dead of the mumps by the end of the week. Hanako left fearful and coughing, but all she had was a cold. Matsuko left with a headache. Toshiko left with a fever. Shiki left in a trance. Mitsuyo left nauseous and unexpectedly pregnant for the first time in her life at the age of forty-eight. Nobuye left wondering whether or not she had unplugged her iron, which she had used that morning to touch up the pleats of her blouse. “I’ve got to go
back
,” she said to her husband, who stared straight ahead and did not reply. Tora left with a venereal disease she had contracted on her last night at the Welcome Hotel. Sachiko left practicing her ABCs as though it were just another ordinary day. Futaye, who had the best vocabulary of us all, left speechless. Atsuko left heartbroken after saying farewell to all the trees in her orchard.
I planted them as saplings
. Miyoshi left pining for her big horse, Ryuu. Satsuyo left looking for her neighbors, Bob and Florence Eldridge, who had promised to come say good-bye. Tsugino left with a clear conscience after shouting a long-held and ugly secret down into a well.
I filled the baby’s mouth with ashes and it died
. Kiyono left the farm on White Road convinced she was being punished for a sin she had committed in a previous life.
I must have stepped on a spider
. Setsuko left her house in Gridley after killing all the chickens in her backyard. Chiye left Glendale still grieving for her oldest daughter, Misuzu, who had thrown herself in front of a trolley car five years before. Suteko, who had no children of her own, left feeling as though life had somehow passed her by. Shizue left Camp No. 8 on Webb Island chanting a sutra that had just come back to her after thirty-four years.
My father used to recite it every morning at the altar
. Katsuno left her husband’s laundry in San Diego mumbling, “Somebody wake me up, please.” Fumiko left a boardinghouse in Courtland apologizing for any trouble she might have caused. Her husband left telling her to pick up the pace and please keep her mouth shut. Misuyo left graciously, and with ill will toward none. Chiyoko, who had always insisted that we call her Charlotte, left insisting that we call her Chiyoko.
I’ve changed my mind one last time
. Iyo left with an alarm clock ringing from somewhere deep inside her suitcase but did not stop to turn it off. Kimiko left her purse behind on the kitchen table but would not remember until it was too late. Haruko left a tiny laughing brass Buddha up high, in a corner of the attic, where he is still laughing to this day. Takako left a bag of rice beneath the floorboards of her kitchen so her family would have something to eat when they returned. Misayo left out a pair of wooden sandals on her front porch so it would look like someone was still home. Roku left her mother’s silver mirror with her neighbor, Louise Hastings, who had promised to keep it for her until she came back.
I will help you in any way I can
. Matsuyo left wearing a pearl necklace given to her by her mistress, Mrs. Bunting, whose house in Wilmington she had kept spotless for twenty-one years.
Half my life
. Sumiko left with an envelope filled with cash given to her by her second husband, Mr. Howell, of Montecito, who had recently informed her that he would not be accompanying her on the trip.
She gave him back his ring
. Chiyuno left Colma thinking of her younger brother, Jiro, who had been sent to the leper colony on the island of Oshima in the summer of 1909.
We never spoke of him again
. Ayumi left Edenville wondering whether or not she had remembered to pack her lucky red dress.
I don’t feel like myself without it
. Nagako left El Cerrito filled with regret for all the things she had not done.
I wanted to visit my home village one last time and burn incense at my father’s grave
. Her daughter, Evelyn, left telling her, “Hurry, hurry, Mama, we’re late.” There was a woman of uncommon beauty whom none of us had ever seen who left blinking and confused. Her husband, people said, had kept her locked up in his basement so no other man could lay eyes on her face. There was a man from San Mateo who left carrying a set of golf clubs and a case of Old Parr Scotch.
I hear he used to be Charlie Chaplin’s personal valet
. There was a man of the cloth—Reverend Shibata of the First Baptist Church—who left urging everyone to forgive and forget. There was a man in a shiny brown suit—fry cook Kanda of Yabu Noodle—who left urging Reverend Shibata to give it a rest. There was a national fly-casting champion from Pismo Beach who left carrying his favorite bamboo fishing pole and a book of poems by Robert Frost.
It’s all I really need
. There was a group of champion bridge players from Monterey who left grinning and flush with cash. There was a family of sharecroppers from Pajaro who left wondering whether or not they would ever see their valley again. There were aging sunburned bachelors who left from everywhere and nowhere all at once.
They’ve been following the crops for years
. There was a gardener from Santa Maria who left with a rhododendron cutting from his master’s front yard and a pocket filled with seeds. There was a grocer from Oceanside who left with a worthless check written out to him by a truck driver who had offered to buy all the fixtures in his store. There was a pharmacist from Stockton who left after making payments on his life insurance policy for the next two and a half years. There was a chicken sexer from Petaluma who left convinced we would all be back in three months. There was a well-dressed older woman from Burbank who left proudly, regally, with her head held up high in the air. “Viscount Oda’s daughter,” someone said. “Bellboy Goto’s wife,” said someone else. There was a man who had just been released from San Quentin who left already owing money to half the shopkeepers in town. “Time to move on,” he said. There were college girls in black gabardine slacks—our older daughters—who left wearing American flag pins on their sweaters and Phi Beta Kappa keys dangling from gold chains around their necks. There were handsome young men in just-pressed chinos—our older sons—who left shouting the Berkeley fight song and talking about next year’s big game. There was a newlywed couple in matching ski caps who left arm in arm and seemed to take no notice of anyone else. There was an elderly couple from Manteca who left having the same argument they’d been having since the day they first met.
If you say that one more time …
There was an old man in a Salvation Army uniform from Alameda who left shouting out, “God is love! God is love!” There was a man from Yuba City who left with his half-Irish daughter, Eleanor, who had been delivered to him that morning by a woman he had deserted long ago.
He didn’t even know of her existence until last week
. There was a tenant farmer from Woodland who left whistling Dixie after plowing under the last of his crops. There was a widow from Covina who left after giving power of attorney to a kind doctor who had offered to rent out her house. “I think I just made a big mistake.” There was a young woman from San Jose who left carrying a bouquet of roses sent to her by an anonymous suitor from the neighborhood who had always admired her from afar. There were children from Salinas who left carrying bouquets of grass they had pulled up that morning from their front yards. There were children from San Benito and Napa who left wearing multiple layers of clothing in order to take as much as they could. There was a girl from a remote almond ranch in Oakdale who left shyly, fearfully, with her head pressed into her mother’s skirt, for she had never seen so many people in her life. There were three young boys from the orphanage in San Francisco who left looking forward to taking their first ride on a train. There was an eight-year-old boy from Placerville who left carrying a small duffel bag packed for him by his foster mother, Mrs. Luhrman, who had told him he’d be back by the end of the week. “Now you go and have yourself a good time,” she’d said. There was a boy from Lemon Cove who left clinging to his older sister’s back. “It’s the only way I could get him out of the house.” There was a girl from Kernville who left carrying a small cardboard suitcase filled with candy and toys. There was a girl from Heber who left bouncing a red rubber ball. There were five sisters from Selma—the Matsumoto girls—who left fighting over their father, as always, and already one of them had a black eye. There were twin boys from Livingston who left wearing matching white slings on their right arms even though they were perfectly fine. “They’ve been wearing those things for
days
,” their mother said. There were six brothers from a strawberry ranch in Dominguez who left wearing cowboy boots so they wouldn’t get bitten by snakes. “Rough terrain ahead,” one said. There were children who left thinking they were going camping. There were children who left thinking they were going hiking, or to the circus, or swimming for the day at the beach. There was a boy on roller skates who did not care where it was he was going as long as there were paved streets. There were children who left one month short of their high school graduation.
I was going to go to Stanford
. There was a girl who left knowing she would have been valedictorian at Calexico High. There were children who left still baffled by decimals and fractions. There were children from Mrs. Crozier’s eighth-grade English class in Escondido who left relieved that they wouldn’t have to take next week’s big test.