Page 17 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

Alarm twists across the soft folds of Mrs. Ross’s face. She holds up a hand, as though she can keep my words away.

“Now, now,” she murmurs.

“She has a fever,” I press. “Says her stomach is cramping. We came from the Santa Anita Racetrack, where she slept in a horse stall, and the barracks here aren’t insulated. They don’t keep out the dust or wind. She needs help. She needs a hospital.”

“Surely there is medical help available,” Mrs. Ross says. A weak smile is plastered onto her lips. Like we’re discussing some banal, stupid thing and she’s only trying to be polite.

“The hospital is still being set up.” I repeat what I’ve been told over and over. “There’s ten thousand of us dumped in this lousy place and ten camp doctors. You do the math.”

At every sentence she cringes, but that stupid smile doesn’t go away.

“I—I don’t think your sister would be allowed to leave.” She glances at the official as though appealing for help. He’s silent, observing with the interested yet distant look of someone watching a movie.

“But she might get to leave if you ask,” I press. “You got someone to let you come here, didn’t you? You can help Emi and the baby. You know, sponsor them. Once they get better, maybe they can stay with you until the war is over.”

“Stay with me?” Finally, it’s enough. The smile is wiped clean off her face. “The Jap girl who seduced my son?”

There it is.

The ugliness, hidden behind a politeness that is as easily pricked and deflated as a balloon once she might need to have skin in the game. I want to throttle her.

“I—I’m sorry.” Weakness sweeps in, replacing her boldness. “You are good people. I know you are. Let me explain. My son, John, is—he is—he’s married.” The horror in her voice makes it sound as though her son is a serial murderer. Honestly, to me he might as well be. He clearly doesn’t give a damn about my sister or his child growing inside her. “Our family is from Pasadena. My husband, Mr. Ross, is a former senator. There are many things to consider. John is happy with his wife. He always has been, even though they haven’t been blessed with any children of their own. His incident with your sister was a lapse in judgment and he’s committed to his wife. But once I found out there was a baby, I…” She’s pulling so hard on her pearls that they press into the folds of her neck, where they wink like white eyeballs in fleshy lids.

“What the hell are you saying?” I demand.

“Language, son!” the officer interjects. “This is a respectable lady.”

I ignore him. “You’re here to see if we’ll give you the baby once it’s born?”

“Most women in my position wouldn’t even do that,” Mrs. Ross says. “Most would bury the secret. Don’t you see how this looks? Mr. Ross forbade me from pursuing this, but I did anyway because…well, it’s the right thing to do, and if there’s the possibility of having a grandchild—an actual, flesh and blood grandchild—then—”

“Then help us.” I see a chink in her armor and try to exploit it. Desperation turns my voice taut. “Get my sister to an actual hospital. People won’t listen to us, but they’ll listen to you.”

“I can’t do that.” Mrs. Ross is almost whimpering. “But if the baby is born, I am willing to take it. Legally, it is required to stay here because it’s half Japanese, but I’ve made some calls. Thanks to Mr. Ross’s connections, a special exemption was approved through a federal judge. For the baby alone.”

I stare hard at Mrs. Ross.

She wants the baby.

Only the baby.

And even then, only under certain circumstances. She won’t help it now, not when it’s inside Emi. I see conflict in her watery blue eyes. There’s desire. But there’s also reluctance. Fear. Resentment. From my gander at her, she might even prefer that they both die so the barb in her flesh—the fact that her married son impregnated a teenage Japanese girl in the middle of a war with Japan—can be yanked out. Then she really can bury it, stuffing down her hopes for a grandchild and sticking it alongside their bodies so she can return to the life she’s always known.

Mrs. Ross releases her pearls and tightens her grip on her bag. She lifts her chin, scrambling for her dignity. I’m full of rage, but I smirk, anything to get beneath her skin and show her how much I hate her. Her lips tighten into bloodless white lines.

“I think it’s best I go. Notify me if the baby is born. I will be willing to take the child. Just think about it until then.”

The officer escorts Mrs. Ross out, leaving us. I explode into pacing while Mama leans back against the wall and rests her head on it. She takes a long, thoughtful drag of her cigarette.

“A hakujin,” she says almost admiringly, as though the fact that Emi’s lover is white is an impressive feat. I scowl.

“What of it?” I snap. “We aren’t going to give her the baby, and she won’t help Emi, so what does any of it matter?”

I push past Mama out of the office. I think back to the night Emi told me she was pregnant, the way I assured her I would tell Mama because I was worried Mama might murder Emi in cold blood when she found out. Of course, there was also the chance Mama would murder me as the messenger in cold blood, too, but I figured I would have a fighting chance.

The next night, I stopped Mama in our living room while Emi holed up in the bedroom. I hadn’t even opened my mouth yet when Emi strode out, as bold as any character from one of her books, to tell Mama the news herself. Caught between them, my ears rang as their tempers blistered through our tiny apartment. Emi and Mama are so similar that I felt as though I were standing with one person at different points in their life, their hands waving through the air as though they both wished they could fly away.

Mama said many things.