Page 37 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

“I swear to God! Before we left, my handicap was eight.”

One conversation catches my attention. A woman talks about openings for workers in the kitchen. The white chefs are going home, and we will replace them.

“You love to cook, Mama,” I say, poking at casserole. The wet hot dogs make it watery. “And you never enjoyed mending. Maybe you should work here.”

Mama doesn’t respond. I think maybe she didn’t hear me over the clatter. Then she looks around. Her eyes travel over the chaotic assembly of people getting food, eating, and busing their dishes. They fall to her plate with its hunk of Weenie Royale casserole.

She shakes her head.

I spear a round slice with my fork. Cooking is Mama’s soul. Every meal came to life beneath her enchanted spoon and then was dished up and served with love to Otōsan and me. All the love she can’t express is in her food and it nourished us, inside and out.

I understand why she doesn’t want to work in the mess hall.

After, Mama reads her Bible as always, and I sketch. My drawing doesn’t come as easily. I find myself sketching the camp but putting it underneath the ocean with the shadow of a Bake-kujira in the distance and the barbed wire disintegrating into red nori. As I draw, it seems all wrong. The camp isn’t underwater. I’m the one underwater. I can’t escape it, not even in my mind. Only one person has made it bearable, and I hurt him to save myself from Mama’s disapproval. Even though paper is scarce, I crumple it up.

Later, I lie in bed, listening to Mr. Kimura’s snoring and the couple, who aren’t fighting or loving but rather deciding on the names of their children, though they have none yet. They come up with twelve names, which seems excessive.

Tomorrow, I’ll leave school early to meet Akira for tea. The thought of it should be exciting and hopeful, if not a little scary to be in the presence of a god. But my thoughts travel to Ren.

I hope he’ll understand. He doesn’t know how intense Mama can be.

Still, even as I stroke the deer, it takes me a long time to fall asleep.

Chapter Eleven

Ren

“You can go ahead,” a secretary calls to me from the front of the WRA administration offices, where I’m waiting once more. My neck is empty without my pendant.

I nod, steel myself, and go into the office.

He’s there, sitting behind a desk. Boser. He looks up. Recognizes me and immediately looks sour. I tend to have that effect on people. I close the door, face him.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“Yeah.” My caustic tone makes his lips tighten. “You can. My sister is expecting a baby and hasn’t been well. Dr. Suzuki is worried she’ll bleed out during labor and delivery. There’s people who’ve been sent to Los Angeles County Hospital for care. I want her to be one of them until she gives birth.”

Everything on Boser’s desk is orderly. His pens are in a precise row, his nameplate sits right in front of them, his papers are in a perfect stack. Pisses me off. If everything is so organized here, why can’t the administration be organized enough to authorize a ride for Emi to the hospital?

“Fill out a request form, have a doctor sign it, and give it to the secretary.” He dismissively rattles off the protocol.

“We’ve already done that, and no arrangements have been made.” I grit my teeth, thinking about how form after form has disappeared into the black hole of Manzanar’s file cabinets, never to be seen again. The forms would be better used to wipe my ass.

“What do you expect?” Boser asks. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Everyone claims they deserve to get out. Thousands of forms have been filed, and I’d wager at least half are bogus.”

“How about you look into it for my sister?” I ask. Carefully, I reach into my pocket. My fingers loop around the leather cord that usually hangs from my neck. I pull it free, hold it up. “Remember this?”

“The relic,” Boser says. His gaze fixes on the pendant swinging from the cord. I swing it casually, back and forth like a metronome. Fascination fills Boser’s eyes, followed by something akin to a dark, deep desire.

“Yeah,” I say. “And you were right. It’s from the Edo period.” I’m making shit up, but he seems to buy it. “I inherited it from my father. It’s yours, if you want. You know what I want.”

Boser does want it. He wants it so much he’s practically spellbound by it. With effort, he lifts his eyes from it to me.

“Are you trying to bribe me? I’m authorized to confiscate suspicious items or anything that symbolizes loyalty to Japan. Give it to me.”

“I don’t doubt it but…” I reach into my pocket and dig out Mrs. Ross’s envelope. I set it down on Boser’s desk. He frowns at it, reading the return address. “I might have to let Mr. Ross from Pasadena know.”

“Who the hell is Mr. Ross?” Boser snatches up the thick, fancy envelope and flips it over to where it says Ms. Nanako Hamada and Ren Hamada in Mrs. Ross’s looping cursive.