No Surrender Soldier (13 page)

His voice creaked like branches bent by wind. The sound was not muffled as when he spoke underground. Seto opened his rusty jaw and made “ooOOoo” sounds. He howled like a dog.

“Let them find me,”
he whispered, and walked toward the river. For what would they do to him that he had not already done to himself?

What could his father do to him even if Isamu came home disgraced?

Long ago he hid like a coward. Tomorrow he may hide again. But for tonight he needed to feel alive.

I lay on my bed exhausted. I don’t know which stung worse, my cheek Tata’d slapped or my pride. Yeah, I deserved it. No one would probably speak to me for the rest of my life. Especially not my best buddy. And I could forget about Daphne ever liking me after I humiliated her in front of everybody. I might as well become a monk.

Talk about being unworthy. The priest must have been reading my thoughts when I took Communion and saw my mind was plenty confused. God must have been checking out my heart, and knew it was a heart of darkness. No, He probably didn’t even want me, certainly not for the priesthood.

My mind kept rehashing last night at fiesta. What had the old biddies said? It was as if geckos with their
chirp-chirp-chirping
mocked the gossiping
maga’hagas
:

Shamed, eh?
Chirp chirp.

Poor Roselina…
Chirp, chir-chirp.

Where Sammy came from…
Chirp, chir-chirp, chirp, chirp
.

. . . soiled by those nasty Japanese fellas…

Soiled.

Shamed, eh?

I must have dozed off, but not long enough before Nana woke me for Sunday Mass. I pushed my head deeper into the pillow. I didn’t feel like going to Mass ever again.

“Ah, Nana, can’t I skip? Doesn’t last night count?” I grabbed the corners of my pillow and flopped it over my face.

“Kiko.” Nana sat on the side of my bed and tugged at the pillow. “Do you feel like talking about last night?”

I flipped onto my stomach and pulled the pillow tighter over my head.

“Maybe not now, but later, eh?” she prodded. “You hurt your friend’s feelings plenty bad.”

After she left I threw the pillow on the floor and bounded for the bathroom. Talk? To Nana? About rape? No way! Not then, not ever.

I showered and started to dress in my clothes from the night before. Blood and food stained my white shirt so I shoved it under my bed with my torn jams.

I leafed through my closet for something—anything—to wear. Not that I cared if I showed up in shorts, a T-shirt, and zoris. After all, the monks wear sandals and who knows what else under those robes. But I didn’t want to catch grief from Nana, especially not today. There wasn’t much hanging in my closet, except Sammy’s clothes. I’d never worn his clothes. But just this once—I’d wash them, and even iron them if I had to, and hang them back up.

I pulled out a pair of tan khakis and put them on. The pants grazed above my ankles like high waders. How could I have grown taller than Sammy and not realized it? I threw on a pale green shirt. I had to unbutton the sleeves and roll the cuffs. I couldn’t get the top buttoned either so I left it undone and pushed the knot of my skinny black tie up, hoping Nana wouldn’t notice.

I hurried to breakfast, famished from not having eaten much at fiesta.

Tatan slumped in his chair, sullen and in a stupor.

“What are we doing with him?” I pointed my fork at Tatan.

“Kiko,” Nana said. “Don’t talk like he’s not here.”

Tata said, “Taking him with us, like always.”

“Hey, you with us today?” I said to Tatan, who only stared and stayed mute.

“Is he with us today?” I asked my parents. Nana sighed. Tata grunted.

“Fine,” I said. “Don’t talk about it. Don’t talk about anyt’ing. Don’t talk about how he runs naked in front of my friends. Or tells family secrets. Let’s definitely not talk about how he humiliates Nana in public. Nooo, let’s not talk about not’ing when it comes to Tatan. ’Cause then we might have to do somet’ing about him besides make Kiko babysit.”

“I warned you,” Tata roared and pounded the table with his fist. “Don’t disrespect your elders!”

I threw my fork down so hard it bounced. I jumped up and knocked my chair backward. My knee bumped under the table, spilling orange juice and coffee. “What are you going to do? Hit me again?” I kicked the chair out of my way and slammed the screen door. I heard a chair scrape back, probably Tata’s, then Nana say, “Leave him be.”

Bobo danced on his back paws and scratched my bruised knee. I shoved Bobo down and off the stoop. Bobo landed with a yelp. I stormed down the road to walk all the way to church. I didn’t care if I got there in time for the final “amen” or not.

I was relieved when my parents’ Datsun, with Tatan in the back seat, chugged past me. Then Daphne’s parents drove on by without stopping. It was just as well, Daphne would probably never speak to me again. I kicked a rock down the road until my black church shoes were covered in red dirt.

I’d walked a good ways before a car crawled to a stop. Tomas’s tata hollered out his rolled-down window, “Hop in,” like it was an order instead of an option. I opened the back door and climbed in beside Tomas.

Embarrassed, I looked out the side window. “T’anks.”

“No problem,” Rudy Tanaka said.

Tomas’s nana made small talk. “How are you today? Nice day for a walk. Sorry we’re running late for church.”

Why should they be sorry? I was the one who had a lot to be sorry about. Only how could I explain without letting anyone know about Nana? Unless, they already knew. Maybe everyone knew.

I stared out the window and said nothing.

The Tanakas’s car swayed with every curve, jostling me off-balance in the seat. As it rounded the last turn, I couldn’t stand the rift I’d caused between Tomas and me anymore.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“What?”

I looked at my friend. “I said ‘sorry.’” I looked at the half-turned heads of Tomas’s parents. “Sorry to you, too.”

Tomas looked out the window.

“It’s a hard t’ing to take,” his tata said, “but we know Tatan’s been stirring up bad memories so we understand under the circumstances. Apology accepted.” His nana smiled.

Just like that. No anger. They understood. Sheesh, I didn’t know if I understood. Could I ever get past this? Or was it something that would keep getting thrown up until the day Tatan died? I knew I’d never forgive the faceless, nameless Japanese man who hurt my nana.

The car stopped, and Tomas got out. He didn’t say a word as we walked into Mass late.

It felt as if the entire congregation turned and stared when I entered San Miguel Catholic Church. I sat on the back pew with the Tanakas rather than joining my family near the middle.

From where I was sitting, I could see Daphne praying the rosary. She looked so pure with her wispy bangs, round cheeks, full lips mouthing Hail Marys, and smooth tan hands fingering clear plastic beads from her First Communion.

She’s about the age Nana would have been during World War II.
I found myself figuring math problems the rest of the service.
Nana’s forty-three. Her birthday’s in April. Liberation was July 1944. That’d have made Nana fifteen at the time. My age. Take Sammy’s birthday, January 15, 1945, subtract nine months… Tata and Nana didn’t get married until after Liberation. If Nana was raped, that would make Sammy my half-brother.

I opened my eyes and tried to concentrate on Jesus hanging on the crucifix on the back wall. Blood oozed from his head where the crown of thorns pressed into his flesh.

That’s what my head feels like.

I didn’t want to think anymore. I didn’t know which felt ready to explode most, my head or my heart.

After the last “amen” and everyone was piling out of the church, Daphne paused where I sat. Before I could say anything, Missus DeLeon looped her arm around Daphne’s waist, said, “Come along,” and pulled her out the open wooden doors.

After everyone was gone, Tomas turned toward me and put his arm over the back of the pew. Tears rimmed his eyes. “I’m not mad no more, bro. It just hurts so bad, you coming at me that way and calling me a dirty Jap. You know, I don’t even t’ink about being Japanese any more than I t’ink about you being Chamorro. I’m just me. Tomas. And we’re like family here. You’re like a blood brother to me. But then, you know, this war stuff, it gets us all mixed up.” He blinked and a tear brimmed over the edge. Tomas turned his head and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

I stared at the walls out of respect for my friend. I didn’t look at Tomas again until he sniffled back the rest of his emotion and started talking real fast, like if he didn’t get it out he’d choke up and not be able to talk at all. “Like how the Ngs have been here for generations and generations but for a while some people treated them as if they were Commie gooks from North Vietnam. Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. But not us. We knew Danny Ng since first grade. He’s a stand-up guy.”

“That’s right,” Tomas said. “All American, loyal red-white-and-blue like the rest of us. But then Tatan gets this
lytico-bodig
and goes all crazy. And suddenly I’m the enemy. Hey, I shouldn’t have danced with Daphne. I hadn’t realized how bad you have it for her.”

I looked down at my hands. “It wasn’t you dancing with her, not really. It’s more complicated than that.” I turned my head and pretended to study the purple banner with a red cross behind a white lamb. “I can’t talk about it.” My voice was cracking.

“Is it Tatan? I feel sorry for your family. It’s got to be tough. Real tough.”

I turned away. It was my turn to wipe under my eyes and sniffle. Did Tomas guess how tough? Did he know? Did everyone know about Nana? Did everyone know Sammy’s my half-brother? Did Sammy know Tata’s not his father? Am I the only one who didn’t know? How could I get past this… this knowing?

Tomas reached over and hugged me around the neck. I saw Daphne waiting outside the doorway. “I guess I better apologize to Daphne.”

“You better, if you ever want her to talk to you again.” Tomas punched my arm. “You really like her, eh?”

“Yeah, I like her a lot.” I grinned at Tomas. I felt relieved having said it out loud. “Want to come over for dinner?”

“No pig, eh?”

I wiped my face with my arm. “Eh, man, that was one mean pig Tatan and I fixed last night!”

“You bet, one mean pig. But no leftovers, got it? I t’ink I ate half the porker all by myself,” Tomas kidded.

By the time we left the church Daphne had gone. I decided I would call her later. I’d never called a girl before. Except that once when I tried to call Daphne and instead got the cross-eyed lion. But I really needed to make this right with her. Tomas and I climbed in the back of the Datsun with Tatan. Tatan might as well have been a hood ornament the way he stared into space.

Tata looked at me and Tomas in the rearview mirror and said, “Nana’s really worried about Tatan. He’s been like this all day.” He turned to Nana. “Maybe we should take him to Guam Memorial, eh?”

“Not the emergency room.” Nana put her hand on Tata’s arm. “We’ll be there forever and I don’t know those doctors. I’ll call our family doctor tomorrow. If he’s like this in the morning, we’ll take him to work with us,” she said. Tata looked back at Tatan. Nana’s brows scrunched together. “Or I’ll drop you off at Sammy’s and take him on over to doc right away.”

Tomas and I glanced at each other. Poor Tatan. I shook my head.

Nobody said anything the rest of the way home. As Tata drove up the dirt and gravel driveway I saw an air force car parked in front of our house. Bobo was barking and scratching at the navy blue car door, trying to get at the men inside.

Tomas joked, “What now? More bombs? Didn’t the navy sweep good enough? They had to send in the air force to finish the job.”

“No! Mother of God…” Nana screamed.

“Oh, God, no!” Tata cried. He jammed on the gas pedal, spurting up gravel, then slammed on the brakes before Nana jumped out while the Datsun was still moving.

We all scrambled out of the car, except Tatan, who sat catatonic in the back seat.

I yelled, “Bobo come!” Bobo lopped over to me, wagging his tail.

The driver, who was an airman, and an officer stepped out of the Ford.

“Sammy! Sammy!” Nana screamed. Tata held onto Nana as she thrashed and ripped at her hair. “Is he dead? Tell me my baby’s not dead!”

Why weep green willow?

Tears frozen on Winter trees.

Dew drops of silence.

Seto closed his eyes and lay on his back in his tunnel, reciting bits and pieces of poetry. He could not remember who wrote that haiku. Or did he make it up? He clamped his hands across his shrunken stomach. He needed to feel a human touch, to hear a human voice. The only voices he heard were disembodied voices of those who trampled too close to his cave, or uninvited ghosts.

Seto talked to himself, just to hear a voice, any voice, to break the unbearable silence.

“I am no poet. I have no writing utensils. Yet eyes in my heart see a willow branch from a tree outside Imperial Palace. I went there once—only once—on an errand shortly after I was drafted into Japanese Imperial Army. I believe I delivered a message, or did I drive jeep? No matter. I did not meet Emperor nor was I invited in for green tea. But as I waited outside for official orders, it was stifling in my uniform under August sun. I stole down to lake, unbuttoned my jacket, and sat beneath a willow.”

He raised his hand and stroked his fingers around air, imagining it to be the royal willow branch.

“This willow has more strength than I. O, I long to be grafted into that tree and be home again. Yet I am unworthy to hide my shame under a weeping willow beside lowliest hovel in all of Japan.”
Seto cried out and dropped his hand.

“
If I lived in Japan, even at most humblest of abodes, I would be dining on rice and seaweed, koi and bean curds, and sweetest rice cakes.”
He wrapped his arms tightly around his middle. His insides groaned at the thought of such delicacies he had known but not tasted for nearly three decades.