The Castle Cross the Magnet Carter (6 page)

“I'm not so sure this melting process has progressed so well with our Japanese immigrants isolated on islands so far out in the Pacific, not much closer to San Diego than to Tokyo.” Apropos of nothing other than that the opposing team has the floor, Henry Lee crosses his eyes and twirls his tongue, which old physical science Mrs. Thatcherall spies, and in the interest of good sportsmanship she flicks Henry Lee twice sharply in the temple.

On Sunday when I came up from Henry Lee's basement and into the kitchen, Roger was poring over his own books. I relished the look of disappointment on his face when he'd see that I'm leaving already, that he blew his chance to look over my texts. I shut the basement door behind me, and he looked up. Gazed at me before he spoke.

“Did anyone ever ask the
first
Hawaiians if they wanted to be Americans?” I stared. I hadn't ever mentioned anything about the debate to him. Did Henry Lee? “The ones the Americans originally stole the islands from?”

When it's time for my rebuttal, I stand on the podium. I had worked through lunch, too nervous to eat the tuna sandwich my mother packed. I'm guessing no one else is prepared to argue with the news that just hit the papers today. I take a moment to look out at the audience. My mother and sister smile wide at me, and I am suddenly overcome with a terrible regret that my brother is not sitting there with them. This just might be the finest moment of my life and, because of my own stubbornness, he missed it. He would've been quiet if Ma had told him to. He would have been so
happy
to see me up here. Why do I always have to be such a creep?

“My opponent has made mention of the melting pot theory, assimilation into the culture of the United States. He has hypothesized that while his family, of Italian background, has evolved into full-blooded Americans, that this same conversion is not possible for, or is of no interest to, the Hawaiian Japanese. Mr. Fiore's family is part of Prayer Ridge, Alabama, a town of few newcomers, most families here for generations. I wonder if Mr. Fiore's family would have melted so quickly if they were living in New York City, where there are other options, Little Italy right around the corner.

“But we are talking about the Japanese. Yesterday President Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066. The legalese is nearly incomprehensible, but the newspaper editors have spelled it out: Americans of Japanese descent are to be sent to internment camps. Japanese families who have been here for generations will not be exempt. Families of people now serving America in the armed forces will not be exempt. With regard to my opponent's concern that the Japanese have not properly assimilated into the larger American society, it would appear their forced segregation from the rest of America would be a monumental deterrent to such a process.

“Although President Roosevelt's order lacks specificity with regard to these ‘military areas,' the newspapers have interpreted it well. To be sure, there recently have been internments of residents of German ancestry, of Italian ancestry, but these detainees made up a minuscule percentage of their ethnic population, and were mostly noncitizens. This belated decree affecting the Japanese is much more far-reaching. Whole neighborhoods will vanish, the camps filled with mothers, old men, children. So it would seem those who melt into the pot most seamlessly do not appear to be those who
think
American, but rather who
look
American. Like the Founding Fathers, none of whom, to my knowledge, were Japanese, or African, or Cherokee.

“So we as a democratic nation, vastly different from Hitler's regime, we demand that eligible Hawaiians serve in the war, and simultaneously may force over a third of the Hawaiian population into confinement. And all Hawaii has asked of us is statehood. That in addition to the undertaking of all the attendant responsibilities of being American, many of which have already been thrust upon them, they might also enjoy the
privileges
of being one of these United States, to vote and to be represented. Don't we owe them that much?”

I feel ecstatic in my surprise attack, stunned by my own impeccable articulation. The audience stares, gaping, and for a brief insane moment I wonder if I'll get a standing ovation. Then, as some of the mouths close and the stares transform into glares, I am hurled into the terrible reality that I've just lost Prayer Ridge the debate.

When it's all over, there's some kid from the yearbook to take our picture. Mr. Hickory behind with his hands on Lucille's right shoulder and my left. Why didn't the idiot snap the shot
before
the debate, when we were all nervous smiles? Of course Megan and Nick and the St. Mary's gang are laughing, beaming. Mr. Westerly appears, and I look to him for some small comfort, but he seems almost to scowl at me, then congratulates Lucille on a good job. Mr. Hickory is shaking hands with St. Mary's and waves Lucille and me over to do the same. Nick and Megan are kind, trying to be ungloating winners. One of their nun teachers, an old woman, gives me dirty looks. A young nun smiles brightly at me. Mr. Hickory is giving Lucille some encouraging conciliatory words. He turns to me but before he can say anything, the principal calls him over, and he indicates for me to wait until he returns. Where's my mother?

“That was great!” It's some kid, maybe a couple of years older. Dark hair, tall, wiry. “I didn't understand half of what yaw said, but you sure sounded smart!” He offers his hand. “I'm Francis Veter. I used to go here, graduated sixt grade few years ago.” We shake. “I saw your picture in the paper and I came. I must say I am thoroughly impressed!” Everybody in the St. Mary's circle is praying now. Gratitude. Wonder if they'd be praying if God had lost it for them.

Lucille's parents are comforting her. She wipes her eyes, trying to do everything not to burst into tears but it's coming. She hasn't even looked at me since my rebuttal. Her mother is also heavy, her father tall and comparably slim. The way she is with him, I'm sure Henry Lee made up that whole thing about the two of them.

“Hey Randall.” I turn around. Francis Veter is still standing there. “I saw you. Before.” He winks, like some secret between us. I have no idea what he's talking about.

I look over at Mr. Westerly who seems to be ranting to Mr. Hickory. They steal glances at me. When Mr. Westerly notices I am looking back, he turns away. I head fast for the exit.

The air out on the football field is chilly but I barely notice, bawling on the sidelines thirty minutes straight. In the distance some boys running cross-country. Monday I could have been some kind of school hero but instead I'll once again be the dunce. None of them gave a damn about the debate but they'll use it, just another excuse to get me, act like they hate me, like they're so disappointed about the blamed competition but for truth they'll love it, all the more reason to pull my chair out from under me, to flick at my ears when the teacher's back's turned flick my ears till they're blood red, my face blood red and I'll pretend it doesn't bother me I'll shoot myself, I should just shoot myself, my father hasn't hunted in ages but still gotta be bullets in that shotgun I could go into Pa's work shed and get that shotgun and blow my brains out
blam
and I am soothed by the image, my brains and blood splattered all over the walls. There's one of my eyes, there a piece of my nose. I'm peering close to figure out if that pink spot is from my tongue or my lip when I see Mr. Hickory walking toward me with the young nun.

“Randall! I thought I told you to wait for me.” But he's all smiles.

“I liked your speeches today, Randall,” the young nun says, also glowing.

“Randall, this is Sister Gabriel. Math teacher.”

“And I really,
really
liked your rebuttal.” She holds out her hand, and we shake. “Excellent work.”

“It sure was.”

“If
I
were the judge, I guess I would have had to vote against my own school.” With that, Sister Gabriel leaves.

“That
was
some rebuttal, Mr. Evans.”

I look at him. I don't know what to say. I'm afraid anything I say might turn on the sobs again.

“Listen. People don't wanna hear what you said.
I
didn't wanna hear what you said. But if the panel voted fair, who made the stronger case and not just who said the safe things, you young man would have
easily
given St. Mary's their first loss of the season.” He touches my arm, giving it a warm squeeze. “I sure hope you're considering law school.”

Nobody's home except my father grousing about no supper on the stove. “Probably took him out for ice cream to make up for leavin him all day,” he mutters. He's likely right. Aunt Pearlie's got nine kids most still living at home, plenty enough to keep B.J. busy, and yet he still would have felt abandoned by us. Pa doesn't bother to ask how the debate went.

I go up and change out of my good clothes. Before running off to tend to B.J. they could have at least left a note for me:
Good job.
A few days ago she asked me how to say
I love you
in the sign language. She was enchanted when I showed her, immediately running off to show him. After a while I went to stand at the living room doorway, observing them. They were doing it back and forth, mother and firstborn son, him mimicking her, but he was confused: What is love? She tried to show him, holding her heart, showing her heart beating. Finally she held him and kissed him many times, silly and affectionate. He was thrilled and at last seemed to comprehend. Eventually she turned to sign
I love you
to me. An afterthought.

I hear them all coming in downstairs, B.J.'s voice, Ma and Benja laughing and talking, ignoring my father's grouchiness. I wash my face several times, trying to erase all evidence of my blubbering, of the day. When I'm through I stare in the mirror.
Sure hope you're considering law school.
I heard this episode of
Perry Mason
on the radio a few weeks ago. Once again he proved the case, shocking everyone in the courtroom into a collective gasp.

I come down to the living room and there they all are, Ma, Benja, B.J. Grinning at me. B.J. holds it. The trophy from Gephart's. I know Mr. Westerly wasn't planning on purchasing it until after the debate, and depending upon its outcome, so my family must have gone on and ordered it ahead of time, making it ready regardless.

Randall Evans

Best Speech

Prayer Ridge Debate Competition

Feb. 20, 1942

 

8

B.J. sits on the ground with our cousin Deb Ellen, him teaching her. He wanted to show her the sign words, and she always liked playing with him. She turned thirteen Wednesday, but they waited till today, Saturday, 14th of March, to celebrate her birthday in the park. Bright spring sun, and over on the colored side I see some girls skipping two ropes at once. The frankfurters and potato salad done, now Ma helps Aunt Pearlie set up the picnic table for the cake and ice cream.

“You ready to call the troops over?” my mother asks her sister and best friend. Aunt Pearlie is two years my mother's senior. “I notice I got one soldier's mouth a-waterin right here.” She winks at me, wearing the red rose brooch I got her for her own March birthday last week. Well there went the Sopwith savings—start over.

Aunt Pearlie's a great baker. The cake is moist, the icing dream creamy.

“It ain't gonna be like this for your birthday,” Aunt Pearlie warns Chris-Joe who's ten, the baby of the family. “They sayin the sugar rations gonna hit startin May. You might get a cake an you might not.”

“Aw,” grumbles Chris-Joe, demonstrating how it is never too early to whine.

“It's delicious,” says my mother.

“Ice cream too,” says Aunt Pearlie. “People with a sweet tooth sure gonna feel the sacrifice. Guess you be havin a string bean birthday.”

“Aw!”

She smiles at her youngest. “I hid a little sugar away. It oughta still be good come July the twenty-sixt.”

“Least with the victory gardens we never be short on vegetables,” my mother says. “My peas been really tasty, an now I got some nice cabbage. That an a little pork's a meal.”

“You ain't gettin your wish,” Buppie, who's fourteen, informs Deb Ellen.

“You don't even know what my wish was.”

“It's the rations. Applies to birthday wishes too.”

“Oh you're a regular Jack Benny.”

“I'm knittin him some socks,” Aunt Pearlie tells my mother. “His letters, he's always complainin bout his cold feet. You think they'll let him wear em? Or they say he just gotta stick to the army socks.”

“I'm sure they'll let him wear em.”

Jack is eighteen, Aunt Pearlie's second oldest boy, in France.

“Got up early, felt like I had so much to do. Harry called, said he just had the news on, talkin bout the West Coast blackouts. Harry said he didn't really believe we need to keep lights out for fear of enemy planes targetin us, said he thinks it's just the government wantin to keep us reminded we're at war.” Like my parents, Uncle Harry had served in the Great War and was of the opinion that entitled him to criticize the government whenever he damn well pleased.

“I don't know if that's true,” my mother says. Then shrugs. “Even if it is, keepin us reminded we're at war seems plenty good reason to me.”

“I don't wanna be reminded!” wails Chris-Joe. “I want my cake!” His ma pops him in the lips.

“Toldja I saved some sugar but keep it up, it'll go to Artie Ray's birthday September. Hear me?”

“B.J.'s teachin me the sign language, Aunt Bobbie,” says Deb Ellen.

“I saw,” says my mother.

“He learnt me some words. An the letters. An with the letters he learnt me, I learnt
him
a couple words.” Around the table are Ma and Benja, B.J. and me, and Aunt Pearlie and her brood: Lily who's got to be twenty now and her husband Pete John and their toddler girl, Lily holding the newborn baby and Lily's big and pregnant again. Then Todd Joseph seventeen, Lee Frankie sixteen, Artie Ray going on fifteen, Buppie fourteen, Deb Ellen newly thirteen, and Chris-Joe almost eleven. The three absentees are Ty the firstborn, working at the mill, Jack in the service, and Uncle Harry who got some wartime weapons job in Birmingham and now stays most of the time with his brother and family there. Pa calls Aunt Pearlie The Baby Machine, not when my mother's around. He also calls the whole family The Hillbillies, which isn't exactly fair since they live in the valley like us.

“Benja, you heard back from your soldier?” asks Aunt Pearlie. Over at the Methodist church some lady headed up this letter-writing campaign, soldiers with nobody to write to them. Benja signed up fast.

“Not yet. I wrote eleven days ago.”

“Be patient. Sometimes a while fore I hear from Jack, but jus when I start to worry a letter always comes.”

After dessert, evening's settling so Deb Ellen and company pull out the sparklers. I don't know how they smuggled them in, what with all the rations, but those Joneses always seem to have their ways. As soon as B.J. sees them he starts agitating Ma to go home. She tries to tell him the mini combustibles gonna be taken to the other side of the field but he doesn't care, he wants to leave. He's always been terrified of even the tiniest firecrackers. Finally she gives up, and stands to kiss Aunt Pearlie and all those nieces and nephews goodbye. Todd Joseph and Lee Frankie take the cue to also stand, both got the early shift at the mill tomorrow. Lily stays at the picnic table to talk with her mother and give the baby a bottle, while Lily's husband Pete John tosses a big ball with their little girl, and I and the other cousins go off with our handheld pyrotechnics. There are a dozen in the box and five of us. Two apiece and the birthday girl will get a third. A lingering mystery over who gets the final one. “Draw sticks?” I suggest. No one answers. I've noticed this with Aunt Pearlie's kids, on occasion ignoring me. Maybe not deliberately rude, but like some unspoken agreement between them not to discuss that final sparkler yet, something they all understand instinctively and for which I have to play catch-up.

The five of us ignite the first round, which we all find satisfying, if over way too soon. Then Deb Ellen slips off into the woods to pee, and with only boys left the conversation naturally turns to sex.

“Who
you
doin?” asks Buppie.

“Margaret Laherty.” The first girl who came to mind. Well, after Lucille, but they all surely saw her picture in the paper with me for the debates, and I am
not
setting myself up for the rest of the evening or the rest of my life filled with Randall-and-Fatty jokes. The only other girl I thought of was Lily who I've always had a cousin crush on, but I'm sure not going to mention that to her brothers. As if they don't already know. I pray they don't remember Margaret Laherty from elementary. None of the boys are in school anymore except Chris-Joe the baby, couple years behind Margaret and me. The others all stopped after sixth, working odd jobs around town. Ty had got on at the sawmill when he was twelve, and by a very close call nearly wound up with a three-finger hand like Mr. Wright. After that Aunt Pearlie put her foot down to Uncle Harry, none of them goes into the mill till they're sixteen.

“Oh yeah?” Buppie wears a pleased smirk in response to my choice in women, and I am thus relieved in my certainty that he has no idea who Margaret Laherty is or he would have most assuredly let out a big laugh over my imagining she would ever give me the time of day.

As Deb Ellen returns, lightning bugs start blinking. “Hey!” She dashes back to our picnic table. Artie Ray lights a cigarette and doesn't share it.

“Well,” he says, “we sure were glad your pa didn't come. Otherwise we'd have to hide the booze.” They all crack up. A reference to the embarrassment last Christmas when my father's behavior incited the mass exodus of extended family before dinner. Deb Ellen returns with a big jar, grass in the bottom and holes in the lid. She begins running around, collecting fireflies.

“You excited about high school?” Chris-Joe asks me.

I shrug. “Guess so.” They apparently haven't heard from Aunt Pearlie that Pa's of a dissenting opinion on the matter.

“He thinks he's goin to high school.” Buppie smirking at his little brother.

“Ma said I can!” Chris-Joe says.

“No Jones ever went past the sixt,” Buppie remarks.

“Ty didn't go past third, and Pa didn't go at all,” says Artie Ray. “Pa signed on at the mill when he was ten. Ty didn't till he was twelve so Pa used to call him ‘the princess.'” Buppie snickers.

“Benja's in the tenth?” Chris-Joe.

“Eleventh.”

“All of em!” Chris-Joe in a bitter pout, stomping off a few yards away. “All of Aunt Bobbie's kids goin to twelfth!” I never before thought of my family as so erudite.

“Not B.J.,” Artie Ray reminds him.

“He doesn't count!” Chris-Joe throws a stone, barely missing Artie Ray. Artie Ray stands, a warning. “Hey boy.”

“Lily was engaged at sixteen,” says Buppie, “married at seventeen, a ma at eighteen. Now she's a ma twice over goin on three.”

“I'm a uncle!” says Chris-Joe, suddenly over his angry spell and coming back to our throng.

“I'm a aunt,” says Deb Ellen, “but I sure ain't gonna be no ma. Yaw can have all the kids ya want.”

“You keep up your tomboy ways,” says Artie Ray, “ain't no man gonna wantcha.”

“Then I sure will keep up my tomboy ways.”

“I want another sparkler,” says Chris-Joe.

“In a while,” says Buppie.

“Why?”

“Cuz we're
savin
em!
Savorin
em! You use it up now, then cryin the blues cuz they're gone already.” Chris-Joe starts bawling. “Oh you definitely ain't the one gettin that third sparkler.” Chris-Joe starts howling. “Shut
up!
”

“I was over there today,” says Artie Ray. “She got a letter from Jack.”

Chris-Joe instantly stops crying and Deb Ellen, that quick already holding a menagerie of a good twenty fireflies, turns sharply toward Buppie. “Where?”

“Lily's, where'dja think?”

They all stare at him.

“Well don't you even wanna know what he had to say?”

“
I
do!” says Chris-Joe.

“He said France is a dog pit, and the food tastes like dog shit.”

“He didn't say that word!” Chris-Joe.

“He sure did. He wouldn'ta wrote that to Ma but he wrote it to Lily. He said they marched seventeen miles nonstop, then creepin in the trenches, moved ten yards over three days. Cold an half the time pourin, he signed up fearin he might get shot an die but now thinks what gonna earn him the Purple Heart is new-monia. Love, Jack.”

“He didn't say love to the family?”

“I mean ‘Love to the family. Jack.'” Chris-Joe is relieved.

Deb Ellen's eyes narrow. “You made that up.”

“His words, not mine.”

“‘Love, Jack. I mean, Love to the family, Jack.'” Her eyes rolling.

“Okay, he didn't say ‘love to the family.' I jus said that cuz it's what
he
wanted to hear.” Meaning Chris-Joe, who now confirms this with “Aw!”

“I'm joinin the army,” says Buppie.

“
I'm
joinin the army!” says Chris-Joe. “If I get my growth spurt next year I'll pass for fifteen.”

“
Lookin
fifteen'll do you no good, fool,” says Buppie. “Fifteen-year-olds get in for lookin
eighteen
.”

“They let anybody in,” says Artie Ray.

“
Not
the army, I'ma be a
flyer
!” Chris-Joe starts racing around, his arms outstretched: plane. Artie Ray looks at Deb Ellen, her eyes still hard on him.

“Whatta ya blamin
me
for? I didn't tell Jack to write to Lily steada us.”

“You made the whole goddamn thing up.”

“You know the way Ma and Lily can get into it.” Artie Ray looks at the picnic table in the distance. “Both of em actin like butter wouldn't melt in their mouths now, but one wrong word. Jack prolly thinks he better write to Lily separately since he never knows when her and Ma's gonna fall out, stop speakin.”

“He could write to each of us,” Deb Ellen says.

“To eight of us
?” the boys say in unison. Chris-Joe adds, “Plus
Ma
? Plus
Pa
?”

“He only writes to Lily separate cuz she's in a separate household.” Artie Ray.

“I gotta go to the woods!” Chris-Joe hops away, holding himself.

“
An
cuz Lily's his favorite sister.” Deb Ellen flashes a glare at Artie Ray.

“Oh he's jus foolin on ya,” says Buppie, “don't bite the bait.” From over on the colored side, another birthday happening: singing and the lit cake.

“Come on,” Artie Ray says, “let's light up the sparklers.”

“I'm not ready yet,” Deb Ellen retorts.

“Then guess you'll miss out.”

“I GET TWO MORE!”

“I get mine! I get mine!” Chris-Joe running out of the woods, still pulling up his pants.

“Jesus! Don'tchu see a girl lookin atcha?” asks Buppie.

“Nope.” Chris-Joe grins at Deb Ellen, who slugs him. He starts wailing.

“Oh Christ,” says Buppie.

“Well long as he's blubberin, I'll take his sparkler too.” Artie Ray moves toward the box.

“No!”
Chris-Joe grabs his sparkler, lights it, smiling through his tears. As the four of us watch the shimmering in the boy's hands, Deb Ellen, still sulky, gives each of her brothers the evil eye, her irises shining in fury. I have never seen her cry. She's an athlete, the talent and the drive, skinning her knees and elbows and ignoring the blood to keep the ball in play. The only other time I have glimpsed this look in her was the night before Jack left, when Aunt Pearlie threw him that going-away dinner. He was in a bedroom, some intimate farewell time with Lily and her daughter, his godchild. I was coming back from the bathroom and overheard the private episode, stopping myself short, caught between trying not to pass by the doorway lest it appear I was eavesdropping and being stuck in a spot where I couldn't help but eavesdrop. Deb Ellen had just barged in, grabbing Jack and now trying to pull him off the bed, wanting him to throw a football with her. He was patient, telling her to give him a few minutes, and when she wouldn't stop he finally snapped at her to let go and leave him and Lily and the little girl alone. With her and Lily the only girls, I'd noticed moments with Deb Ellen vying for the attention, especially from Jack, no question her favorite brother. With his definitive reprimand, she'd stomped out, and saw me near the door.