You’re right: I don’t have anyone to talk to. Not even Frank, anymore. Ever since our father was taken away, he’s changed. It really bothers him that someone could just be snatched away. He’s careful at school to hide it, and he’s the same old upbeat varsity captain, popular as heck. But at home, wow, complete turnaround, he turns really gloomy. Total Jekyll and Hyde.
Doesn’t help that he’s got even more chores to do with our father gone. So he’s tired all the time. I know he feels the pressure to be the man of the house now.
But I’m fine. Even without Frank, I’m doing okay. Because I honestly don’t need people. Give me a comic book, and I’m perfectly content. Or better yet, a sketchbook and an HB (or Eberhard Faber!) pencil. But put me in front of an actual person, and I tend to shrivel up. I never quite know what to say.
I’ve actually been thinking about the 5,000 miles that separate us. As much as we both hate the distance, it might ironically be the reason why we’ve become so close. It’s allowed me to be completely open and honest with you, something I can’t be when face-to-face with people.
Don’t worry about me, Charlie. As long as I got you, I’m fine.
Alex
P.S. Put to rest your silly notion that in real life we might not get along. That’s crazy, Charlie, that’s a really negative and weird and depressing thought! As you always tell me: MAKE SOME FRIENDS!!!!
7
JANUARY 17, 1942
They return weeks later. Four FBI agents. They don’t bother flashing their badges or asking for permission to enter. They tromp in with their boots, kicking aside the shoes and sandals neatly lined up in the genkan. Within minutes, they’ve tracked in more sand and dust and dirt than has ever been brought into the house.
“Someone shut that damn dog up,” one of them says.
“His name’s Hero, by the way,” Frank says, arms folded. He’s standing against the kitchen wall, still in his football uniform.
“What did you say?”
“I said the dog has a name. Hero.”
The agent cocks his head. “As in Hirohito? Figures. Got anything else from the Jap emperor in this house?”
The agent wants to provoke. Frank presses his lips together, looks away. The agent sniffs, moves to the bookshelf by the faded chintz couch. His fingers hook into book spines; he pulls them out, flips through them one by one, letting them drop to the floor when he’s done.
From the coffee table, he picks up a thick book, its leather cover worn and distressed, its thin pages crinkled and well thumbed. “Well, well, what do we have here?” He holds the book out to them, upside down, the opened pages printed with kanji. “What’s this?”
Frank looks at him with a sneer. “It’s called the Bible. Know it?”
“That so?”
“Yeah, you should read it sometime. Might learn a thing or two.”
The agent returns Frank’s stare, then turns to Mother. “You got any more books written in Japanese?”
“No.” She shakes her head vigorously. “No more Japanese book.”
“‘No more Japanese book,’” the agent intones, mimicking her accent.
Alex can hear the other three agents moving about the house. Sounds of drawers being opened, clothes thrown to the floor, bed mattresses lifted and dropped.
“Do you recognize any of these agents?” he asks Mother. “From when Father was taken away?”
She shakes her head. “These white men,” she whispers, “they all look the same.”
“No talking in Japanese,” the agent barks at them.
“We’re talking, is all,” Frank says, pushing off the wall. “What’s it to you?”
“Okay,” Mother says, putting a hand on Frank. “Okay. No Japanese.”
The agent snorts. His eyes settle on something on the other side of the kitchen, and he moves eagerly to it. He pulls out a sack of rice from beneath the sink.
“That’s a lot of lice. Sorry, I mean rice.” He sticks his hands into the sack, running his hand through the grains. He draws out two fistfuls, lets the rice sift through his fingers. “We’ve found all kinds of contraband in your lice in other homes.” He suddenly grabs the sack, upending it. The grains of rice go scattering across the floor.
“Come on, now!” Frank takes a step toward the agent.
“Don’t!” the agent warns, straightening.
“Why’d you do that? It’s just rice.”
“I said back off!”
“Yeah, you go to hell—”
Mother stands. “Daisuke!”
The agent spins around. “I said don’t speak in Japanese!” His pointed finger almost jabs her nose.
Frank steps forward, his hands balled into fists.
Do it, Frank, Alex thinks. Swing a haymaker. Give that idiot a shiner.
“Daisuke!” Mother shouts at Frank, clapping her hands sharply. Frank pauses, breathing hard.
Another agent enters into the kitchen, his eyes swinging between Frank and the other agent. “What’s going on here?”
“Nothing,” the agent answers, shrugging.
Mother sits down, her fingers trembling.
The other agents return from the other rooms. They’re carrying a Japanese vase, a camera, a pair of binoculars, even a wire clothes hanger. “Contraband,” one of them mumbles. They walk out, stepping over the scattered rice.
“Hey, wait!” Alex says after them. This is his chance to find out about Father. “When’s my father coming back?”
They ignore him, walk out the front door.
Frank follows them outside. “Hey! Didn’t you hear my brother? He asked when you’re releasing our father!”
They ignore him as they saunter toward their car.
“Don’t even think about leaving until you answer me!” Frank shouts, and now he is stomping across the porch, now he is leaping off the stairs, his ba
re feet striking the frozen ground. The agents pile into the car. Mother cries out after him, telling him not to do anything stupid, to just let them go. But Frank doesn’t stop.
Alex pushes open the screen door. “Frank! It’s okay, just forget it!”
But Frank ignores him. He runs right up to the government car, and stands directly before it as the engine roars awake. He stares through the windshield at the four agents inside; they stare back, one of them grinning, the others glaring. The driver, his lips twisted in a sneer, leans on the horn. Frank doesn’t budge. The car suddenly lunges forward—Mother screams—and although Frank flinches, he holds his ground.
“When’s my father coming back?” he shouts, his voice almost a screech. “Tell me!”
“Frank!” shouts Alex, running toward him.
The car lurches forward again, stopping mere inches from Frank.
Still he stands his ground. “Get out the car and tell me! When’s he coming home?” He raises his hands, and slams them down onto the hood of the car.
“Daisuke!” Mother screams from the porch.
The driver’s door opens. “Listen, kid, get the hell out of the way before I arrest your ass.”
Frank raises his fists, about to strike the hood again.
Alex grabs hold of Frank’s shirt from behind. “Frank,” he says urgently, trying to tug him backward. “Please stop!”
But Frank is unmovable. Alex can feels his hard muscles bunching under his clothing, readying to unleash.
Mother hurries over. Doesn’t try to physically pull him away, knowing better. “Daisuke,” she says. “You can get us into trouble. And then they’ll send Father off. Far away. Maybe back to Japan. Stop this.”
Frank stares at her, his chest rising and falling. His jawline jutting out. He closes his eyes, shakes his head.
“That’s right, punk,” the agent says. “Listen to your mommy. Whatever she said.” He gets back into the car. Guns the engine, the tires spinning and kicking dirt into their faces.