Snow Falling on Cedars (16 page)

‘Yes, of course,’ the judge answered.

‘Them Japanese couldn’t own land,’ said Etta. ‘So I don’t see how them Miyamotos could think they owned ours. They – ’

‘Mrs. Heine,’ said the judge. ‘Excuse me one more time. I apologize for interrupting. But I must remind you that Mr. Miyamoto here is on trial for murder in the first degree, that such is the focus of this court’s concern, and that any contentiousness about legal ownership of land will have to be
addressed in a civil court, madam. You will confine yourself, please, to answering the questions put to you. Mr. Hooks,’ said the judge. ‘Proceed.’

‘Thank you,’ Alvin Hooks replied. ‘For the record let me point out that the witness has attempted only to reconstruct the facts about ownership of her land in direct response to a question put to her in the course of examination. That furthermore such information is vital to the state’s case and that a clear portrait of the agreement between the defendant and the witness will illuminate the defendant’s motive for committing murder. That – ’

‘That’s enough,’ said Judge Fielding. ‘You’ve made your opening statement, Alvin. Let’s get on with it.’

Alvin Hooks nodded and paced again. ‘Mrs. Heine,’ he said. ‘Let’s back up just a moment. If the law, as you say, prevented the Miyamotos from owning land, what was the point of this sale agreement?’

‘So they could make payments,’ said Etta. ‘The law let ’em own land if they were citizens. Them Miyamoto kids were born here so they’re citizens, I guess. When they turned twenty the land’d go over into their name – law said they could do that, put it in their kids’ name at twenty.’

‘I see,’ Alvin Hooks replied. ‘And they – the defendant’s family, the Miyamotos, that is – had no children in 1934 who were twenty years of age, Mrs. Heine? As far as you know, ma’am?’

‘Oldest one’s sitting right there,’ said Etta, pointing a finger at Kabuo. ‘He was twelve, I believe, back then.’

Alvin Hooks turned to look at the defendant as though he was uncertain who she meant. ‘The defendant?’ he asked. ‘In ’34?’

‘Yes,’ said Etta. ‘The defendant. That’s what the eight-year lease was all about. When eight years was up, he’d be twenty.’

‘In ’42,’ said Alvin Hooks.

‘Forty-two, that’s right,’ said Etta. ‘November of ’42 he’d be twenty, they’d make the last payment December 31, the land’d go over into his name, that was going to be that.’

‘
Going
to be?’ said Alvin Hooks.

‘Missed the last payment,’ said Etta. ‘Missed the last
two
payments, in fact. Never made ’em. The last two. Out of sixteen total.’

She folded her arms across her chest. She set her mouth and waited.

Nels Gudmundsson coughed.

‘Now Mrs. Heine,’ said Hooks. ‘When they missed two successive payments in 1942, what did you do about that?’

It took her awhile to answer. She rubbed her nose. She adjusted her arms. She remembered how Carl’d come home one afternoon with a posting he’d picked up in Amity Harbor. He’d sat at the table, smoothed it down in front of him, and read every word slowly. Etta had stood over him reading, too.

‘I
NSTRUCTIONS TO ALL PERSONS OF
J
APANESE ANCESTRY LIVING IN THE FOLLOWING AREAS
,’ it said, and then it listed Anacortes and Bellingham, San Juan and San Piedro, a lot of other places in the Skagit Valley; she forgot the others. At any rate, it told the Japs they had to leave by noon on March 29. They were to be evacuated by the Fourth Army.

Etta had counted on her fingers. The Japs had eight days exactly. They could bring bedding, linen, toilet articles, extra clothing, knives, spoons, forks, plates, bowls, cups. They had to tie it in neat bundles and put their names on everything. The government would give them a number. The Japs could bring what they could carry, but no pets. The government said it would store their furniture. The furniture would stay, the Japs had to report to an assembly center at the Amity Harbor dock on March 29, eight A.M. The government would provide transportation.

‘By God,’ said Carl. He smoothed the bill with his thumb, shook his head.

‘Won’t be pickers this year,’ replied Etta. ‘Maybe get some Chinamen from Anacortes, the Japs aren’t going to be around.’

‘Plenty of time for that,’ said Carl. ‘By God, Etta.’ He shook his head.

Carl took his fingers from the bill on the table. It rolled up of its own accord. ‘By God,’ he repeated. ‘Eight days.’

‘They’ll be selling everything off,’ said Etta. ‘Just you wait and see. All their knickknacks, pots and pans. A lot of yard sales – you watch. That’s what those people’ll do with their things – sell them off as fast as they can to whoever’ll take them off their hands.’

‘People are going to take advantage, too,’ said Carl, still wagging his big head. He sat with his forearms on the table. Soon, she knew, he was going to cat something, spread crumbs across her kitchen. He looked as though he was ready to eat, as if he was contemplating food. ‘It’s too bad,’ he said. ‘It ain’t
right.
’

‘They’re Japs,’ answered Etta. ‘We’re in a war with them. We can’t have spies around.’

Carl shook his head and, heavy as he was, swiveled in his chair to face her.

‘We ain’t right together,’ he told Etta flatly. ‘You and me, we just ain’t right.’

She knew, indeed, what he meant by that. But just the same she didn’t answer. Anyway, he had said this sort of thing before. It didn’t hurt very much.

For a moment Etta stood with her wrists against her hips, letting him know how she felt about matters, but Carl didn’t look away. ‘Have some Christian compassion,’ he said. ‘My grace, Etta. Don’t you feel nothing?’

She went out. There was weeding to be done, and she had to fill the hog trough. She stopped in the mudroom, hung her apron on a hook, sat down to pull her boots on. She was sitting there like that, struggling with a boot, worrying over what Carl had said – the two of them not being right for each other, that old thing – when Zenhichi Miyamoto came to the door, took his hat off, and nodded.

‘We heard,’ she said, ‘about you people.’

‘Is Mr. Heine home, Mrs. Heine?’ Miyamoto propped his hat against his leg, but then he shifted it behind his back.

‘He’s here,’ said Etta. ‘Yes.’

She stuck her head around the mudroom door and called loudly for Carl. ‘Someone’s here!’ she added.

When Carl showed she said to him, ‘You may as well talk about it right here in front of me, I’m a part of this.’

‘Hello, Zenhichi,’ said Carl. ‘Why don’t you come on in?’

Etta pried her boots off. She followed the Jap into the kitchen.

‘Sit down, Zenhichi,’ Carl said. ‘Etta will get you some coffee.’

He stared at her and she nodded. She took a fresh apron from its hook and put it on. She filled the coffeepot.

‘We saw the posting,’ said Carl. ‘Eight days just isn’t near enough time. How can a body be ready in eight days? It ain’t right,’ he added. ‘It just ain’t right.’

‘What can we do?’ Zenhichi said. ‘We will put boards with nails on our windows. Leave everything. If you will like, Mr. Heine, you can work our fields. We are grateful that you have sold them to us. Good two-year plants now, most. We will have plenty berries. You pick them, please. Sell them to the cannery, keep what money. Otherwise they rot, Mr. Heine. And nobody gets nothing.’

Carl began to scratch his face. He sat across from Zenhichi scratching. He looked large and coarse, the Japanese man smaller and clear-eyed. They were about the same age, but the Jap looked younger, fifteen years younger at least. Etta put cups and saucers on the table, opened the sugar bowl.
Pretty shrewd, for openers,
she thought. Offer the berries, they’re worth nothing to him now. Real clever. Then talk about payments.

‘I’m obliged,’ said Carl. ‘We’ll pick them, then. I’m much obliged, Zenhichi.’

The Japanese man nodded. He was always nodding, thought Etta. It was how they got the better of you – they
acted
small, thought big. Nod, say nothing, keep their faces turned down; it was how they got things like her seven acres. ‘How are you
going to make your payments if me and Carl’s picking your berries?’ she asked from her place by the stove. ‘It’s not – ’

‘Just hold on now, Etta,’ Carl broke in. ‘We don’t need to talk about that just yet.’ He turned his attention back to the Jap. ‘How is everyone to home?’ he said. ‘How is everyone taking it?’

‘Very busy at home,’ said Miyamoto. ‘Packing everything, making ready.’ He smiled; she saw his big teeth.

‘Can we help somehow?’ said Carl.

‘You pick our berries. That is big help.’

‘But can we help? Can we do something else?’

Etta brought the coffeepot to the table. She saw that Miyamoto had his hat in his lap. Well, Carl was being a real gracious host, but he’d forgotten about that, hadn’t he? The Jap had to sit there with his hat under the table like a man who’d wet his pants.

‘Carl will pour,’ she announced. She sat down, smoothed her apron. She folded her hands on the tabletop.

‘Let it sit a minute,’ answered Carl. Then we’ll have our coffee.’

They were sitting there like that when Carl junior barged through the kitchen door. Home from school already. Three thirty-five and home already. Must’ve
run
or something. Had one book with him – mathematics. His jacket was grass stained, his face ruddy with the wind, a little sweaty, too. She could see he was hungry, like his father that way, ate everything in sight. There’s some apples in the pantry,’ she pointed out.

‘You may get one, Carl. Get a glass of milk and go outside. Somebody’s here, we’re talking.’

‘I heard about it,’ said Carl junior. ‘I – ’

‘Go on and get your apple,’ said Etta. ‘Somebody’s here, Carl.’

He went. He came back with two apples. Went to the refrigerator, took out the milk pitcher, poured himself a glass of milk. His father reached for the coffeepot and filled Miyamoto’s cup, then Etta’s, then his own. Carl junior looked at them, the apples in one hand, the glass of milk in the other. He went on into the living room.

‘You go outside,’ called Etta. ‘Don’t you eat in there.’

The boy came back and stood in the doorway. There was a bite taken out of one of the apples. The milk was gone from his glass. He was already near as big as his father. He was eighteen. It was hard to believe how big he was. He took another bite from the apple. ‘Is Kabuo home?’ he asked.

‘Kabuo just home,’ replied Miyamoto. ‘Yes, he is there.’ He smiled.

‘I’m going over,’ said Carl junior. He walked across the kitchen and put his glass in the sink. He banged out through the kitchen door.

‘Come back for your schoolbook!’ Etta called.

The boy came back and took his book up the stairs. He went into the pantry, got another apple, waved as he went by them. ‘I’ll be back,’ he announced.

Carl pushed the sugar bowl toward the Japanese man. ‘Take some,’ he said. ‘Cream, too, if you like.’

Miyamoto nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Very good. Sugar only, please.’

He stirred in half a spoon of sugar. He used his spoon carefully, set it in his saucer. He waited until Carl picked up his cup, then picked up his own and sipped. ‘Very good,’ he said. He looked over at Etta and smiled her way – a little smile, that was all he ever gave.

‘Your boy is very big now,’ he said. He was still smiling. And then he lowered his head. ‘I want to make payment. Two more payment, everything done. Today I have one hundred twenty dollar. I – ’

Carl senior was shaking his head. He put his coffee down, shook his head some more. ‘Absolutely not,’ he said. ‘Absolutely not, Zenhichi. We’ll get your harvest in, see what comes of that July. Maybe then we can work out something. Maybe, where you’re going, they’ll have work for you to do. Who knows? It’ll turn out. Point is, though, no way am I going to take your savings off your hands at a time like this, Zenhichi. Don’t even
talk
about that now.’

The Jap put his one hundred and twenty dollars on the table – a lot of tens, some fives, ten ones; he spread them out in a fan. ‘You take this, please,’ he said. ‘I send more from where I am going. Make payment. Maybe payment is not enough, you still have seven acres strawberries this year. Then, December, there is one more payment. You see? One more.’

Etta folded her arms across her chest; she
knew
he wasn’t giving his strawberries for nothing! ‘Your berries,’ she said. ‘What can we figure? After all, nobody sets the price ’til June. All right, say you’ve got good plants, two-year plants, like you say you do. Everything goes right. We get people in there weeding. No spit bugs, good sun, everything comes out right, berries come in, good crop. All right, after labor and what we put into fertilizer maybe you’ve got two hundred worth of berries? In a good year? If the price is good? If everything goes right? But let’s just say it’s a bad year. An average year. Fungus gets ’em, too much rain, any one of a dozen things – now we’re talking about a hundred, maybe a hundred twenty worth of berries. Okay? What then? I’ll tell you what. It won’t be enough to cover your payment, two hundred and fifty dollars.’

‘You take this,’ said Zenhichi. He made a stack of the bills, moved them toward her. ‘This one hundred and twenty dollar. Strawberries bring one hundred and thirty, next payment is made.’

‘Thought you was
giving
the berries,’ said Etta. ‘Didn’t you come in here giving them away? Didn’t you tell us to sell them to the cannery and keep whatever comes from that? Now what you want is one hundred thirty.’ She reached out and took his neat stack of bills, counted the money while she spoke. ‘One hundred and thirty on the risk they bring it, plus this here as an early payment, the risk in exchange for getting this March instead of us waiting on all of it ’til June? Is that what you came here hoping on?’

The Japanese man blinked at her steadily. He said nothing, didn’t touch his coffee either. He’d gone rigid, gone cold. She could see that he was angry, that he was holding it in, not
exposing his rage.
He’s proud,
she thought.
I just spit on him, he’s pretending it didn’t happen that way. Blink away,
she thought.

Etta finished counting his money, set the stack of bills back on the table, and folded her arms across her chest again. ‘More coffee?’ she asked.