Seven

It was close to noon. The sun was bright overhead and the air thick with the sweet scent of coconut drying in the nearby copra dryer. Her father would be back soon from Dumaguete. In the meantime, Imogene had left Miss Goldie reading on the veranda and wandered alone into the garden.

In the dappled shade of a banyan tree, she sat with her legs tucked under her, vaguely aware of bees droning in the nearby hive and birds chattering in the branches above. She pulled Jimmy’s note from the pocket of her pink cotton shift.

Smoothing the envelope that bore Japanese calligraphy, she caressed with her fingers where his had touched. She lifted the textured paper, imagining that the musky scent of his aftershave still lingered. How she longed to see him, to be in his arms as her sister would soon be in the arms of the man she loved.

Oh, she did envy Becky that.

Casting her gaze northward, her eyes grew moist.

How could her father, anyone, hold Jimmy responsible for the atrocities a continent away? He’d been a college student in California, as far from the chaos as it was possible to be. Yet so many did treat him as if he’d had a part in it. People like Raymond Diller painted every Japanese with the same brush.

But was it possible to be born into a culture and not be tainted by it?

Not her Jimmy. He was the dearest, kindest person she had ever met and as American as she in his attitudes.

And yet the thought hovered in the back of her mind. Despite Jimmy’s assurances to her that Japan would never risk the repercussions of attacking an American territory, did he really believe it? Or was he trying to convince himself?

As she reread his note, she realized there was something haunting, almost final in his last words: “Please, dear heart, remember me, as I will remember you—always.”

The flickering shadow of a bending palm fell across the page. It reminded her of Hawaii and Jimmy’s arms around her as they watched the palms along the shore swaying in another soft, tropical breeze.

Imogene blinked. The shadow on the page had taken on a human silhouette. She looked up and through the glitter of tears saw her father standing above her.

His expression was dazed, as if he couldn’t quite accept what he was about to say. “The Japanese have attacked the American ships at Pearl Harbor.”

“No, they didn’t.” A mantle of fear dropped over her. “They wouldn’t.” She tried to swallow but couldn’t get past the lump in her throat. Barely could she draw a breath.

“We heard the news when we got to Dumaguete. And that’s not the worst of it. Bombs are falling on our own capital— on Manila—as we speak.”

His voice, usually so strong and confident, wavered with uncertainty. His tall, imposing frame was stooped, as if the weight of his words hung like a yoke around his neck. And his ruddy, sun-baked face was pinched and drawn.

For the first time Imogene saw him as old.

How arrogant she had been in her innocence. She clutched Jimmy’s letter to her heart. “This means—”

“We’re at war.”