The Quiet of Two Wars

It started, as these things often do, with neighborhood talk and a lot of good intentions.

“You know, Kenji,” his mother said, “you ought to offer to do Mr. Pritchard’s lawn. Poor man’s yard looks like a wheat field these days.”

Kenji Ito stopped pushing his mower and wiped his forehead. “I don’t know. I think he likes doing it himself.”

“Liked,” she corrected. “Past tense. He hasn’t done a thing in months. I think he’s been, well, going through a spell since his wife left. And it lowers property values.”

Kenji smiled politely. “You could ask him yourself.”

“Oh no,” she said, looking scandalized. “He’d think I was meddling.”

Kenji tried not to laugh. “You are meddling.”

“That’s different. I’m trying to help.”

And so, at his mom’s urging, Kenji went up the walk to the weather-beaten Pritchard house.

Walter Pritchard answered the door like a man expecting a sales rep. His shirt was half-buttoned, his hair half-combed, and the smell of beer floated through the screen.

“You the paperboy?”

“No, sir. I mow lawns. I can come back if it’s a bad time.”

He scratched his jaw, then shrugged. “Hell, no. Come in. Might as well take a look at the disaster.”

Kenji hesitated. “Inside?”

“Upstairs,” said Pritchard. “That’s where the disaster starts.”

The attic stairs groaned under their weight. It smelled of dust, wood rot, and the kind of memories people don’t throw away, with boxes stacked like uneven tombstones.

“Hadn’t been up here in years,” Pritchard said, kicking aside a broken radio. “Wife used to nag me to clean it out. Guess she got tired of nagging.”

Kenji smiled weakly. “Looks like there’s history up here.”

“History and junk,” said Pritchard. “Same thing, mostly.”

Kenji bent to pick up a stack of magazines, and that’s when he saw it, long, wrapped in cloth, leaning against a trunk. “What’s this?”

Pritchard’s eyes flicked toward it, quick and sharp. “Ah. That old thing.”

He unwrapped it with surprising care. The sword gleamed faintly, its edge bright even under the dust.

“Samurai sword,” Pritchard said, almost fondly. “Brought it back from Okinawa.”

Kenji’s hands froze midair. “From the war?”

“From a man who didn’t need it anymore.” He chuckled, but it wasn’t a friendly sound. “Here. Take a look.”

Kenji didn’t move. “No, thank you.”

“Go on. It won’t bite.”

“I’d rather not touch it.”

Pritchard frowned. “Thought you folks liked this kind of thing.”

“I’m American,” Kenji said softly. “Just like you.”

“Sure you are,” Pritchard said, smirking. “You just don’t look like a Ken.”

“My name’s Kenji, or Ken,” he said.

“Kenji, huh? Sounds like a sneeze.”

Kenji exhaled slowly. “You said you needed help?”

Pritchard blinked, then waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah. Help me box some of this stuff up. I’ll pay you double if you stay for a beer.”

“I don’t drink.”

“You do today,” said Pritchard, pulling two bottles from a cooler. “Call it hydration.”

He popped both open and handed one over. Kenji held it but didn’t drink. The air was thick with dust and heat and a kind of tension that made the walls seem smaller.

“You know,” Pritchard said, “I drove a Cat for twenty years. Bulldozer. Good job. Hard job. Not like mowing lawns.”

“Hard work’s hard work,” said Kenji.

Pritchard squinted. “You sound like my wife. Before she left.”

Kenji smiled faintly. “Maybe she was right.”

“Don’t push it, son.”

“I’m not your son.”

That stopped him for a beat. Then Pritchard laughed, rough and short. “You got a backbone. I’ll give you that.”

Recognizing that he should leave, Kenji rushed downstairs to the attic door. When Kenji tried it, it didn’t move.

“Stuck,” he said.

Pritchard looked up. “Figures. Damn door swells in the heat.”

Kenji tugged again. Nothing. “It’s jammed tight.”

Pritchard shrugged. “You afraid of small rooms?”

“No. Just not used to being trapped in them.”

“Well,” Pritchard said, settling onto a crate, “guess we’re stuck together till it cools off. Might as well talk.”

Kenji folded his arms. “About what?”

“The war,” said Pritchard, as if it were inevitable. “You ever been in one?”

“I was born after,” Kenji said. “My parents were in Manzanar.”

“Yeah, I heard of that,” Pritchard muttered. “Relocation centers.”

“Camps,” said Kenji. “For U.S. citizens.”

Pritchard snorted. “You don’t say. Look, don’t take it personal. That was a long time ago.”

“For you, maybe.”

The Pritchards’ eyes narrowed. “Careful now.”

Kenji met his stare. “My father worked for the Navy. Civilian contractor. Tried to warn the men at Pearl Harbor when the planes came. The government gave him a medal afterward. Then we got a barbed-wire fence.”

Silence. Only the buzz of a fly and the creak of rafters.

Finally, Pritchard said, “Guess we all got raw deals.”

“Some more than others,” said Kenji.

The Pritchard took a long pull of beer. “You think I liked killing people? You think I had a choice?”

“Didn’t you?”

“Orders,” Pritchard said, his voice sharpening. “You wouldn’t understand. You weren’t there. You didn’t see what they did.”

“And you didn’t see what they became,” Kenji said quietly. “Farmers. Neighbors. Kids like me.”

Pritchard’s jaw flexed. “You’ve got nerve, kid. Talking down to me in my own house.”

Kenji took a step back, hands steady. “I’m not talking down. I’m looking across.”

The sword glinted from its perch on the trunk. Pritchard’s gaze landed on it. “You know, that sword’s cursed. Tried to get rid of it half a dozen times. Always comes back.”

“Maybe it’s trying to remind you of something,” said Kenji.

“Yeah,” Pritchard said. “To keep my distance from your kind.”

That was the crack in the air before thunder.

Kenji’s face flushed. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I? You changed your name to hide it, didn’t you? I knew it the second I saw you. You can’t scrub it off.”

Kenji took a step forward. “Say that again.”

“Face it, kid. You’re no American. You’re a guest who overstayed.”

Kenji’s hand shot toward the sword. “And you’re a Marine who forgot what he fought for.”

The attic seemed to shrink to half its size. Pritchard lurched to his feet, drunk on memory and regret. “Put that down, boy.”

“My name is Kenji Ito, Ken for short,” as he pointed the blade at Pritchard.

“Fine. Ken.” He raised his hands. “You think I’m the enemy? You don’t know what it’s like out there.”

“I know what it’s like in here,” said Kenji.

“Go on then,” Pritchard barked, stepping closer. “Do it. Make it even.”

Kenji’s voice cracked. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then why are you shaking?”

“I’m shaking because you make me remember things I didn’t live through,” Kenji said. “And somehow, I still have to answer for them.”

Pritchard opened his mouth, maybe to apologize, but stumbled. His foot caught the trunk, the sword flashed, and the attic filled with a sound that didn’t belong in a quiet house.

Kenji stared, frozen. Pritchard gasped once, a sharp intake like surprise, and then sat down hard against the wall.

“Oh,” said Pritchard. “Guess it finally got me.”

Kenji dropped to his knees. “Mr. Pritchard, I—I didn’t mean…”

“Funny thing,” the old man murmured, voice thin. “You look just like him. The officer. Should’ve let him live. Should’ve let you go too.”

Kenji’s hands trembled. “Hold on. I’ll call someone…”

“Door’s still stuck,” Pritchard whispered. “You’ll have to wait.” He coughed once, almost laughed. “Always comes back, that sword. Always.”

Kenji pressed his hands to the wound, tears hot and silent. “I’m sorry.”

Pritchard’s eyes softened, distant now. “So am I, kid. Guess we both got stuck.”

And then there was only the hum of the fly again.