The Japanese woman in her shadow said nothing, only nodding quietly and staring without focus toward the gravel of the square. Behind them, away from the square, stood a little row of three small Victorians at the center of which was the house I would, twenty-seven years later, occupy with my grandmother, all of them empty now as their occupants had come out onto the sidewalk to watch and quietly discuss the events of the day, the plans of the president, the war with Japan, the reports that submarines had been sighted from California beaches, and the necessity—such were the terms used—of removing the Japs from the whole of the Pacific coast. That Homer Wilson did not share such views was a surprise to the people of the town, even though they knew of his friendship with his foreman. And yet it was still a surprise to them when Homer Wilson would stand at the meetings of the Fruit Growers Association and use words like “neighbors” and “friends” and “community members” in reference to those we had sent to the camps, as if he were under some spell.

“Anyway,” Mrs. Wilson continued, “Homer’ll do something about it. You’ll see.”

Kimiko’s expression was so impassive that it seemed almost as if she did not hear Mrs. Wilson speaking at all. And yet after a moment she whispered a faint reply: “Thank you, Evelyn.”

Mrs. Wilson paused now, for the woman had never, in all the years they had known each other, said her first name. She had assumed that it was some kind of Japanese tradition or even a stricture and it did not please her now that such a stricture had been broken. There had been a formality between them. Why break that formality now? Why break it ever?

“I know we’ve had our differences,” she said then, trying to choose her words with care, “but we’ve got to put all that behind us now.” She paused a moment, searching for the right phrase. And then there it was and she said it: “I want you to know that I forgive you.”

“You forgive me?” Kimiko said quietly, still gazing at the gravel, her dark, warm hair pinned up in a globe upon her head.

“Yes,” Mrs. Wilson said. “It’s important to move on. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes,” Kimiko said in response, her tone flat, colorless. “We’ll move on.”

This was a kind of relief. If only Kimiko Takahashi had apologized she might well have forgiven her years before, and yet she had not and so things had settled into—what?—a kind of awkward routine of avoidance. But that was over now, she supposed. “And I’ll take care of things while you’re gone,” she said now. “You can trust me on that.”

“Of course,” Kimiko said.

“Well, we’re neighbors, aren’t we?”

“We are.”