Michael Shannon.

Mom ducked her head around the kitchen door, a red bandana tied up around her short dark hair the tag ends making a little pair of bunny ears in the front. She wiped a smudge from her nose with the back of her wrist then began wiping her hands on the blue and white flowered apron she wore, her tired brown eyes sweeping the hall looking for child labor. That would be me.

We were moving. The big old two story house that grandpa bought before the war was being torn down for a shopping mall and mom had us kids scouring ever nook and cranny, digging out every little thing we could find. It seemed to me at seventeen a useless thing, what did we need all that junk for anyway. Grandpa’s old Ford truck was already piled high with heaps of old stuff left from a long life in the same house.

My brother and I were in the hallway. He had scrambled up the ladder into the attic and I waited at the bottom for him to toss down everything he could find. For boys it had always been a treasure trove of discarded things, the old five finger baseball glove, my sisters dented old pink tricycle with the dangling sprouts of plastic string on the handle bars, it was missing a wheel. There was a cardboard box of old vinyl records in sleeves printed with oriental characters which meant nothin to us, they must have been grandpa’s. Dust and spiderwebs rained down every time he sent something down. It seemed to take forever and the complaints about how hot it was up there were never ending. After an hour of catching and running to the truck and back I yelled up for him to hurry up I wanted to go surfing. In the way of little brothers he snapped, “I don’t care what you want.” He stuck his head, wreathed with tendrils of silk web and seven kinds of dust and said, “Just one more thing.” He threw a suitcase at me.

It was an old blue black wooden case, crossed with scratches, splattered by faded white paint, it’s fillets dented and on one corner torn completely torn. The leather wrapped handle was chewed by rats. I though, who would keep such a thing?

“Ma, what is this thing?”

“Why did grandma Iso keep a piece of junk like this?”

My mother turned from wrapping glasses in newspaper and placing them in a cardboard box, looking to see what it was I was talking about. I held up the old case for her to see. She froze. The air seemed to come out of her as she slowly sagged and then fell to her knees, burying her head under her crossed arms she she made a sound between a sob and a wail.

It was terrifying. What was happening? I’d never seen mother do anything like this in my whole life. Allan let out a howl, “Donna, Donna” he shouted for my big sister to come.

she must have heard all the commotion because she came in a hurry. She came boiling around the corner in what she called her working clothes, Rolled to the calf levi’s below a sleeveless white blouse with Peter Pan collar. Her penny loafers complete with the penny in the slot squeaked on the hardwood as she made the turn into the hall. Her ducktail with curls on top sweaty, dirt streaked and her cat’s eye glasses askew. She knelt next to mom put her arms around her and helped her to her feet softly murmuring to her. They stumbled toward the bedroom, mom moaning in Japanese with my sister tut tutting softly,

“Mommy, mommy, it’s alright, shhh, shhh. You’re scaring me.”

We didn’t speak and could only understand just a little. It didn’t do any good.

“Must be the suitcase made her crazy.” Allan said. We had no idea.

“Lets open it.” I knelt down and snapped the latches, lifted the top which didn’t move easily, couldna been opened in a long time. It had some old folded clothes inside. There was short coat maybe an Army jacket. It was a faded green color with some medaly thingys on it and sewed on the sleeve, tired looking sergeant’s stripes. On the other shoulder was a patch with an arm holding up a torch.

Under that a crinkly old army shirt and some pants, at the bottom, a well used old wallet and a small black case that had Purple Heart printed on the cover. Allan was pushing on me, trying to see what was in it. It was a small heart shaped medal. With it was a golden five pointed star. It must have been on a ribbon but that was gone. On the back was printed, For Gallantry in Action.”

“Move over Kenji, let me see.”

Inside the yellowed cover it had a name I didn’t know. A name and an army serial number. What was this stuff? Who was this person?

Next to the old wallet was a paper tag, a string through at one end and hand written was our name Sasaki. It also said “Family 40571,” Sasaki, Seirin, Instruction were hand written in pencil, report ready to travel at 10:00 am, Tuesday Feb. 24, 1942, destination, Lone Pine, California.”

I picked up an old dog collar with a small, round brass tag with the name King stamped on it, a school notebook with pressed flowers inside and a small polished rock, granite, I think.

It was a sure enough mystery, alright. Dad would know so I told Allan to go get him.

“This is so cool, so cool.” he squeaked in his little boy voice as he bolted down the hall towards the front door at full speed.

“Papa, Papa come quick, I found a mystery.

The screen door banged.

Michael Shannon is writer from California.