Foundlings, p.32
Foundlings, page 32
“Look, I’ve got to take care of one more patient over there for a minute, and then I can come back. Would you like me to read to you?”
He thought about it for a second. “That would be nice.”
“Be right back.”
He watched her go, grateful that the buzzing in his ears had not returned. He felt lost, empty, and alone. If a newborn baby could think, he told himself, and really feel, I bet it would feel like this. No wonder they cry.
It must have been five minutes before the nurse returned, time enough for him to regain his composure. “Here I am,” she said. “I told you I’d be back.”
She held a little paperback in her hand.
“I’m afraid this was all I could find. Hope you go in for this kind of thing.”
She held the book out for him to see, and he almost laughed. The cover showed a futuristic city with sleek flying machines swooping among the skyscrapers. The title was The Pocket Book of Science Fiction. He turned it over to see the back cover, but the nurse reached for it before he could start reading what it said. All he had a chance to focus on was a little black box in the corner with white letters that read “Send this book to a boy in the armed forces anywhere for only 3¢ postage.”
“I didn’t say you could read it,” the nurse said. “I don’t think you’re cleared for that yet. Let me read to you for a bit. Is that okay?”
“Sure.”
She pulled up a chair and crossed her legs. Then she opened the book, resting it on her knee, and began to read. “By the Waters of Babylon,” she said. “By Stephen Vincent Benet.”
Joe Beemer listened to her read. She had a nice voice, and she read well, not halting over the words but putting feeling into them. He let her voice take him away into a far future where nothing he’d ever known or done or failed to do could possibly matter to a single soul, her words building into a rhythm and carrying him away so that he felt himself riding on the waves of her voice rather than those of the sea beneath him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Boyle Heights, March 2014
It was late morning on the Friday after Derek and Michelle returned from Hawaii. Derek had faced awful traffic getting to Boyle Heights, the freeways that encircled downtown Los Angeles clogged with commuters and big rig trucks. Dark clouds hugged the distant San Gabriel Mountains, but the sky above the cemetery was still blue. He hoped it wouldn’t rain.
As he drove slowly along the cemetery’s narrow roads, he was glad to see Michelle’s Camaro already parked near the spot where they had met on their first trip to Evergreen. He didn’t like remembering that day and the way the morning had ended. Now, he saw another car parked next to Michelle’s.
He parked, got out, and walked toward the grave, glad to see Michelle in the distance, Marjorie Beemer at her side.
“I see you’ve met,” he said as he approached.
“Yes,” Michelle said.
“We almost went on without you,” Mrs. Beemer added.
“Well,” Derek said, “I guess it’s a good thing I’m not needed.”
Michelle slipped her arm around his back and tipped her head to give him a quick kiss.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She nodded and stepped away, giving a mischievous grin. “You’re sure about it this time?”
“Absolutely.”
“That’s what you said in Hawaii.”
“That was before I had Mrs. Beemer as my secret weapon.” He thought of the emailed photos he had received from Mrs. Beemer, the first one coming in while he and Michelle were still at the National Cemetery and the rest following in the days since. They all showed an older version of the boy identified as Charlie Drummond in the Saint Jerome Emiliani yearbook, and as Kichiro Nakamura in the photo Sayuri had given him—light brown hair and pointy nose, sometimes smiling and sometimes not. In a few of the photos, Joe Beemer was an old man, but Derek was still able to see the boy from Furusato looking at him from across the years the way a ghost might. Now he knew the source of the odd feeling of recognition he’d had when first seeing the yearbook photo—he had already seen Joe Beemer’s face in the anniversary picture Marjorie had shown him on the day they’d met. But it hadn’t clicked in Derek’s mind that the aged version of Joe and the beaming teenage face of Charlie were the same. Still, he’d somehow known in the back of his mind; the truth had been like a distant, spectral whisper that he just hadn’t been able to comprehend.
“I’m still having a hard time getting my head around all of this,” Mrs. Beemer said. “I mean, I always knew Joe had a whole other past he never shared with me, but this…it’s all so much.”
Derek nodded. “It’s a lot to digest.”
“You know,” Michelle began, “when we first found out…I was kind of angry with him.” She looked at Mrs. Beemer and added, “I’m sorry if that seems harsh, but I couldn’t help feeling he abandoned them all…my grandmother, the rest of his family.”
“I understand,” Mrs. Beemer said. “They were hard times, though.”
“I know,” Michelle answered. “And that’s kind of what helped me get past those feelings. My grandmother had to move on, too. They both struggled so much. I mean, he must have. Turning his back on everything he’d known…it couldn’t have been easy.”
“No. Knowing all of this…finally knowing where he came from…it’s opened up a whole new side to Joe I didn’t know before. Honestly, I’m a little angry at him myself that he never told me. Still, like you said, it couldn’t have been an easy choice. He did what he had to.” Mrs. Beemer took a deep breath. “And, you know, I think he never really did turn his back all the way. I mean, look where he wanted to end up.”
“Among the Japanese,” Derek said.
“That’s right. And, when you think about it, that whole collection at our house, his life’s work really, you could look at all of it as a way to honor where he’d come from, that little magazine he tried to launch before the war, even your grandmother asking him to write a story that would end the war.” She wiped at a tear. “You know, he used to tell me science fiction had saved his life. I honestly thought he meant that day he walked into the bookstore chasing after that Sturgeon book and met me in the bargain.” She let out a little laugh. “Turns out, he was thinking of your grandmother, dear, and that story she asked him to write. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you found it and knew what to do with it, Dr. Chandler.”
Derek smiled. “Thanks. Honestly, though, I didn’t know what to do with it. I had to figure it out along the way. And I had a lot of help.”
He squeezed Michelle’s hand.
“Shall we do this, then?” Michelle asked.
“Go ahead.”
He and Mrs. Beemer stood at the edge of the grave while Michelle stepped forward and knelt before the marker. She unscrewed the top and, holding the canister close to the grass, tipped it to let the ashes fall out. They made a small pile, maybe half the size of a golf ball. With her index finger, Michelle gently spread the ashes into the grass.
“For you, Grandmother,” she said. Then she turned to Derek, a smile on her face and tears in her eyes. “Thank you.”
He shook his head. “We figured it out together.”
“We wouldn’t have if you hadn’t started this.”
Mrs. Beemer had been holding a small bouquet. She handed it to Derek now and said, “You go ahead. If I bend down that far, I might not get up again.”
He smiled, took the flowers, and stepped forward to join Michelle beside the headstone. Then he laid the flowers next to the ashes; Michelle put her hand over his as he let go of the bouquet, saying, “Hana wa né ni kaeru. The flower goes back to its root.”
“From the story?”
She nodded. “Grandmother used to say that all the time when she heard that someone had died. It’s an old Japanese saying.”
Derek nodded thoughtfully. “It’s nice.” He looked at the flowers in silence for a moment before saying, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, a bit sadly. Then she nodded and forced a smile, repeating, “Yeah. It’s good. Closure, you know?”
“Yeah.”
They stood and regarded Marjorie Beemer, tears running down her cheeks. “Thank you so much for including me,” she said. “I feel like I’ve gotten back a little piece of Joe now.” She wiped at her eyes and smiled. “I hope this won’t sound strange, but I also feel like I’ve gotten a new granddaughter. I mean, he’d have been your grandpa if things had worked out differently, right?”
Michelle didn’t answer, just stepped forward to hug the old woman.
Derek stood by, watching and admiring.
When the women broke their embrace, Michelle turned to take Derek’s hand. She leaned into him as they headed toward their cars.
“Are you two up for some lunch?” Mrs. Beemer said.
“Anything to keep from getting back into that traffic,” said Derek. “You?”
Michelle laughed. “Sure.” They walked a bit farther before she said, “I think I feel a new tattoo coming on.”
“What this time?”
“Haven’t decided. Just an urge. You ready for another one yet?”
“Maybe,” he said. “You know…I’ve been thinking about tattoos.”
“How so?”
“Maybe as a subject for a new paper.”
“Really?” she asked in mock surprise.
“You know anyone I could do some research with?”
She laughed. “I’ll get back to you.”
They left the neatly kept grass and stepped onto the pavement, their three cars just ahead. In a whole field full of ghosts, they saw not a single one.
Author’s Note
I am grateful to all of the people who helped me with this book, especially Chris Pellitteri, who read an early draft and provided valuable feedback, as well as Brandi Bowles, who encouraged me to stretch my boundaries a little, taking on this project rather than another science fiction novel. Jefferson Smith was another early reader, and the questions and concerns he had about the first draft prompted some significant changes to the plot that have made the book considerably stronger. His suggestions and input throughout the process have been invaluable.
I am also indebted to Jefferson for his suggestions and feedback on the cover design. Mark Walsh and my wife Kari also provided helpful feedback on the cover. Bill Chapman at Stillnessphoto.com took the picture of the Japanese Memorial used on the cover, and I am extremely appreciative of the time and effort he put into it.
Mark Walsh and Miwako Nishio helped with some of the Japanese language.
And, as always, I am most grateful for the help and support of my family and friends, especially my wife Kari and daughter Olive who helped me find the time to work and were always supportive of my efforts throughout the process. My friends, colleagues, and extended family have all been extremely encouraging.
While the characters and events in this book are fictional, the settings are drawn from reality. The former California State Hospital at Camarillo really was transformed into California State University, Channel Islands, and the Japanese fishing village at Fish Harbor on Terminal Island really was razed by the military not long after the attack on Pearl Harbor, all of its people sent first to refugee centers, then the Santa Anita racetrack, and finally to remote internment camps throughout the United States.
I originally had the idea to write a story about a Caucasian foundling raised by a Japanese family and caught up in the nightmare of internment, but I did not have a clear sense of where the story would be set until I came across Sam Gnerre’s post on “Terminal Island’s Lost Village.” After that, I consulted several sources to help bring Furusato to life. Especially helpful was Chikao Robert Ryono’s memoir, Drydocked, with its vivid portrayal of life in Fish Harbor and East San Pedro Elementary School. I am grateful to Jim Ryono for making his father’s book available online and for providing several other valuable links, among them Virginia Swanson and Walter Balderston’s “Eviction from Terminal Island” which provided the inspiration for the book’s description of the move from Furusato to Reverend Paxton’s (fictional) school in Boyle Heights.
I have tried my best to keep the descriptions of Furusato and its fate historically accurate. The University of Missouri, Kansas City, provides several clips of radio broadcasts from December 7, 1941, one of which I transcribed in Chapter Five. Accounts vary as to how quickly the military moved onto Terminal Island after the attack on Pearl Harbor, some claiming the army was present on the island by the evening of December 7th, and others claiming it was the next day. At any rate, it is undisputed that the Japanese fishermen were stripped of their licenses and that anyone of Japanese ancestry on the island who owned a boat was immediately detained as a possible saboteur. Furthermore, the people of Furusato were the first people of Japanese ancestry to be removed from their homes after Pearl Harbor, even before the issuing of Executive Order 9066.
This book has been something of a departure for me, as there are no aliens or demons or time travel, none of the genre tropes to be found in my other works. Science fiction remains my first love and one I expect to return to with future projects, but I am pleased with the way Foundlings has turned out, and I am sure I will continue to write non-SF and non-paranormal works in the years ahead.
If you enjoyed Foundlings, I would be most grateful if you would take a moment to post a review of the book on Amazon or elsewhere. As an independent novelist, I need to do all I can to help get the word out about my books, and positive recommendations from readers goes a long way toward helping my books stand out from the competition.
If you would like a sampling of some my science fiction, keep reading to find the opening of my novel Take Back Tomorrow, also set partially in the 1940s. I wrote it with the intention of appealing to readers not familiar with science fiction, as it also has a noir-style tone and characters seeking to solve a mystery. If you’re interested in learning more about me or my books, feel free to stop by my website or sign up for my newsletter to be notified of future releases.
Thanks for reading!
Richard Levesque
Sneak Peek: Take Back Tomorrow by Richard Levesque
"Raymond Chandler meets Robert Heinlein in this fun and inventive crossover SF novel from Richard Levesque."--J. Orr, Amazon Reviews
"Apart from stopping to have something to eat I haven't been able to tear myself away from this until I had finished it. This is good old time story telling that is well written, and definitely well worth reading."--M. Bowden, Amazon UK Hall of Fame Reviewer
What if all you had to do to make your dreams come true was violate the laws of the universe?
That's not just a philosophical question Eddie Royce has to answer. It's a choice he has to make when the most famous science fiction writer of the 1930s goes missing and his unscrupulous publisher becomes convinced that Eddie knows all of the older writer's secrets--not just the secret of where he's gone, but the secret of how he's traveled in time.
Until now, Eddie's fooled himself into thinking he's got the system figured out, "borrowing" plots from Shakespeare and rewriting them as space operas to make a name for himself in the pulps. But when he finds out that Chester Blackwood--his idol and inspiration--has been cheating the system in ways Eddie could never have dreamed of, the hack science fiction writer finds himself in the middle of a plot that his pulp readers would never have imagined.
Now he has to do all he can to save himself--and Blackwood's beautiful daughter--from the powerful figures who all want Blackwood's secret. And violating the laws of the universe might just be the least of Eddie's problems.
"The pace of the story is quick, and the time transitions are handled well. Overall, this is a good novel, one that even readers with little interest in sci-fi might enjoy." -- Publishers Weekly.*
"Hardboiled 30′s crime thriller meets time-traveling pulp science-fiction for an original fast paced, page turner," --S. Sager, Amazon Reviews
"It has a distinctly 'noir' flavor as well as an old school science fiction feel. It is fast paced and clever."--C. Pellitteri, Amazon Reviews
*This review was of the manuscript version submitted to Amazon's Breakout Novel Awards competition in 2012.
From Take Back Tomorrow
Copyright © 2012 Richard Levesque
CHAPTER ONE
Eddie Royce sat in Whistler’s office on the sixth floor of the Meteor building and waited patiently for the editor to look up from the galleys he studied, a smoldering cigar held between his thick lips and a look of quiet disgust on his face as he read. The muffled clack and ding of a typewriter made its way into the office from somewhere beyond Whistler’s closed door, and Eddie tried hard not to let it distract him. He sat in one of the mismatched chairs that faced Whistler’s enormous, scarred desk and thumbed nervously through the March 1940 issue of Stupendous, silently going over the pitch he had been formulating for days and hoping Whistler would not notice his anxiety. The magazine had hit the newsstands only three days ago, and Eddie had already read it cover to cover, focusing most of his scrutiny on one story—“Dark Hearts of Mars” by Edward Royce. It was his second publication in Stupendous, his second publication anywhere, really, but he already had two more stories and a serial accepted. After finally seeing his name in print following months of trying and failing, he had quickly come to believe in his success as a writer in spite of what he knew to be true—that he was at best unoriginal and at worst a plagiarist.
As with every issue of Stupendous, the cover of the magazine in Eddie’s hands was a work of art that no doubt accounted for a large portion of sales each month. The covers were always sensational, and this one featured a beautiful female space explorer watching in exaggerated alarm as her space ship exploded in the background, apparently leaving her stranded as she floated in space, her skin tight suit accentuating her curvaceous figure. Eddie knew from having carefully studied “Castaways in Space” in this issue that the story featured no such character or scene, but that did not matter. The Stupendous covers pulled readers in, and the stories kept them there until next month. Dozens of recent issues were scattered around Whistler’s office, each with its brightly lurid variation of the barely clad female warrior, seductive villainess or imperiled princess to draw the eye. With the first installment of his serial to appear in the May issue, Eddie knew that promoting it with a cover illustration would ensure reader interest and secure his position in the stable of Stupendous authors, and he had phoned to make an appointment with Whistler this morning to try to convince the editor of the same thing.
He thought about it for a second. “That would be nice.”
“Be right back.”
He watched her go, grateful that the buzzing in his ears had not returned. He felt lost, empty, and alone. If a newborn baby could think, he told himself, and really feel, I bet it would feel like this. No wonder they cry.
It must have been five minutes before the nurse returned, time enough for him to regain his composure. “Here I am,” she said. “I told you I’d be back.”
She held a little paperback in her hand.
“I’m afraid this was all I could find. Hope you go in for this kind of thing.”
She held the book out for him to see, and he almost laughed. The cover showed a futuristic city with sleek flying machines swooping among the skyscrapers. The title was The Pocket Book of Science Fiction. He turned it over to see the back cover, but the nurse reached for it before he could start reading what it said. All he had a chance to focus on was a little black box in the corner with white letters that read “Send this book to a boy in the armed forces anywhere for only 3¢ postage.”
“I didn’t say you could read it,” the nurse said. “I don’t think you’re cleared for that yet. Let me read to you for a bit. Is that okay?”
“Sure.”
She pulled up a chair and crossed her legs. Then she opened the book, resting it on her knee, and began to read. “By the Waters of Babylon,” she said. “By Stephen Vincent Benet.”
Joe Beemer listened to her read. She had a nice voice, and she read well, not halting over the words but putting feeling into them. He let her voice take him away into a far future where nothing he’d ever known or done or failed to do could possibly matter to a single soul, her words building into a rhythm and carrying him away so that he felt himself riding on the waves of her voice rather than those of the sea beneath him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Boyle Heights, March 2014
It was late morning on the Friday after Derek and Michelle returned from Hawaii. Derek had faced awful traffic getting to Boyle Heights, the freeways that encircled downtown Los Angeles clogged with commuters and big rig trucks. Dark clouds hugged the distant San Gabriel Mountains, but the sky above the cemetery was still blue. He hoped it wouldn’t rain.
As he drove slowly along the cemetery’s narrow roads, he was glad to see Michelle’s Camaro already parked near the spot where they had met on their first trip to Evergreen. He didn’t like remembering that day and the way the morning had ended. Now, he saw another car parked next to Michelle’s.
He parked, got out, and walked toward the grave, glad to see Michelle in the distance, Marjorie Beemer at her side.
“I see you’ve met,” he said as he approached.
“Yes,” Michelle said.
“We almost went on without you,” Mrs. Beemer added.
“Well,” Derek said, “I guess it’s a good thing I’m not needed.”
Michelle slipped her arm around his back and tipped her head to give him a quick kiss.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She nodded and stepped away, giving a mischievous grin. “You’re sure about it this time?”
“Absolutely.”
“That’s what you said in Hawaii.”
“That was before I had Mrs. Beemer as my secret weapon.” He thought of the emailed photos he had received from Mrs. Beemer, the first one coming in while he and Michelle were still at the National Cemetery and the rest following in the days since. They all showed an older version of the boy identified as Charlie Drummond in the Saint Jerome Emiliani yearbook, and as Kichiro Nakamura in the photo Sayuri had given him—light brown hair and pointy nose, sometimes smiling and sometimes not. In a few of the photos, Joe Beemer was an old man, but Derek was still able to see the boy from Furusato looking at him from across the years the way a ghost might. Now he knew the source of the odd feeling of recognition he’d had when first seeing the yearbook photo—he had already seen Joe Beemer’s face in the anniversary picture Marjorie had shown him on the day they’d met. But it hadn’t clicked in Derek’s mind that the aged version of Joe and the beaming teenage face of Charlie were the same. Still, he’d somehow known in the back of his mind; the truth had been like a distant, spectral whisper that he just hadn’t been able to comprehend.
“I’m still having a hard time getting my head around all of this,” Mrs. Beemer said. “I mean, I always knew Joe had a whole other past he never shared with me, but this…it’s all so much.”
Derek nodded. “It’s a lot to digest.”
“You know,” Michelle began, “when we first found out…I was kind of angry with him.” She looked at Mrs. Beemer and added, “I’m sorry if that seems harsh, but I couldn’t help feeling he abandoned them all…my grandmother, the rest of his family.”
“I understand,” Mrs. Beemer said. “They were hard times, though.”
“I know,” Michelle answered. “And that’s kind of what helped me get past those feelings. My grandmother had to move on, too. They both struggled so much. I mean, he must have. Turning his back on everything he’d known…it couldn’t have been easy.”
“No. Knowing all of this…finally knowing where he came from…it’s opened up a whole new side to Joe I didn’t know before. Honestly, I’m a little angry at him myself that he never told me. Still, like you said, it couldn’t have been an easy choice. He did what he had to.” Mrs. Beemer took a deep breath. “And, you know, I think he never really did turn his back all the way. I mean, look where he wanted to end up.”
“Among the Japanese,” Derek said.
“That’s right. And, when you think about it, that whole collection at our house, his life’s work really, you could look at all of it as a way to honor where he’d come from, that little magazine he tried to launch before the war, even your grandmother asking him to write a story that would end the war.” She wiped at a tear. “You know, he used to tell me science fiction had saved his life. I honestly thought he meant that day he walked into the bookstore chasing after that Sturgeon book and met me in the bargain.” She let out a little laugh. “Turns out, he was thinking of your grandmother, dear, and that story she asked him to write. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you found it and knew what to do with it, Dr. Chandler.”
Derek smiled. “Thanks. Honestly, though, I didn’t know what to do with it. I had to figure it out along the way. And I had a lot of help.”
He squeezed Michelle’s hand.
“Shall we do this, then?” Michelle asked.
“Go ahead.”
He and Mrs. Beemer stood at the edge of the grave while Michelle stepped forward and knelt before the marker. She unscrewed the top and, holding the canister close to the grass, tipped it to let the ashes fall out. They made a small pile, maybe half the size of a golf ball. With her index finger, Michelle gently spread the ashes into the grass.
“For you, Grandmother,” she said. Then she turned to Derek, a smile on her face and tears in her eyes. “Thank you.”
He shook his head. “We figured it out together.”
“We wouldn’t have if you hadn’t started this.”
Mrs. Beemer had been holding a small bouquet. She handed it to Derek now and said, “You go ahead. If I bend down that far, I might not get up again.”
He smiled, took the flowers, and stepped forward to join Michelle beside the headstone. Then he laid the flowers next to the ashes; Michelle put her hand over his as he let go of the bouquet, saying, “Hana wa né ni kaeru. The flower goes back to its root.”
“From the story?”
She nodded. “Grandmother used to say that all the time when she heard that someone had died. It’s an old Japanese saying.”
Derek nodded thoughtfully. “It’s nice.” He looked at the flowers in silence for a moment before saying, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, a bit sadly. Then she nodded and forced a smile, repeating, “Yeah. It’s good. Closure, you know?”
“Yeah.”
They stood and regarded Marjorie Beemer, tears running down her cheeks. “Thank you so much for including me,” she said. “I feel like I’ve gotten back a little piece of Joe now.” She wiped at her eyes and smiled. “I hope this won’t sound strange, but I also feel like I’ve gotten a new granddaughter. I mean, he’d have been your grandpa if things had worked out differently, right?”
Michelle didn’t answer, just stepped forward to hug the old woman.
Derek stood by, watching and admiring.
When the women broke their embrace, Michelle turned to take Derek’s hand. She leaned into him as they headed toward their cars.
“Are you two up for some lunch?” Mrs. Beemer said.
“Anything to keep from getting back into that traffic,” said Derek. “You?”
Michelle laughed. “Sure.” They walked a bit farther before she said, “I think I feel a new tattoo coming on.”
“What this time?”
“Haven’t decided. Just an urge. You ready for another one yet?”
“Maybe,” he said. “You know…I’ve been thinking about tattoos.”
“How so?”
“Maybe as a subject for a new paper.”
“Really?” she asked in mock surprise.
“You know anyone I could do some research with?”
She laughed. “I’ll get back to you.”
They left the neatly kept grass and stepped onto the pavement, their three cars just ahead. In a whole field full of ghosts, they saw not a single one.
Author’s Note
I am grateful to all of the people who helped me with this book, especially Chris Pellitteri, who read an early draft and provided valuable feedback, as well as Brandi Bowles, who encouraged me to stretch my boundaries a little, taking on this project rather than another science fiction novel. Jefferson Smith was another early reader, and the questions and concerns he had about the first draft prompted some significant changes to the plot that have made the book considerably stronger. His suggestions and input throughout the process have been invaluable.
I am also indebted to Jefferson for his suggestions and feedback on the cover design. Mark Walsh and my wife Kari also provided helpful feedback on the cover. Bill Chapman at Stillnessphoto.com took the picture of the Japanese Memorial used on the cover, and I am extremely appreciative of the time and effort he put into it.
Mark Walsh and Miwako Nishio helped with some of the Japanese language.
And, as always, I am most grateful for the help and support of my family and friends, especially my wife Kari and daughter Olive who helped me find the time to work and were always supportive of my efforts throughout the process. My friends, colleagues, and extended family have all been extremely encouraging.
While the characters and events in this book are fictional, the settings are drawn from reality. The former California State Hospital at Camarillo really was transformed into California State University, Channel Islands, and the Japanese fishing village at Fish Harbor on Terminal Island really was razed by the military not long after the attack on Pearl Harbor, all of its people sent first to refugee centers, then the Santa Anita racetrack, and finally to remote internment camps throughout the United States.
I originally had the idea to write a story about a Caucasian foundling raised by a Japanese family and caught up in the nightmare of internment, but I did not have a clear sense of where the story would be set until I came across Sam Gnerre’s post on “Terminal Island’s Lost Village.” After that, I consulted several sources to help bring Furusato to life. Especially helpful was Chikao Robert Ryono’s memoir, Drydocked, with its vivid portrayal of life in Fish Harbor and East San Pedro Elementary School. I am grateful to Jim Ryono for making his father’s book available online and for providing several other valuable links, among them Virginia Swanson and Walter Balderston’s “Eviction from Terminal Island” which provided the inspiration for the book’s description of the move from Furusato to Reverend Paxton’s (fictional) school in Boyle Heights.
I have tried my best to keep the descriptions of Furusato and its fate historically accurate. The University of Missouri, Kansas City, provides several clips of radio broadcasts from December 7, 1941, one of which I transcribed in Chapter Five. Accounts vary as to how quickly the military moved onto Terminal Island after the attack on Pearl Harbor, some claiming the army was present on the island by the evening of December 7th, and others claiming it was the next day. At any rate, it is undisputed that the Japanese fishermen were stripped of their licenses and that anyone of Japanese ancestry on the island who owned a boat was immediately detained as a possible saboteur. Furthermore, the people of Furusato were the first people of Japanese ancestry to be removed from their homes after Pearl Harbor, even before the issuing of Executive Order 9066.
This book has been something of a departure for me, as there are no aliens or demons or time travel, none of the genre tropes to be found in my other works. Science fiction remains my first love and one I expect to return to with future projects, but I am pleased with the way Foundlings has turned out, and I am sure I will continue to write non-SF and non-paranormal works in the years ahead.
If you enjoyed Foundlings, I would be most grateful if you would take a moment to post a review of the book on Amazon or elsewhere. As an independent novelist, I need to do all I can to help get the word out about my books, and positive recommendations from readers goes a long way toward helping my books stand out from the competition.
If you would like a sampling of some my science fiction, keep reading to find the opening of my novel Take Back Tomorrow, also set partially in the 1940s. I wrote it with the intention of appealing to readers not familiar with science fiction, as it also has a noir-style tone and characters seeking to solve a mystery. If you’re interested in learning more about me or my books, feel free to stop by my website or sign up for my newsletter to be notified of future releases.
Thanks for reading!
Richard Levesque
Sneak Peek: Take Back Tomorrow by Richard Levesque
"Raymond Chandler meets Robert Heinlein in this fun and inventive crossover SF novel from Richard Levesque."--J. Orr, Amazon Reviews
"Apart from stopping to have something to eat I haven't been able to tear myself away from this until I had finished it. This is good old time story telling that is well written, and definitely well worth reading."--M. Bowden, Amazon UK Hall of Fame Reviewer
What if all you had to do to make your dreams come true was violate the laws of the universe?
That's not just a philosophical question Eddie Royce has to answer. It's a choice he has to make when the most famous science fiction writer of the 1930s goes missing and his unscrupulous publisher becomes convinced that Eddie knows all of the older writer's secrets--not just the secret of where he's gone, but the secret of how he's traveled in time.
Until now, Eddie's fooled himself into thinking he's got the system figured out, "borrowing" plots from Shakespeare and rewriting them as space operas to make a name for himself in the pulps. But when he finds out that Chester Blackwood--his idol and inspiration--has been cheating the system in ways Eddie could never have dreamed of, the hack science fiction writer finds himself in the middle of a plot that his pulp readers would never have imagined.
Now he has to do all he can to save himself--and Blackwood's beautiful daughter--from the powerful figures who all want Blackwood's secret. And violating the laws of the universe might just be the least of Eddie's problems.
"The pace of the story is quick, and the time transitions are handled well. Overall, this is a good novel, one that even readers with little interest in sci-fi might enjoy." -- Publishers Weekly.*
"Hardboiled 30′s crime thriller meets time-traveling pulp science-fiction for an original fast paced, page turner," --S. Sager, Amazon Reviews
"It has a distinctly 'noir' flavor as well as an old school science fiction feel. It is fast paced and clever."--C. Pellitteri, Amazon Reviews
*This review was of the manuscript version submitted to Amazon's Breakout Novel Awards competition in 2012.
From Take Back Tomorrow
Copyright © 2012 Richard Levesque
CHAPTER ONE
Eddie Royce sat in Whistler’s office on the sixth floor of the Meteor building and waited patiently for the editor to look up from the galleys he studied, a smoldering cigar held between his thick lips and a look of quiet disgust on his face as he read. The muffled clack and ding of a typewriter made its way into the office from somewhere beyond Whistler’s closed door, and Eddie tried hard not to let it distract him. He sat in one of the mismatched chairs that faced Whistler’s enormous, scarred desk and thumbed nervously through the March 1940 issue of Stupendous, silently going over the pitch he had been formulating for days and hoping Whistler would not notice his anxiety. The magazine had hit the newsstands only three days ago, and Eddie had already read it cover to cover, focusing most of his scrutiny on one story—“Dark Hearts of Mars” by Edward Royce. It was his second publication in Stupendous, his second publication anywhere, really, but he already had two more stories and a serial accepted. After finally seeing his name in print following months of trying and failing, he had quickly come to believe in his success as a writer in spite of what he knew to be true—that he was at best unoriginal and at worst a plagiarist.
As with every issue of Stupendous, the cover of the magazine in Eddie’s hands was a work of art that no doubt accounted for a large portion of sales each month. The covers were always sensational, and this one featured a beautiful female space explorer watching in exaggerated alarm as her space ship exploded in the background, apparently leaving her stranded as she floated in space, her skin tight suit accentuating her curvaceous figure. Eddie knew from having carefully studied “Castaways in Space” in this issue that the story featured no such character or scene, but that did not matter. The Stupendous covers pulled readers in, and the stories kept them there until next month. Dozens of recent issues were scattered around Whistler’s office, each with its brightly lurid variation of the barely clad female warrior, seductive villainess or imperiled princess to draw the eye. With the first installment of his serial to appear in the May issue, Eddie knew that promoting it with a cover illustration would ensure reader interest and secure his position in the stable of Stupendous authors, and he had phoned to make an appointment with Whistler this morning to try to convince the editor of the same thing.
