Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet (28 page)

On the outskirts of Puyallup, Mrs. Beatty pulled over into the parking lot of a Shell Oil gas station. She pulled off to the side, near the back, avoiding the pumps and the service attendant, who watched them quizzically.

"Grab those boxes and come with me," she barked, putting the truck in park before stepping out and walking to the rear of the still running vehicle.

Henry followed, holding the presents as she climbed up into the back of the truck.

Grunting as she bucked a fifty-pound sack, she pulled it toward Henry, then untied the knot, jerking it open. Inside, Henry could see it was filled with Calrose rice.

"Gimme

that."

Henry handed her the presents and watched her stuff each one in a bag, then bury them with handfuls of rice before sealing the bags again. He looked at all the bags, wondering what else must be in there. He'd seen her trading tools with soldiers and occasionally camp residents. Things like files, small saws, and other woodworking tools.

For an escape? Henry wondered. No, he'd seen old men working outside their shacks, building chairs, building shelves. That was probably where their tools came from. Mrs.

Beatty's corner stand on the black market.

"Hey, what're you doing with that Jap over there?" The gas station attendant had walked around the building and must have been curious about this old woman and this little Asian kid.

"He ain't no Jap. He's a Chinaman--and the Chinese are our allies, so shove off, mister!" Mrs. Beatty hefted the last bag, the one with the record in it, and set it upright against the back of the cab with a heavy thud.

The attendant backed off immediately, taking a few steps back to the service station, offering a feeble wave. "Just trying to be helpful. That's my job, you know."

Ignoring him, Henry and Mrs. Beatty climbed into the truck--and rolled on. "Not a word, you understand," she said.

Henry nodded. And kept his mouth shut the rest of the drive, all the way to Camp Harmony and right through the main gates.

In Area 4, Henry went about his normal routine of dishing up lunch. Gradually Mrs. Beatty had won over the local kitchen steward, who now ordered mealtime staples appreciated by the Japanese residents--namely rice, but also miso soup with tofu, which Henry thought smelled delicious.

"Henry!"

He looked up and saw Mrs. Okabe standing in line. She wore dusty trousers and a sweater-vest with a large
O
sewn on one side.

"Are you responsible for putting an end to that awful potted meat? It suddenly changed to a steady flow of rice and fish--your doing?" she asked, smiling at him.

"I can't take credit for it, but I'm happy to be serving something I'd actually eat too." Henry dished her up a plateful of rice and pork
katsu.
"I have a couple of birthday presents for Keiko. Would you give them to her for me?" Henry set his ladle down for a moment and turned to pick up the presents, which sat at his feet.

"Why don't you tell her yourself?" Mrs. Okabe pointed to the back of the line.

Keiko peeked her head through the crowd, smiling and waving.

"Thank you, I will. Is there anything you need? Anything your family needs? I can sometimes bring stuff into the camp, stuff that's not normally allowed."

"That's very sweet of you, Henry, but I think we'll be just fine for the moment. At first some of the men wanted tools, but some of that's coming in now. Just a hammer would have been a priceless treasure only a few weeks ago. Now there's so much hammering and sawing going on each day, it's a wonder why they go through the trouble

..."

"What trouble?" Henry asked, not understanding.

"They're just going to move us anyway--this is only temporary. Can't sleep in a horse stall for the duration of the war, can I? I hope not anyway. One month is bad enough. In a few months they're sending us to permanent camps that are being built farther inland. We don't even know where we'll go. Either Texas or Idaho--probably Idaho, that's what we're hoping for anyway, since it's closer to home, or what used to be home. They might even split off some of the men--those with job skills needed elsewhere. They're making us build our own prisons, can you believe that?"

Henry shook his head in disbelief

"How's the old neighborhood?"

Henry didn't know what to say. How could he begin to tell her that Nihonmachi was like a ghost town? Everything boarded up--a disaster of broken windows and doors, as well as other vandalism.

"It's fine" was all he could muster.

Mrs. Okabe seemed to sense his hesitation. Her eyes glossed over with sadness for a moment, and she wiped the corner of one eye as if there were a mote of dust bothering her. "Thank you for coming here, Henry. Keiko's missed you so much ..."

Henry watched her smile bravely, then take her tray and disappear into the crowd.

"Oai deki te ureshii desu!"
Keiko stood across the serving pans, smiling, almost glowing. "You came back!"

"I told you I would--and you look beautiful too. How are you?" Henry looked at her and found himself feeling light-headed and slightly out of breath.

"It's so funny. They throw us in here because we're Japanese, but I'm
nisei--

second generation. I don't even
speak
Japanese. At school they teased me for being a foreigner. In here, some of the other kids, the
issei
--the first generation--they tease me because I can't speak the language, because I'm not Japanese enough."

"I'm

sorry."

"Don't be, it's not your fault, Henry. You've done so much since I've been here. I was afraid you might forget about me."

Henry thought about his parents. About how they hadn't spoken a word to him in nearly a week. His father was stubborn, and traditional. He hadn't just threatened to disown him--he'd gone through with it. All because Henry couldn't stop thinking about Keiko. His mother knew, somehow she knew. Maybe it was the loss of appetite; mothers notice those things. That distracted longing. Feelings can only be hidden so long from those who really pay attention. Still, his mother obeyed his father, and Henry was alone now.
All because of you
, he thought. I wish I could think of something else--someone else--but I can't. Is this what
love
feels like? "How could I ever forget you?" he asked.

An old man behind Keiko began tapping his tray on the steel railing of the counter and clearing his throat.

"I better go," Keiko said, sliding her tray down as Henry filled it.

"I have those things you asked for--and a birthday present for you."

"Really?" Keiko smiled with delight.

"I'll meet you at the visitors' fence an hour after dinner, okay?"

Keiko beamed a smile back before disappearing into the crowded mess hall.

Henry went back to work, serving meal after meal until everyone had been fed. Then he carried the serving pans to the dish pit, where he hosed them down with icy cold water, thinking of how Keiko would be leaving again--going to someplace unknown.

Keiko walked past a different set of guards this time and met Henry at the visitors'

area of the fence, just like they'd planned. There were three or four other clusters of visitors along the fence line, with five or ten feet between them, creating intimate spots to converse through the barbed-wire fencing separating the internees from the outside world.

It was getting late, and a chilling wind had rolled in thick storm clouds, replacing the normally bleak, overcast sky. Rain was coming.

"They just canceled our record party--bad weather."

Henry looked at the darkening sky, disappointed more for Keiko than for himself.

"Don't worry," he said, "there will be another time. You can count on it."

"I hope you're not disappointed." Keiko sighed. "You came all this way. I really did want to sit here along the fence and listen with you."

"I ... didn't come for the music," Henry said.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to forget the news that she and her family would soon be leaving again. Everything felt so serious--and final. He interrupted the moment with a smile of his own. "This is for you. Happy birthday."

Henry handed Keiko the first of the two presents he'd brought, slipping it carefully between the rows of barbed wire to keep from snagging the wrapping paper.

Keiko took it graciously and carefully untied the ribbon, folding it into a neat bundle.

"I'm saving this. Ribbon like this, in camp, is like a present in itself." Henry watched as she did the same with the lavender wrapping paper before opening the package, the size of a small shoe box.

"Oh, Henry ..."

She took out the sketchbook, the tin of watercolors, and the set of horsehair brushes. Then a set of drawing pencils, each of a different softness of lead.

"Do you like it?"

"Henry, I absolutely adore it. This is so wonderful ..."

"You're an artist. Seemed like it would be a shame to be here, away from what you're so good at," Henry said. "Did you look inside the sketchbook?"

Keiko set the small box down on a dry patch of dirt; the mud from the previous week had hardened, creating a desert of textured soil. She opened the small black, hand-bound sketchbook and read the price tag. "A dollar twenty-five."

"Ooops, here ..." Henry reached in and peeled off the price tag from the stationer where he'd bought it. "You weren't supposed to see that. Look on the next page."

Keiko turned the page and read the inscription aloud. "To Keiko, the sweetest, most beautiful American girl I've ever known. Love, your friend, Henry."

He watched her eyes moisten as she read it again.

"Henry, that's so sweet, I don't know what to say."

He had felt awkward writing the word
love
in the sketchbook. He must have stared at that blank page worrying about what to write for twenty minutes, before he finally just wrote it in ink. No turning back then. "Just say thank you and that'll be fine."

She looked at him between the wires. The wind picked up and blew her hair away from her face. Thunder could be heard rumbling somewhere over the foothills, but neither looked away. "I don't think 'thank you' is enough. You've come a long way to bring me this. And I know your family ... your father ..."

Henry looked down and exhaled softly.

"He knows, doesn't he?" Keiko asked.

Henry

nodded.

"But we're just friends."

Henry looked her in the eye. "We're more than friends. We're the same people.

But he doesn't see it--he only sees you as a daughter of the enemy--he's disowned me. My parents stopped speaking to me this week. But my mother still sort of acts like I'm around." The words came out so casually, even Henry was surprised at how normal it felt. But communication in his home had been far from ordinary for almost a year; this was just a new, final wrinkle.

Keiko looked at Henry, shocked, with sadness in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. I feel terrible. How could a father treat his son--"

"It's all right. He and I never talked that much to begin with. It's not your fault. I wanted to be with you. When you first came to the school, I was shocked and a little surprised. But going to school without you, it just hasn't been the same. I ... miss you."

"I'm so glad you're here," Keiko said as she touched the pointed metal of the fence. "I miss you too."

"I brought you something else." Henry offered her the other package through the barbed wire. "It's just a little surprise, might not be too handy now, with the poor weather and all."

Keiko unwrapped the second package as carefully as she had the first. "How did you find this?" she whispered in awe, holding up the Oscar Holden record in its faded paper sleeve.

"I couldn't get into the Panama Hotel, and they were sold out in town, but Sheldon gave me his. I guess it's from both of us. Too bad you can't play it tonight, with the concert canceled and all."

"We still have the record player in our building. I'll play it anyway, just for you.

Actually, just for us."

That made Henry smile. Parents, what parents?

"You couldn't possibly know how happy I am to have this. This is almost like having you here with me--not that I'd want to subject you to a place like this. But we've had no music. I'll be playing this every day."

Thunderclaps struck overhead, turning what had become a drizzle into a cloudburst, first in a few, spare droplets, then widening into a thick, drenching downpour.

Henry gave Keiko the last bag, the one from Woolworth's, with stationery, stamps, and fabric for blackout curtains.

"You'd better go," he insisted.

"I don't want to leave you. We just got here."

"You'll get sick in this weather, living in a place like this. You need to go. I'll be back next week. I'll find you."

"Visiting hours are over!" a soldier barked, wrapping himself in a green raincoat as he gathered up his files. "Everyone away from the fence!" The rain was rippling the ground, the sound drowning out their voices.

To Henry, it seemed to go from six o'clock to nine o'clock as the dark clouds dimmed the skyline, hiding the sun altogether. A dull gray glow illuminated the surface of the ground as it transformed back into the muddy, soggy field it had been earlier that week.

Keiko reached through the fence and held Henry's hands. "Don't forget about me, Henry. I won't forget about you. And if your parents don't want to speak to you, I'll speak to them, and tell them you're wonderful for doing this."

"I'll be here, every week."

She let go and fastened the top button on her coat. "Next week?"

Henry

nodded.

"I'll write to you then," Keiko said, waving good-bye as the last of the visitors filed away from the fence line and back toward the main gate. Henry was the last to leave, standing there soaking wet, watching Keiko as she made it all the way back to a small outbuilding near the livestock pavilion that had become her new home. He could almost see his breath, it was growing so cold, yet inside he felt warm.

As it grew darker, Henry noticed the searchlights in the machine-gun towers torched to life. The tower guards shone them up and down the fence line, illuminating Henry and the other visitors as they puddle-jumped their way back past the main gate.