Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet (17 page)

‘I’m sorry,’ Henry said; he suddenly felt foolish having come empty-handed. ‘I didn’t bring you anything.’

‘That’s OK. It’s enough that you came. I knew you would. Maybe it was my dream. Maybe I was just wishing it. But I knew you’d find me.’ Keiko looked at Henry, then took a deep breath. ‘Does your family know you’re here?’ she asked.

‘They don’t know,’ Henry confessed, ashamed of his mother’s ambivalence and his father’s joyfulness. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell them. I couldn’t … they’d never let me come. I
hate
my father, he’s—’

‘That’s OK, Henry, it doesn’t matter.’

‘I—’

‘It’s OK. I wouldn’t want my son coming to a prison camp either.’

Henry turned his hands upward, feeling Keiko rest hers in his as they both felt the sharp metal of the wire sway between them, unyielding. Looking down, he noticed there
was dried mud beneath her fingernails. She saw it too, curling her fingers in, then looking up to meet Henry’s eyes.

The moment, for what it was, ended abruptly as Henry heard honking in the distance. It was Mrs Beatty in her truck, waving him back. Evidently she suspected where she might find him.

‘I have to go. I’ll be back next week, OK?’ Henry said.

Keiko nodded, swallowing her tears but finding a smile. ‘I’ll be here.’

H
enry woke up Sunday morning feeling like a new man, even if he was only twelve – going on thirteen, actually. He’d found Keiko. He’d seen her face-to-face. And somehow, just knowing where she was became a comfort, even if that place was a mud-soaked prison camp.

Now all he had to do was find a few items to bring back to Camp Harmony by next Saturday. But what about the Oscar Holden record? That’d be a nice birthday gift, he thought. If he could find it.

In the kitchen Henry found his father, still in his robe, poring over a map of China from a
National Geographic
magazine he used to keep track of the war. His father had pasted it to a corkboard with small sewing pins stuck here and there to indicate major battles – blue for victories and red for defeats. There were several new blue pins. Still, Father was shaking his head.

‘Good morning,’ Henry said.

‘
Jou san
,’ Henry’s father replied, tapping a spot on the map with his worn fingernail. He kept muttering a phrase in Cantonese that Henry didn’t understand, ‘
Sanguang Zhengce
,’ over and over again.

‘What does that mean?’ Henry asked. It sounded like ‘three lights.’

He and his father had settled into a pattern of
non-communication
months ago. Henry knew when his father was lamenting something; all he had to do was ask a question. Even if it were in English, if the tone sounded
like
a question, Henry would get an explanation of some kind.

‘It means “three tiny lights” – it’s a joke,’ Father said in Cantonese. ‘The Japanese call it “three fires.” They call it “Kill All. Burn All. Loot All.” They closed the Burma Road, but since the bombings at Pearl Harbor, we’re finally getting supplies, from the Americans.’

Aren’t
you
an American? Henry thought. Aren’t we Americans? Aren’t they getting supplies from
us
?

Henry’s father kept talking, whether to himself or his son, Henry couldn’t be sure. ‘Not just supplies. Planes. The Flying Tigers are helping Chiang Kai-shek and the nationalist army defeat the Japanese Imperial invaders – but they’re destroying everything now. The Japanese are killing civilians, torturing thousands, burning cities.’

Henry saw the conflict in his father’s eyes, in how he stared at the map, happy and sad. Victorious and defeated.

‘There’s good news for us, though. Canton is secure. The Japanese have been contained in the north for months. Next school year, you can go to Canton.’

He said it like it was a birthday, Christmas, and Chinese New Year’s all rolled into one. Like this would be welcome news. His father had spent most of his school years in China, finishing his education. An expected rite of passage. Sending their children to stay with relatives to attend Chinese school was what most families – traditional Chinese families like Henry’s – did.

‘What about my scholarship to Rainier? What about just going to the Chinese school on King Street, like the other kids? What if I don’t want to go?’ Henry said the words, knowing his father would understand only a few:
scholarship, Rainier, King Street.

‘Hah?’ his father asked. ‘No, no, no – back to
Canton
.’

The thought of going to China was terrifying. It was a foreign country to Henry. One without jazz music or comic books – or Keiko. He envisioned staying at his uncle’s house, which was probably more of a shack, and being teased by the locals for not being Chinese enough. The opposite of here, where he wasn’t American enough. He didn’t know which was worse. It made Keiko’s situation, while bleak, seem so much more appealing. Henry caught himself feeling a twinge of jealousy. At least she was with her family. For now anyway. At least they understood. At least they wouldn’t send
her
away.

Before Henry could press his bilingual argument, his mother appeared from the kitchen and handed him a shopping list and a few dollars. She often sent him to the market when there was only a little buying to be done, especially since Henry seemed to have a knack for negotiating bargains. He took the note and a steamed pork bau for
breakfast on the way and headed down the stairs and out into the cold morning air, relieved to get away for a while.

Walking down South King toward Seventh Avenue and the Chinese marketplace, Henry thought of what to get Keiko for her birthday – aside from paper for writing, fabric for curtains, and the Oscar Holden record, which he was bound and determined to find. The first two items would be easy. He could pick up stationery and fabric at Woolworth’s on Third Avenue any time during the week. And he knew where the record was. But what would she want for a birthday present? What could he buy that would make a difference in the camp? He’d saved all his money from working with Mrs Beatty. What could he buy? Maybe a new sketchbook or a set of watercolors? Yes, the more he thought about it, art supplies would be perfect.

How he’d actually
get
the record, though, that question remained unanswered as he walked past the marketplace and into Nihonmachi. Two blocks over on South Main, he stood before the boarded-up facade of the Panama Hotel. There was no way in – it would take a crowbar and more muscle than rested on Henry’s small shoulders. And once he made his way in, where would it be?

He had the money – why not buy a new one? That made more sense than trying to break his way into the old hotel. But that too seemed fruitless as he walked from Nihonmachi toward downtown and the Rhodes Department Store. He had doubts about whether they’d sell it to him, especially after all the trouble he and Keiko had gone through the first time. Those doubts were magnified when he walked past the
Admiral Theater. The marquee featured a new movie called
Little Tokyo, U.S.A.,
which piqued his curiosity yet made Henry wary and nervous.

The publicity photos were of big Hollywood stars – Harold Huber and June Duprez, made up to look Japanese. They were playing spies and conspirators who’d helped plot the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Judging from all the torn ticket stubs and cigarette butts that dotted the damp sidewalk, the movie was a hit.

Rhodes was out of the question. Henry wasn’t trusted in these parts of town. And the Black Elks Club was still closed down – no hope of going to the source, Oscar Holden himself, to buy a new record. Henry kicked a can on the sidewalk, his stomach knotted in frustration.

Maybe Sheldon?

Henry zigzagged back in the direction of South Jackson, where Sheldon sometimes played on Sunday afternoons; usually when there was a new ship in town, bringing restless sailors and their dates to the neighborhood.

His walk back took him past the Panama Hotel again. The massive marble entrance that he was never allowed to enter was now boarded up. Henry looked at the shopping list his mother had given him. He probably had another thirty minutes before his parents would worry about him being late.

Thinking there must be a back way in, Henry slipped down the alley, behind the vacant and boarded-up Togo Employment Agency. The alley itself was piled with boxes and heaps of garbage, stacks of clothing and old shoes. Belongings that no one wanted, thrown out, but still here since the garbage service to this area had evidently been suspended. Behind the
hotel, Henry looked for a freight entrance or a fire escape he could shimmy up to one of the many broken windows on the second floor.

Instead he found Chaz, Will Whitworth, and a small gathering of other boys trying to gain entrance too. They were looking and pointing at the second-story windows. Some threw rocks, while others pawed through the boxes left behind. One boy Henry didn’t recognize had found a box of dishes and began throwing them against a brick wall, shattering them, pieces of fine porcelain china raining down.

Before Henry could yell, or run, or hide, they saw him. One, then all of them.

‘It’s a Jap!’ one of the boys yelled. ‘Get him!’

‘No, it’s a Chink,’ Will said, stopping the boy for a moment as they all stalked in Henry’s direction.

Chaz took control of the situation. ‘Henry!’ Smiling, he seemed more happy than surprised. ‘Where’s your girlfriend, Henry? She’s not home if you’re looking for her – and your nigger friend ain’t around today, is he?’ he taunted. ‘Better get used to me. My dad’s going to buy all these buildings, so we might end up neighbors.’

Henry’s knees felt wobbly, but his jaw was clenched tighter than his fists. On a pile of garbage lay an old broom handle, almost as tall as Henry. He picked it up with both hands and gripped it like a baseball bat. He swung it once, then twice for good measure. It felt light and sturdy. Sturdy enough to hit a curveball the size of Chaz’s head.

All of the boys stopped, except for Chaz, who inched closer to Henry, staying just out of range of his makeshift club.

‘Go home, Chaz.’ The anger in his voice surprised Henry. He
felt the blood drain away from his fists where they clenched the broom handle until his knuckles turned pale.

Chaz spoke softly, a mock gentleness to his voice. ‘This is my home, this is the United States of
America
– not the United States of Tokyo. And my dad is probably going to end up owning this whole neighborhood anyway. What are you going to do, take us all on? You think you can beat us all up?’

Henry knew he didn’t stand a chance against all seven of them. ‘You might get to me eventually, but I know one of you’ll be going home with a limp.’ Henry swung the club, smacking it on the dirty, gritty pavement between him and the larger boy. He vividly remembered the bruised cheek and black eye he’d received outside the train station, courtesy of Chaz.

The boys in the back hesitated. Retreating, they dropped the items they’d pilfered from the alley, then turned and fled around the corner. Henry swung fiercely at Chaz, who backed up too, looking pale and even a little scared. The spiked hair of his crew cut seemed to wilt. Without a word, Chaz spit on the ground between them and then walked away.

Henry held on to the broom handle, resting it on the pavement, his whole body shaking and his heart pounding. His legs felt limp. I did it. I beat them. I stood up to them. I won.

Henry turned around and walked face-first into a soldier, actually two soldiers – with army MP bands on their arms. Their rifles were slung across their shoulders, and each had a long black baton dangling from a short leather strap attached to his wrist. One of the soldiers looked down, poking Henry’s chest with his baton, tapping his button.

Henry dropped the broom handle, which made a wooden, clattering sound on the pavement.

‘No more looting, kid. I don’t care who you are – beat it.’

Henry backed up, then walked away as fast as his wobbly legs would carry him. Out on South Main, he hustled in the direction of Jackson, Sheldon’s neighborhood. He saw the lights of a police car reflected in the wet pavement and the puddles he tried to avoid. Looking back, he saw Chaz and his friends sitting on the sidewalk being questioned by a police officer who had a notepad out and was busy writing something. It looked like the officer wasn’t buying whatever excuse Chaz was stringing along. There had been too much vandalism and looting. And now he’d been caught in the act.

M
uch to Henry’s surprise, Samantha was an incredible cook. Henry had a special affinity for anyone with talent in the kitchen, since he himself did most of the cooking in his own home. Even before Ethel fell ill, he had liked to cook. But after the cancer hit, all of the cooking – and the cleaning, the washing – everything fell to Henry. He didn’t mind. She was in such pain, always sick, always suffering from the cancer or the radiation treatments that were designed to kill parts of her insides. Both ravaged her small, frail body. The least Henry could do was cook her favorite panfried noodles or make her fresh mango custard with mint. Even though near the end, as wonderful as it sounded, she’d had little appetite. It was all Henry could do to get her to drink fluids. And at the very end, she really just wanted to go, needed to go.

He thought of that, and fought off a wave of melancholy as his son offered a toast, raising his teacup of
heung jou
, a
fermented wine that tasted more like grain alcohol.

‘To a successful find, in the basement time capsule of the Panama Hotel.’

Henry raised his glass but followed up with only a sip as Marty and Samantha downed their cups, wincing and grimacing at the strong, eye-watering taste.

‘Geez, that burns,’ Marty groaned.

Smiling, Henry filled his son’s cup again with the clear, innocent-looking liquid that could just as easily be used to strip the grease from used car parts.

‘To Oscar Holden, and long-lost recordings,’ Samantha toasted.

‘No. No. No. I’m done. I know my limit,’ Marty said, lowering her arm, grounding it once again to the round table in the corner of the small dining room that also functioned as Henry’s living room. It was a quiet, reflective place, alive with potted plants, like the jade plant that Henry had nurtured since Marty was born. The walls were covered with family photos, colorful and bright against the once-white surface that now looked tarnished and yellow, darkened in the corners like coffee-stained teeth.

Henry looked at his son and the young woman he was obviously enchanted with. Holding their cups. Feeling the burn. How different they were. And how little it mattered. Their differences were unnoticeable. So alike, and so happy. Hard to tell where one person ended and the other began. Marty was happy. Successful, good grades,
and
happy. What more could any father want for his son?

And as Henry looked at the vast pile of crab shells and the empty platter of choy sum, he realized Samantha’s cooking
rivaled that of Ethel’s in her heyday – even his own cooking. Marty had chosen well.

‘OK, who’s ready for dessert?’

‘I’m so full,’ Marty groaned, pushing his plate away.

‘There’s always room,’ Henry taunted as Samantha stepped into the kitchen and returned, bringing out a small platter.

‘What’s this?’ Henry asked, stunned. He’d expected
green-tea
ice cream.

‘I made this especially for my future father-in-law – the ice cream’s for me. But this’ – she set a plate of delicately spun white candies in front of Henry – ‘this is something for a special occasion. It’s dragon’s beard candy.’

The last time Henry had had dragon’s beard candy was long before Ethel got sick. As he bit into the thread-thin strands of sugar, wrapped around a filling of grated coconut and sesame seeds, he watched Marty smile, nodding in approval – as if to say, ‘See, Pops, I knew you’d like her.’

It was delicious. ‘This takes years to learn to make, how did you …’

‘I’ve been practicing,’ Samantha explained. ‘Sometimes you have to just go for it. Try for what’s hardest to accomplish. Like you and your childhood sweetheart.’

Henry choked a little on his dessert, tasting the sweet filling and clearing his throat. ‘I see my son’s been sharing stories.’

‘He couldn’t help it. And besides, haven’t you ever wondered what happened to her? No disrespect to your wife, but this girl, whoever she may be, might still be out there somewhere. Aren’t you curious where she is, where she might be?’

Henry looked at his cup of wine, then finished it in one slow pour. Biting back the sting and watery sensation it brought to
his eyes, he felt his sinuses clearing as it burnt. Setting the cup down, he looked at Samantha and Marty. Weighing their expressions, equal parts hope and wishful thinking.

‘I have thought about her.’ Henry searched for the words, unsure of Marty’s reaction. Knowing how much his son loved Ethel, not wanting to trample her memory. ‘I have thought about her.’ All the time. Right now, in fact. It would be wrong to tell you that,
wouldn’t it
? ‘But that was a long time ago. People grow up. They marry, start families. Life goes on.’

Henry had thought about Keiko off and on through the years – from a longing, to a quiet, somber acceptance, to sincerely wishing her the best, that she might be happy. That was when he realized that he did love her. More than what he’d felt all those years ago. He loved her enough to let her go – to not go dredging up the past. And besides, he had Ethel, who had been a loving wife. And of course, he had loved her as well. And when she fell ill, he would have changed places with her if he could. To see her get up and walk again, he’d gladly have lain down in that hospice bed. But in the end, he was the one who had to keep living.

When he saw those things coming up from the basement of the Panama Hotel, he had allowed himself to wonder and to wish. For an Oscar Holden record no one believed existed. And for evidence of a girl who’d once loved Henry for who he was, even though he was from the other side of the neighborhood.

Marty watched his father, deep in thought. ‘You know, Pops, you have her stuff, her sketchbooks anyway. I mean, even if she’s married and all, I think she’d still appreciate getting those back. And if you were the one to give them to her, what a nice coincidence that might be.’

‘I have no idea where she is,’ Henry protested as his son filled his cup with more wine. ‘She might not even be alive. Forty years is a long time. And almost no one has claimed anything from the Panama. Almost no one. People didn’t look back, and there was nothing to return to, so they moved on.’

It was true. Henry knew it. And from the look on his face, Marty knew it too. But still, no one had thought the record still existed, and it was found. Who knew what else he might find if he looked hard enough?