Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet (8 page)

H
enry searched through the dusty basement of the Panama Hotel, sneezing and coughing, for nearly three hours. In that time he’d found countless photo albums of babies and faded black-and-white snapshots of families celebrating Christmas and New Year’s. Boxes and boxes of fine dishware and utensils, and enough clothing to fill a small department store. The items were so random. It was easy to forget that people once cared enough for these things to hide them, hoping to retrieve them another day – presumably after the war had ended.

But serving as somber reminders were the names – like Inada, Watanabe, Suguro, and Hori. Most of the boxes and trunks had hanging name tags of some sort. Others had names painted directly on the sides or tops of the suitcases themselves. Quiet reminders of the lives displaced so long ago.

Henry stretched his aching back and spied a rickety aluminum lawn chair that he imagined had seen better days at barbecues and backyard picnics. It creaked as he unfolded it, in chorus with his knees, which popped when he sat down, his body tired from being hunched over boxes and crates.

Resting from his labors, he fished out a newspaper from a nearby bundle. It was an old copy of the
Hokubei Jiji
–
The North American Times,
a local newspaper still in circulation. It was dated March 12
^th
, 1942.

Henry scanned the old-style news articles, printed in English in neat vertical rows. Headlines about local rationing and the war in Europe and the Pacific. Straining to read the fine print in the dimly lit basement, he noticed an editorial on the cover. The headline read:
FINAL ISSUE
. ‘We regret that this will be our final issue until further notice, but wish to acknowledge our deepest loyalty and support of the United States of America, its allies and the causes of freedom …’ It was the last newspaper printed in Nihonmachi before the internment, before they took them all away, Henry thought. There were other articles, one on relocation opportunities farther inland – in places like Montana and North Dakota. And a police report about a man posing as a federal agent, then accosting two Japanese women in their apartment.

‘You finding anything?’ Ms. Pettison came down, flashlight in hand, startling Henry, who’d grown accustomed to the lonely silence of the basement.

He set the paper down and stood up, brushing himself off a bit, wiping his hands on his pants, leaving two
palm-size
streaks of dust. ‘Well, I haven’t exactly found what I’m looking for. There’s just so much of …
everything
.’

‘Don’t worry, we need to close up for the day, but you’re more than welcome to come back next week. The dust needs to settle so we can clean up, and we’re sealing the brick tomorrow, but after that all clears, feel free to come back and keep looking.’

Henry thanked her, disappointed that he hadn’t found anything belonging to Keiko or her family. But he didn’t give up hope. For years he’d walked past the hotel. Decades even – never suspecting anything of value remained. He’d assumed that everything from the war years had been reclaimed long ago, accepted that fact and tried to move on. Tried to live his life. But looking at the mountains of boxes he’d yet to search, he felt Keiko’s presence. Something of her remained. Inside. He strained to hear her voice in memory. Lost among his thoughts. It’s in there.
I know it.

He thought of Ethel too. What would she think? Would she approve of him snooping around down here, digging into the past? The more he thought about it, the more he realized what he’d known all along. Ethel would always approve of things that might make Henry happy. Even now. Especially now.

‘I’ll be back this time next week, if that’s all right?’ Henry asked.

Ms. Pettison nodded and led the way back upstairs.

Henry squinted, allowing his senses to adjust to the daylight and the cold, gray Seattle sky that filled the paned windows of the Panama Hotel lobby. Everything, it seemed – the city, the sky – was brighter and more vivid than before.
So modern, compared with the time capsule downstairs. As he left the hotel, Henry looked west to where the sun was setting, burnt sienna flooding the horizon. It reminded him that time was short, but that beautiful endings could still be found at the end of cold, dreary days.

T
he next day Henry spent the afternoon in Chinatown, at the barber, the bakery – any excuse to walk by the Panama Hotel. He peered in the open windows, each time seeing nothing but construction workers and clouds of dust everywhere. When he finally found his way back home, Marty was waiting for him on his doorstep. He had a key, but by all appearances he'd locked himself out. Sprawled across the cement steps, Marty tapped his foot, his arms folded across his chest, looking nervous and expectant.

Henry had sensed that something was bothering Marty at lunch the day before, but had allowed himself to be distracted by the thought of finding something – anything – of Keiko's in the basement of the Panama Hotel. Now he was here.
He's here to have it out with me.
To tell me I was wrong in how I cared for his mother, Henry thought.

Ethel's last year had been a rough time. When she'd been
lucid enough to engage the both of them, he and Marty had seemed to get along famously. But once her health declined, and the word
hospice
came up, the real disagreements had begun.

‘Pops, you can't keep Mom here – this place smells like old people,' Marty argued.

Henry rubbed his eyes, weary of the discussion. ‘We
are
old people.'

‘Have you even been to the new Peace Hospice? It's like a resort! Don't you want Mom to spend her last days in a
nice place
?' As Marty said it, he rolled his eyes to the ceiling, which was a dingy yellow color from Ethel's years of smoking cigarettes. ‘This place is a dump! I don't want my mom to be stuck here when she could be at a state-of-the-art facility.'

‘This
is
her home,' Henry shot back, standing up from his easy chair. ‘She wants to be here. She doesn't want to die in someplace unfamiliar – no matter how nice it is.'

‘
You
want her to be here. You can't live without her – without controlling everything!' Marty was practically in tears. ‘They'll take care of her medicine, Pops, they have nurses …'

Henry was angry, but he didn't want to make the situation worse by getting into another pointless shouting match, especially with Ethel sleeping in the next room.

The home hospice service had brought in everything to make her last few months more comfortable – a hospital bed and enough morphine, atropine, and Ativan to keep her relaxed and free from pain. They called each day, and a home health worker popped by as needed, but never as often as Henry had hoped.

‘Henry …' Both he and Marty froze at the sound of Ethel's
weak voice. Neither had heard her speak in at least a week.

Henry went to their bedroom.
Their bedroom.
He still called it that, even though he'd been sleeping on the couch for the last six months, or occasionally in a recliner next to Ethel's bed. But only on the nights when she grew restless or scared.

‘I'm here. Shussh-shhhhh. I'm here …' he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding his wife's frail hand, leaning in close to try to hold her attention.

‘Henry …'

He looked at Ethel, who was staring wide-eyed out their bedroom window. ‘It's OK – I'm here.' As he said it, he straightened out her nightgown and pulled her covers back up around her arms.

‘Take me home, Henry,' Ethel pleaded, gripping his hand. ‘I'm so sick of this place, take me home …'

Henry looked up at his son, who was standing in the doorway, speechless.

After that day, the arguing had ceased. But so had their conversations.

‘Pops, I think we need to talk.'

Marty's voice woke Henry from his melancholy. He walked up the steps, partway, until he stood looking at his son, eye to eye. ‘Shouldn't we go inside and sit down and talk about what's on your mind?' he asked.

‘I'd rather talk out here.'

Henry noticed his son staring at his clothes, covered with dust from watching the renovation at the hotel. ‘Are you OK? What'd you hit, a line drive and slide into third base?'

‘You have your long story, I have mine.' Henry sat down next to his son, watching the long, dark shadow of Beacon Hill
fall behind the trees, stretching the width of the avenue. The streetlamps above them flickered and hummed to life.

‘Pops, we haven't talked about much of anything since Mom died, you know?'

Henry nodded stoically, bracing himself for an onslaught of criticism.

‘I've busted my tail on my grades, I've tried to be the son you want me to be.'

Henry listened, feeling remorseful. Maybe I spent too much time taking care of Ethel –
maybe I left him out,
he thought. If I did, it wasn't intentional. ‘You don't need to apologize for anything. I'm immensely proud of you,' he said.

‘I know you are, Pops. I see it – I know you are. Which is why I've been dodging talking to you about this. One, because there was so much going on with Mom, and two, well, because I just didn't know how you'd react.'

Henry furrowed his brow; now he was worried. His mind checked off all the things his son could possibly tell him under these circumstances:
He's on drugs.
He's been kicked out of school. He's wrecked his car, joined a gang, committed a crime, going to jail, he's gay
…

‘Dad, I'm engaged.'

‘To a girl?'

Henry asked the question in all seriousness. Marty laughed. ‘Of course to a girl.'

‘And you're scared to tell me this?' Henry searched his son for some meaning in his face, his eyes, in his body language. ‘She's pregnant.' Henry said it as more of a statement than a question. The way you'd say ‘We surrender' or ‘We lost in overtime.'

‘Dad! No. Nothing like that.'

‘Then why are we talking out here …'

‘Because she's inside, Pops. I want you to meet her.'

Henry lit up. Sure, he was hiding a pang of hurt that this mystery girl had been kept a secret, but his son was busy, he was sure Marty had a reason.

‘It's just that, well, I know how crazy your own folks were. I mean, they weren't just Chinese, they were super-Chinese, if you know what I mean. They were like ice cubes in America's melting pot, you know – they had one way of seeing things.' Marty struggled for the words. ‘And you know, you married Mom and did the whole traditional wedding thing. And you sent me to Chinese school, like your own old man did – and you always talk about me finding a nice Chinese girl to settle down with, like Mom.'

There was a pause, a moment of silence. Henry watched his son, waiting for him to continue. Nothing stirred but the shadows cast on the steps as the fir trees swayed in the slight breeze.

‘I'm not like Yay Yay – not like your grandfather,' Henry said, as he realized where this was going, stunned to be categorized in the same breath as his own father. He loved his father, deep down, what son doesn't? He'd only wanted the best for him. But after all Henry had gone through, all he'd seen and done, had he changed that little? Was he so much like his own father? He heard a click as the door opened behind them. A young woman poked her head out, then stepped out smiling. She had long blond hair, and cool blue eyes – the kind Henry called Irish eyes.

‘You must be Marty's father! I can't believe you've been out here this whole time. Marty, why didn't you say something?'
Henry smiled and watched her look in surprise at his son, who looked nervous, as if caught doing something wrong.

Henry offered his hand to his future daughter-in-law.

She shone like a light. ‘I'm Samantha, I've been dying to meet you.' She stepped past his hand and threw her arms around him. Henry patted her, trying to breathe, then gave in and hugged her back. Looking over her shoulder – smiling – Henry gave Marty a thumbs-up. 

I
n the backyard, Henry put on garden gloves and pruned dead limbs off an old plum tree – dotted with small green fruit used in Chinese wine.

The tree was as old as his son.

Marty and his fiancèe sat on the back steps and watched while sipping iced green tea with ginger. Henry had tried making iced tea with Darjeeling or pekoe, but they always tasted too bitter, no matter how much sugar or honey he added.

‘Marty told me this was some sort of a surprise, I hope I didn’t completely ruin it – it’s just that he’s told me everything about you, and I’ve been dying to meet you.’

‘Oh, not much to tell, really,’ Henry said politely.

‘Well, for starters, he told me that’s your favorite tree,’ Samantha said, doing her best to fill the awkward silence between father and son, ‘and that you planted it when Marty was born.’

Henry continued pruning, clipping off a twig with delicate white blossoms. ‘It’s an
ume
tree,’ he said, slowly pronouncing it ‘ooh-may.’ ‘Its flowers bloom even during the harshest weather – even in coldest winter.’

‘Here we go …’ Marty whispered to Samantha, just loud enough for his father to hear.
‘Viva la revolución …’
he joked.

‘Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?’ Henry asked, pausing from his labors.

‘No offense, Pops, it’s just that—’

Samantha interrupted. ‘Marty told me that tree has a special meaning for you. That it’s a symbol of some kind.’

‘It is,’ Henry said, touching a small, five-petaled plum blossom. ‘Ume flowers are used as decoration during Chinese New Year. It’s also the symbol of the ancient city of Nanjing and now the national flower of all of China.’

Marty stood up partway and offered a mock salute.

‘What’s that for?’ Samantha asked.

‘Tell her, Pops.’

Henry kept pruning, attempting to ignore his son’s jest. ‘The flower was also my own father’s favorite.’ He struggled against his pruning shears before finally clipping off a large dead branch. ‘It’s a symbol of perseverance in the face of adversity – a revolutionist symbol.’

‘Your father was a revolutionary?’ Samantha asked.

‘Hah!’ Henry caught himself laughing at the thought. ‘No, no – he was a nationalist. Always scared of the communist. But he still believed in one China. The ume tree was special to him that way, understand?’

Samantha smiled and nodded, sipping her tea. ‘Marty said
that tree came from a branch of your father’s tree – that you planted it here when he died.’

Henry looked at his son, then shook his head and clipped another branch. ‘His mother tell him this.’

Henry felt bad for mentioning Ethel. For bringing up such sadness on what was an otherwise happy day.

‘I’m very sorry,’ Samantha said. ‘I wish I could have met her.’

Henry just smiled solemnly and nodded, while Marty put his arm around his fiancèe and kissed her on the temple.

Samantha changed the subject. ‘Marty tells me you were an incredible engineer, they even let you retire early.’

Henry could see Samantha out of the corner of his eye as he tended to the tree; it was like she was checking off an imaginary list. ‘You’re a great cook, you like to garden, and you’re the best fisherman he’s ever known. He told me about all the times you took him out on Lake Washington for sockeye.’

‘That so …’ Henry said, looking at his son, wondering why he never said these things to
him
. Then he thought about the communications gaps, more like chasms really, between him and his own father and knew the answer.

Samantha sipped her iced tea, stirring the ice cubes with her finger. ‘He says you love jazz music.’

Henry looked at her, intrigued.
Now we’re talking.

‘And not just any jazz. The roots of West Coast jazz and swing, like Floyd Standifer and Buddy Catlett – and that you’re a big Dave Holden fan, and a really big fan of his father, Oscar Holden, as well.’

Henry pruned a small branch and tossed it in a white
bucket. ‘I like her,’ he said to Marty, loud enough for her to hear it. ‘You did good.’

‘I’m glad you approve, Pops. You know, you surprise me.’

Henry did his best to communicate without words. To give his son that smile, that knowing look of approval. He was certain Marty picked up every phrase of their wordless communication. After a lifetime of nods, frowns, and stoic smiles, they were both fluent in emotional shorthand. Smiling at each other as Samantha showed off her impressive knowledge of Seattle’s rich prewar music history. The more Henry listened, the more he thought about going back to the Panama Hotel next week. About sifting through the basement. All those crates. All those trunks, and boxes, and suitcases. And about how much easier it would be if he had help.

But more than that, Henry hated being compared with his own father. In Marty’s eyes, the plum hadn’t fallen far from the tree; if anything, it was clinging stubbornly to the branches. That’s what I’ve taught by my example, Henry thought, realizing that having Marty help him in the basement might ease more than the physical burden.

Henry took off his garden gloves, setting them on the porch. ‘The ume tree was my father’s favorite, but the sapling I planted – it didn’t come from him. It came from a tree in Kobe Park …’

‘But wasn’t that part of old Japantown?’ Marty asked.

Henry nodded.

The night Marty was born Henry had cut an incision in the small branch of a plum tree – one of many that grew in the park – placing a toothpick in the cut and wrapping it with a small strip of fabric. He came back weeks later and took the
rest of the branch – new roots had grown. He planted it in the backyard. And tended to it, always.

Henry had thought about grafting a cherry tree. But the blossoms were too beautiful – the memories too painful. But now, Ethel was gone. Henry’s father was long since gone. Even Japantown was gone. All that remained were days filled with long, endless hours, and the plum tree he had tended to in his backyard. Grafted the night his son was born, from a Chinese tree in a Japanese garden, all those years ago.

That tree had grown wild during the years Ethel fell ill. Henry had had less time to tend to the massive branches that had grown to fill the small confines of their backyard. But once Ethel had passed, Henry had started taking care of the tree once again, and it had begun to bear fruit.

‘What are you two doing next Thursday?’ Henry asked.

He watched them look at each other and shrug. His son’s face still bore a wrinkle of confusion. ‘No plans,’ Samantha said.

‘Meet me at the tearoom of the Panama Hotel.’