Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet (19 page)

H
enry had managed to save most of Keiko’s photos. He’d wiped the mud and garbage off on his coat sleeve and stored them in the old washbasin beneath the stairs until he could give them to Sheldon for safekeeping. But from that moment on, he began to feel like a ghost in the little brick apartment he shared with his parents. They didn’t speak to him; in fact, they barely acknowledged his presence. They’d speak to each other as if he weren’t there, and when they looked his way, they’d each pretend to look right through him. He hoped they were pretending anyway.

At first he’d talked to them regardless, in English – just table conversation – then later, pleading in Chinese. It didn’t matter. Their great wall of silence was impervious to his best attempts to subvert it. So he too said nothing. And since his parents’ conversations often had to do with Henry’s
schooling
, Henry’s
grades
, Henry’s
future
, in Henry’s
absence
, they said
very little. The only sounds heard in their tiny home came from the rustling of the daily newspaper or the squelch and static of the wireless radio – playing news bulletins on the war and the latest local updates on rationing and drills of the Civil Air Defense. On the radio, nothing was ever mentioned of the Japanese who had been led out of Nihonmachi – it was as if they’d never existed.

After a few days, his mother did acknowledge his existence, in her own way. She did his laundry and packed him a lunch. But she did it with little ceremony, presumably so as not to go against the wishes of Henry’s father, who had followed up on his threat to disown him figuratively, if not literally.

‘Thank you,’ Henry said, as his mother set out a plate and rice bowl for him. But as she reached for another set of chopsticks—

‘Are you expecting a guest for dinner?’ Henry’s father interrupted in Chinese, setting down his newspaper. ‘Answer me,’ he demanded.

She looked apologetically at her husband, then quietly removed the dish, avoiding eye contact with her son.

Henry, not to be discouraged completely, brought his own plate and served himself from then on. Eating in all but silence, the only sounds those of chopsticks occasionally tinging the side of his half-empty rice bowl.

The deafening silence continued at Rainier Elementary, even though Henry had thought about following his old friends to the Chinese school, or even up the hill to Bailey Gatzert Elementary, which was a mixed-race school that some of the older kids went to. But then again, he knew he’d have to register somehow, and without his parents’ cooperation,
it seemed impossible. Maybe when the school year was over, he’d convince his mother to switch him. No, his father was too proud of his son’s
scholarshipping
. She would never go along with it.

So Henry accepted the fact that he would finish out the next two weeks of the sixth grade right where he was. And he had to, didn’t he? Mrs Beatty was still taking him to Camp Harmony on the weekends, and if he didn’t work in the
grade-school
kitchen all week, his weekend furloughs to see Keiko might be in jeopardy.

By the time Saturday rolled around, Henry longed to talk to someone – anyone. He had tried to catch Sheldon during the week, but there was never any time before school. After school, Sheldon was always performing at the Black Elks Club, which had just reopened.

When Mrs Beatty rolled up, she seemed as good a conversationalist as Henry could hope for. She smoked while she drove, flicking her ashes out the window and blowing the smoke out the side of her mouth. It always caught the draft and billowed back in, settling on the two of them. Henry rolled his window down a few inches, trying to draw the smoke away from the presents that sat on his lap.

In addition to a bag of sundries from Woolworth’s, he had two boxes, each wrapped in lavender paper with white ribbon that he’d snuck from his mother’s sewing box. One box contained a sketchbook, pencils, brushes, and a tin of watercolors. The other was the Oscar Holden record; the one Sheldon gave him. Henry had delicately wrapped it in tissue to keep it safe.

‘Little early for Christmas,’ Mrs Beatty commented,
flicking her butt out the window of the speeding truck.

‘It’s Keiko’s birthday tomorrow.’

‘That so?’

Henry nodded, waving the last of the smoke away.

‘Mighty thoughtful of you,’ Mrs Beatty said. Just as Henry was about to speak, she interrupted. ‘You know they’re not going to let you take those in looking like that? I mean, that could be a gun, a couple of hand grenades, who knows – all wrapped up with a pretty bow, special delivery.’

‘But I thought I’d just have her open them at the fence …’

‘Don’t matter, dearie, all gifts are opened by the sentry on duty. Rules are rules.’

Henry shook the larger box on his lap, the one with the record, thinking that he might as well take the ribbon off and just get it over with.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,’ Mrs Beatty said. And she did.

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 fiftypound 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 smelt 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
lightheaded
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, OK?’

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.’