Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet (27 page)

If that really had been Keiko he’d seen in the street, she’d go there to retrieve her things.

He ran first to her old apartment, the one she’d vacated over three years ago. The apartments in the neighborhood were now being rented to Italian and Jewish families. There was no sign of her. Amid the celebration and revelry, no one noticed Henry running down the street. Everywhere he looked, everyone seemed so happy. So satisfied. The opposite of how he felt inside.

He kept looking, but the only other place he could think of
to go was the Panama Hotel. If her family
had
stored some of their belongings there, they’d have to go retrieve their things,
wouldn’t they
?

Running down South Washington all the way past the old Nichibei Publishing building, which was now occupied by the Roosevelt Federal Savings & Loan, Henry saw the steps of the Panama – and in front, a lone worker. The hotel was being boarded up again.

It was empty, Henry thought.

All he could do was hold his breath, and the anger toward his father, as he scanned the streets for Japanese faces. He looked for Mr Okabe, imagining him in an army uniform. Keiko’s last letter had said he was finally allowed to enlist. He must have been one of the thousand Henry had read about from Minidoka who’d joined the 442nd and fought in Germany.
A
lawyer
. They sent a Japanese lawyer to France to fight the Germans.

Henry wanted to shout Keiko’s name. To tell her that it was his father, that it wasn’t her fault or his. That this could all be undone, that she didn’t have to leave. But he couldn’t bring himself to speak; like causing ripples on a placid lake, some things are better left undisturbed.

Henry stepped forward, just to the edge of the street. If he took another step toward the hotel, he knew he’d break Ethel’s heart, and he knew she didn’t deserve that.

As he turned around, remembering to breathe again, he saw Ethel standing there, maybe ten feet away, parting her way through the crowded sidewalk. She must be worried about me, Henry thought. He pictured her running after him, so upset about Henry’s father, about Henry himself. She approached
him, but kept her distance a bit, as if not knowing what Henry needed. Henry knew. He held her hand, and she relaxed, her eyes wet with tears from the up and down emotions of the day. If she suspected, or wondered, she never said a word. And if she had had an inadvertent hand in the loss of Henry’s letters, she never spoke of it. But Henry knew her heart – too innocent to get caught up in his father’s drama. She simply let Henry feel everything and never questioned. She just was there when he needed her.

Walking home with Ethel, Henry knew he had much to do. He had to help his mother prepare a funeral. He had to pack for his trip to China. And he had to find a suitable engagement ring. Something he would do with a certain sadness.

He’d do what he always did, find the sweet among the bitter. 

H
enry hadn’t heard from his son in a week. Marty didn’t call asking to borrow a few bucks. He didn’t even pop by to do his laundry or wax his Honda. Henry thought about his Chinese son, engaged to his Caucasian girlfriend, driving around in a Japanese car. Henry’s own father must have been spinning in his grave. The thought made him smile. A little.

Marty didn’t have a phone in his dorm, and the community phone in the hallway just rang and rang each time Henry tried to reach him.

So after his visit to Kobe Park, Henry walked over to the south end of Capitol Hill and past the security desk at Seattle University’s Bellarmine Hall. The front desk watchman was busy studying as Henry strolled to the elevator and pressed six – the top floor. Henry was grateful that his son had moved up from the fourth floor before his senior year; four was an unlucky number. In Chinese, the word for four rhymed with
the word for death. Marty didn’t share his father’s built-in superstitions, but Henry was happy nonetheless.

Henry smiled politely as he stepped off the elevator, nearly running into a pair of coeds in bathrobes returning from the showers.

‘Pops!’ Marty yelled down the hall. ‘What are you doing here?’

Henry ambled to his son’s room, around two young men wheeling in a keg of beer in a shopping cart and past another girl with an armload of laundry.

‘Are you OK? You never come here,’ Marty said, his eyes questioning Henry as he stood in the doorway, feeling out of place and beyond his years. ‘I mean, I’m graduating in a week, and
now
you show up – when everyone is kicking back. You’re gonna think all that hard-earned tuition went to waste up here.’

‘I just came by to bring you this.’ Henry handed a small thank-you card to his son. ‘It’s for Sam. For making us dinner.’

‘Ah, Pops – you didn’t have to …’

‘Please,’ Henry said. It was the first time since Ethel had died that he’d made any attempt to visit Marty. During his freshman year, Ethel had made it a point to hand-deliver care packages when her health allowed her to get out once in a while. Henry, by contrast, had never come alone.

Looking around Marty’s room, he saw Keiko’s sketchbooks spread out on the desk. Henry didn’t say much. He didn’t like talking about Keiko’s things in front of Marty – as if his excitement and joy at finding them somehow tarnished the image of Ethel.
Too soon
. It was far too soon.

‘I’m sorry ’bout what Samantha said, Pops, about finding Keiko. She’s just a little caught up in the moment – you know what I mean?’

Henry did. It was understandable. The belongings at the Panama Hotel were drawing the attention of a few local historians. A certain fascination was to be expected.

‘She’s fine,’ Henry said.

‘But she does have a point?’

‘About returning the sketchbooks to their rightful owner—’

‘No, about finding out if she’s alive, where she might be.’

Henry looked at Marty’s shelves. On them sat a Chinese tea service and a set of porcelain rice bowls that had been given to him and Ethel for their wedding. They were worn, chipped, and cracks were everywhere just beneath the hardened finish.

‘I had my chance.’

‘What, back during the war? She was taken from you. She didn’t want to leave and you didn’t want her to go. And the things Yay Yay did and said, the way he interfered – how can you just accept all that?’

Marty had an old rice cooker simmering on a table near the window. Henry pulled the steamer away from the wall and unplugged it out of precautionary habit, letting it cool. He looked at his son, unsure of how to answer.

‘You could have been together—’

Henry interrupted, drying his hands on a towel as he spoke. ‘I had my chance.
I let her go
. She left. But I
also
let her go.’ He hung the towel from the closet door handle, his hands clean. He’d thought about Keiko so many times over the years. Even
during those empty, lonely nights while Ethel was taking that long, slow journey toward her final destination. He’d been barely able to hold her because she was in so much pain, and when he did, she was so heavily medicated she didn’t know he was there. It had been a hard, bitter road he had walked alone, as he’d had to walk to and from Rainier Elementary as a boy. Keiko – how he’d wished she were there in those moments. But I made my decision, Henry thought. I could have found her after the war. I could have hurt Ethel, and had what I wanted, but it didn’t seem right. Not then. And not these past few years.

‘I had my chance.’ He said it, retiring from a lifetime of wanting. ‘I had my chance, and sometimes in life, there are no second chances. You look at what you have, not what you miss, and you move forward.’

Henry watched his son listen; for the first time in many years, Marty seemed content to listen. Not to argue.

‘Like that broken record we found,’ Henry said. ‘Some things just can’t be fixed.’

H
enry couldn’t quite bring himself to run through the sleepy, well-appointed halls of the Hearthstone Inn. Running just seemed to fly in the face of the quiet dignity the quaint and elegant nursing home maintained. Besides, he might run over some old lady and her walker.

Old
– what a relative term. He felt old whenever he thought about Marty getting married. He’d felt old when Ethel passed, yet here he was, feeling like a little kid who might be scolded for running in the halls.

When Henry had got the call that Sheldon’s health had taken a turn for the worse, he didn’t grab his coat, wallet, or anything. Just his keys and out the door he flew. He’d let little slow him down on the drive over, rolling through two red lights. He’d received
the call
before and was used to a variety of false alarms, but he knew better this time. He recognized death when it was sitting right there waiting. After having
listened to Ethel’s breathing change, that shift in her state of mind, he understood. And now, visiting his friend, he knew the end was close.

Sheldon had taken ill on several occasions, usually because of a lifetime of untreated diabetes. By the time he began to take care of himself, and by the time he fell into the hands of the right doctors, the damage had already been done.

‘How is he?’ Henry asked, stopping at the nearest nurses’ station and pointing to Sheldon’s room, where a nurse was wheeling out a dialysis machine. No use anymore, Henry thought. They’re taking him off everything.

The nurse, a plump, red-haired woman who looked about Marty’s age, read her computer screen and then looked back to Henry. ‘It’s close. His wife was just here – she left to go get more family. It’s funny. After all those little strokes, you fight off the visitors, just as part of the process of letting someone rest, hoping they’ll recover soon. But when it’s this time, this close, it’s nothing but family and friends. It’s that time, I’m afraid.’

Henry saw the genuine concern in her eyes.

Knocking on the half-open door, he slipped inside. He padded quietly across the tiled floor, looking at the array of equipment usually assigned to Sheldon – most of it had been unplugged and wheeled to a cluttered corner.

Henry sat down on a wheeled chair next to his friend, who was propped up so he could breath more easily, his head slumped to one side, nestled against a pillow facing Henry, and a thin, clear tube draped around his nose. The whistling sound from the oxygen was the only sound in the room.

There was a CD player near Sheldon’s bed. Henry adjusted
the volume to low and pressed play. The smooth bebop rhythm of Floyd Standifer filled the quiet of the empty room like a steady flow of sand filling the bottom of an hourglass. Less time each second.

Henry patted his friend’s arm, mindful of the IV protruding from the back of Sheldon’s hand, noting scabbed-over dots marking the landscape of his medical condition and recent removal of other tubes and monitors.

Sheldon’s eyes opened, eyelids flicking, his chin falling from side to side, his eyes finding Henry. He felt saddened for his friend – a sadness that was mollified when Henry spied the broken record next to Sheldon’s bed.

I’ve been here too many times, Henry thought to himself. So many years with my wife, now with my old friend. Too soon. It’s been a lifetime, but it’s still too soon for everyone. Henry had clung to his grief and sadness with Ethel’s passing, and now this.

He saw the confusion in Sheldon’s eyes. He recognized the vacant stare of not knowing where you are or why you’re here.

‘Home … time to go home’ was all Sheldon kept saying over and over again quietly, in a way that sounded almost pleading.

‘This is home for now. Then I think Minnie will be coming back with the rest of your family.’

Henry had known Sheldon’s second wife, Minnie, for years but hadn’t got around to visiting them as often as he’d have liked.

‘Henry … fix it.’

‘Fix what?’ Henry asked, feeling oddly grateful for those hard
final weeks with Ethel. That experience made this difficult exchange seem normal. Then Henry saw what Sheldon was looking at – the old vinyl 78, split in two. ‘The record. You want me to fix the Oscar Holden record, don’t you?’

Sheldon closed his eyes and drifted off into deep sleep, the kind of in and out that only someone in his condition can accomplish. Such heavy, labored breathing. Then back. Eyes open. Lucid again, like waking up to a new day.

‘Henry …’

‘I’m here …’

‘What are you doing here? Is it Sunday?’

‘No.’ Henry looked at his old friend, smiling, trying to be cheery despite the circumstances. ‘No, it’s not Sunday.’

‘That’s too bad. All these midweek visits. Must be time for my final performance, huh, Henry?’ Sheldon coughed a little and struggled to make his aching lungs work the way they should.

Watching his old friend, still so tall and dignified, even lying here dying, Henry looked at the old broken record that sat on the wheeled nightstand next to the bed. ‘Earlier you were asking me to fix it. I’m guessing you meant fix this old broken record, maybe find someplace to restore it …’

Looking at Sheldon, Henry wasn’t sure if, in his state, he remembered the conversation they’d started just minutes before.

‘I think it’s time you fixed it, Henry. But I wasn’t talking about that old record. If you can put those broken pieces together, make some music again, then that’s what you should do. But I wasn’t talking ’bout the record, Henry.’

Henry looked at the Oscar Holden recording – the one he’d
hoped would still be there in the dusty basement of that old hotel.

Sheldon reached over and held Henry’s hand. His old, dried up, brown-bag fingers still felt strong to Henry. ‘We both’ – Sheldon paused, then caught his breath again – ‘know why you were always looking for that old record. Always known.’ His breathing slowed. ‘Fix it,’ Sheldon managed to say one last time, before drifting off to sleep, his words disappearing into the soft hissing of the oxygen.

S
tepping inside Bud’s Jazz Records, Henry could smell the vanilla tobacco that Bud favored. The proprietor was smoking and chewing on an old pipe, looking at a
coffee-stained
copy of the
Seattle Weekly
. He lowered his paper just enough to give Henry a nod and a dip of the pipe, which hung precariously from the side of his hangdog mouth; as always, he looked about three days late for a good shave. In the background a woman sang some sweet old-school number. Helen Humes? From the thirties? Henry couldn’t be sure.

Tucked under Henry’s arm was a brown paper sack. And inside was the broken Oscar Holden record. Henry had haunted Bud’s place for years in search of it. Sure, he had felt a little bad taking it from Sheldon’s room, but his old friend had been sleeping, and when he was awake, he was more and more disoriented. The silent lucidity gave way to moments of confusion and bewilderment. Like his old friend’s ramblings
about fixing what was broken. The record? Henry himself? That was unknown.

Still, after all these years, Henry wanted to hear the song embedded in these two broken slabs of vinyl – and maybe it would be good for Sheldon to hear it one last time as well. Henry didn’t know the first thing about restoring antique records, but Bud had been here forever. If anyone could point Henry in the right direction, it would be Bud.

Henry walked up to the counter and set the bag on the cracked glass display case that held old sheet music and vinyl and wax disks too brittle to be handled.

Bud set down his paper. ‘You returning something, Henry?’

Henry just smiled, enjoying the last strains of the woman singing in the background. He always favored the gravelly tenors, but on occasion a bluesy, brandy-soaked voice like the one playing could keep him awake all night.

‘Henry, you OK?’

‘I have something I need to show you.’

Bud tamped out his pipe. ‘Why do I get the feeling this has something to do with that old, busted-up hotel on Main Street?’

Henry reached into the bag and slid out the record, still in its original paper sleeve. It felt heavy in his hand. The label through the cutaway in the sleeve was clearly visible, a yellow, faded printing that read, ‘Oscar Holden & the Midnight Blue.’

Henry watched Bud’s heavy eyes widen, and the bitter grooves in the old man’s forehead smoothed out like a sail caught up in a full breeze as he smiled in bewilderment. He
looked up at Henry, then back down at the record, as if to say, ‘Can I touch it?’

Henry nodded. ‘Go ahead, it’s real.’

‘You found this down there, didn’t you? Never gave up looking for it, did you?’

Never gave up
. Knew I’d find it eventually. ‘It was there all these years, waiting.’

Bud slid the record out as Henry watched it give in his hand. The two broken halves sagged in opposite directions, held together by the pressed label. ‘Oh no – no, no, no. You’re not gonna tease me like this, are ya, Henry? It’s broke, ain’t it?’

Henry just nodded, and shrugged his apology. ‘I was thinking maybe that was something you could help me with. I’m looking for someone who can do some kind of restoration.’

Bud looked like he’d found out he’d won the lottery, only to be paid off in a lifetime’s supply of Monopoly money. Exciting, but useless. ‘If it wasn’t
completely
in two, you could send it someplace and they’d use a laser to record off every note. Wouldn’t even touch it with a traditional needle, not even a diamond. Couldn’t risk more scratches and pops. They could suck off every nuance ever recorded here and save it for you digitally.’ Bud rubbed his forehead. The wrinkles all came back. ‘Ain’t nothing you can do with a busted record, Henry. Once she’s gone, she’s gone for good.’

‘They couldn’t just glue it or something …’

‘Henry, she’s gone. It’d never play, never sound the same. I mean, I love holding it and all, and this does belong in a museum or something. A little piece of history, for sure.
Especially since those in the know never knew for sure if it was actually recorded.’

Bud knew it. Inside, Henry knew it too. Some things just can’t be put back together. Some things can never be fixed. Two broken pieces can’t make a lot of anything anymore. But at least he had the broken pieces.

Henry walked home. It was probably more than two miles, up South King and around toward Beacon Hill, overlooking the International District. It would have been much easier to drive, even with the traffic, but he just felt like walking. He’d spent his childhood canvassing this neighborhood, and with each step he tried to recall what used to be. As he walked, he crossed over to South Jackson, looking at the buildings that used to be home to the Ubangi Club, the Rocking Chair, even the Black Elks Club. Holding that broken record at his side, now looking at generic storefronts for Seafirst Bank and All West Travel, he tried to remember the song he’d once played over and over in his head.

It was all but gone. He could remember a bit of the chorus, but its melody had escaped. Yet he couldn’t forget her, couldn’t forget Keiko. And how he’d once told her he’d wait a lifetime. Every summer he’d thought of her but never spoke of her to anyone, not even Ethel. And of course, telling Marty had been out of the question. So when his impetuous son had wanted so badly to go to the Puyallup Fair each year, and Henry had said no, there was a reason. A painful reason. One that Henry shared with almost no one but Sheldon, on the rare occasion when his old friend would bring it up. And now Sheldon would be gone soon too. Another former resident of a small
community in Seattle that no one remembered anymore. Like ghosts haunting a vacant lot because the building had long since vanished.

At home, exhausted from the long walk along the dirty, littered streets, Henry hung up his jacket, went to the kitchen for a glass of iced tea, and drifted to the bedroom he’d once shared with Ethel.

To his surprise, on his bed was his best suit. Set out like it had been all those years ago. His old black leather dress shoes had been polished and placed on the floor next to an old suitcase of his. For a moment, Henry felt fifteen again, in that old Canton Alley apartment he’d shared with his parents. Looking at the tools of a traveler bound for ports unknown. A future far away.

Mystified, Henry felt the hair on the back of his neck prick up as he turned back the lapel of his suitcoat and saw, like a mirage, a ticket jacket in his breast pocket. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled it out and opened it up. Inside was a round-trip ticket to New York City. It wasn’t to Canton but to another faraway land. A place he’d never been.

‘I guess you found my little present.’ Marty stood in the doorway, holding his father’s hat, the one with the threadbare brim.

‘Most children just send their aged parents to a nursing home, you’re sending me to the other side of the country,’ Henry said.

‘More than that, Pops, I’m sending you back in time.’

Henry looked at the suit, thinking about his own father. He knew only one person who had ever talked about New York,
and she’d never come back. She’d left a long time ago. Back in another lifetime.

‘You sending me back to the war years?’ Henry asked.

‘I’m sending you back to find what’s missing. Sending you back to find what you let go. I’m proud of you, Pops, and I’m grateful for everything, especially for the way you cared for Mom. You’ve done everything for me, and now it’s my turn to do something for you.’

Henry looked at the ticket.

‘
I found her, Pops
. I know you were always loyal to Mom, and that you’d never do this for yourself. So I did it for you. Pack your suitcase. I’m taking you to the airport; you’re leaving for New York City …’

‘When?’ Henry asked.

‘Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever. You got someplace else you gotta be?’

Henry drew out a tarnished silver pocket watch. It kept poor time and required frequent winding. He flipped it open, sighed heavily, then snapped it shut.

The last time someone had laid out a suit and a pair of dress shoes with a ticket purchased for a faraway place, Henry had refused to go.

This time, Henry refused to stay.