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

"Is this counter open?" Keiko asked.

The clerk just looked around for another customer.

"Excuse me, ma'am, I'd like to buy this record, please."

Henry was becoming more annoyed than the clerk looked--her hip cocked, her jaw set. She leaned down and whispered to them, "Then why don't you go back to your own neighborhood and buy it?"

Henry had been given dirty looks before but he'd never experienced something like this. He'd heard about things like this in the South. Places like Arkansas or Alabama, but not Seattle. Not the Pacific Northwest.

The clerk stood there, her fist dug into her hip. "We don't serve people like you--besides, my husband is off fighting ..."

"I'll buy it," Henry said, putting his "I am Chinese" button on the counter next to Keiko's two dollars. "I said, I'll buy it, please."

Keiko looked ready to cry or storm out. Her fists rested on the counter, two white-knuckled balls of frustration.

Henry stared at the clerk, who looked confused, then annoyed. She relented, snatching the two dollars and flicking his button to one side. She handed the record to him, without a bag or a receipt. Henry insisted on both, afraid she'd yell for store security and report that they had stolen the record. She scratched a price on a yellow receipt and stamped it "paid"--shoving it at Henry. He took it, thanking her anyway.

He put his button in his pocket along with the slip of paper. "C'mon, let's go," he said to Keiko.

On the long walk home, Keiko stared blankly ahead. The joy of her surprise had popped like a helium balloon, loud and sharp, leaving nothing to hold but a limp string.

Still, Henry held the record and tried his best to calm her down. "Thank you, this is a wonderful surprise. This is the best present I've ever been given."

"I don't feel very giving, or grateful. Just angry," Keiko said. "I was born here. I don't even speak Japanese. Still, all these people, everywhere I go ... they hate me."

Henry found a smile and waved the record in front of her, handing it to her.

Seeing it made her forget. "Thank you," she said.

She looked at the record as they walked. "I guess I'm used to the teasing at school.

After all, my dad says they're just dumb kids that would pick on weak boys and little girls no matter what part of town they're from. That being Japanese or Chinese just makes the heckling that much easier--we're easy targets. But this far from home, in a grown-up part of town ..."

"You'd think grown-ups would act different," Henry finished her sentence, knowing from his own experience that sometimes grown-ups could be worse. Much worse.

At least we have the record, Henry thought. A reminder of a place where people didn't seem to care what you looked like, where you were born, or where your family was from. When the music played, it didn't seem to make one lick of difference if your last name was Abernathy or Anjou, Kung or Kobayashi. After all, they had the music to prove it.

On the way home, Henry and Keiko debated who should keep the record.

"It's a gift from me to you. You should keep it, even if you can't play it. Someday you'll be able to," she insisted.

Henry thought Keiko should have it since she had a record player that could play the new vinyl disks.

"Besides," he argued, "my mother is always around, and I'm not sure if she'd approve--because my father doesn't like modern music."

In the end, Keiko relented and accepted it. Because her parents liked jazz, but also because she realized how late they were going to be if they didn't hurry home.

They walked as fast as they could along the scenic waterfront, their feet crunching on the occasional fragment of clamshell that littered the sidewalk. Hovering seabirds had dropped the shells whole, cracking them on the pavement so they could swoop down and feast on the squishy meaty contents. To Henry the splattered shellfish just looked gross.

He was wary of the messy sidewalk, almost to the point of distraction. So much so that he almost didn't notice a thin line of soldiers near the ferry terminal.

He and Keiko were forced to stop on the north side of the terminal, along with dozens of cars and a handful of people milling about the sidewalk. Most looked more curious than annoyed. A few looked happy. Henry didn't understand the commotion.

"Must be a parade, I think. I hope so," Henry said.
"I love parades.
The Seafair Parade was even better than the Chinese New Year's one on Main Street."

"What day is it?" Keiko asked, handing Henry the record, breaking out the sketchbook she kept in her book bag.

She sat on the curb and began drawing the scene in pencil. There was a row of soldiers in uniform, bayoneted rifles slung across their shoulders. All looked crisp, civil, and polite. Efficient even, Henry thought. The ferry
Keholoken
sat moored in the background, moving almost imperceptibly with the ebb and flow of the dark green waters of the frigid Puget Sound.

Henry thought about it. "It's March thirtieth--no holiday I know of."

"Why are they here? That's the Bainbridge Island ferry, isn't it?" Keiko tapped her pencil on her cheek in confusion.

Henry agreed. Looking down at Keiko's drawing, he was more impressed than ever. She was good. Better than good, she had real talent.

Then they heard a whistle.

"It must be starting," Henry said. Looking around, he saw there were more people lining the streets, frozen, as if waiting for a broken red light to change.

Another whistle and a long line of people began walking off the ferry. Henry could hear the rhythmic
plink-plank
of leather shoes on the metal ramp. In a neat row they ambled across the street and south--where to, Henry couldn't fathom. As best he could figure, they were heading in the direction of Chinatown, or maybe Nihonmachi.

The line went on forever. There were mothers with small children in tow. Old people, with faltering steps, pitching forward in the same general direction. Teenagers ran ahead, then walked when they saw the soldiers everywhere. All were carrying suitcases, wearing hats and raincoats. That was when Henry realized what Keiko already knew. By the occasional chatter, he realized they were all Japanese. Bainbridge Island must have been declared a military zone, Henry thought. They're evacuating everyone. Hundreds.

Each group was shadowed by a soldier who counted heads like a mother hen.

Looking around, Henry could see that most of the crowd watching was almost as surprised as he was. Almost. Yet quite a few just looked annoyed, as if they were late and were caught behind a long, never-ending train. Others looked pleased. Some clapped. He looked at Keiko, whose drawing was half-finished; her hand held the pencil above the page, the lead broken, her arm like a statue.

"C'mon, let's go around. We should go home, now," he said. He took the sketchbook and pencil from her hands and put them away, helping her to her feet. He turned her away from the scene, putting his arm around her shoulder, trying his best to gently guide her home. "We don't want to be here."

They crossed the street, passing in front of idling cars waiting for the parade of Japanese citizens to end. We can't be here.
We need to get home.
Henry realized they were the only Asian people on the street who didn't have suitcases in hand, and he didn't want to get swept up in the comings and goings of the soldiers.

"Where are they going?" Keiko asked in a hushed whisper. "Where are they taking them?"

Henry shook his head. "I don't know." But he did know. They were heading in the direction of the train station. The soldiers were taking them away. He didn't know where, but they were being sent packing. Maybe it was because Bainbridge was too close to the naval shipyard in Bremerton, or maybe because it was an island and it was easier to round them all up there than in a place like Seattle, where the confusion, the sheer numbers would make a similar feat impossible. It can't happen here, Henry thought.

There's too many of them.
Too many of us.

Henry and Keiko fought the crowd all the way back to Seventh Avenue, the neutral zone between Nihonmachi and Chinatown. News had spread in advance of their arrival. People of every color littered the streets. Throngs were talking and facing in the direction of the train station. There were no soldiers to be seen in this part of town. No trouble.

Henry found Sheldon, standing in a crowd of onlookers, his sax case hanging at his side. "What are you doing here?" Henry said, tugging on his sleeve.

Sheldon looked down, startled for a moment, then smiled his cap-toothed grin at Henry. "I was just breaking down for the day--Oscar's club has been temporarily shut down after the raid, so until they open up, and soon I hope, I'm back on the street trying to make a living. And this ain't helping business any."

Henry held out the Rhodes bag with the record. Sheldon smiled and winked at him. "I've got a copy myself"

Sheldon put his arm on Henry's shoulder as they watched the scene. Neither felt like talking about music. "They evacuated the whole island. Said it was for their safety.

Can you believe that nonsense?" Sheldon said.

Keiko brushed the hair from her eyes, holding on to Henry's arm. "Where are they taking them?" she asked.

Henry was scared for Keiko; he didn't want to know the answer. He leaned his

head until his temple rested next to hers, wrapping his coat around her.

"I don't know, miss," Sheldon said. "I don't know. California, I reckon. I heard they build some kind of prisoner of war camp down there near Nevada. They pass some order saying they can round up all the Japanese, Germans, and Italians--but do you see any Germans in that crowd? You see them rounding up Joe DiMaggio?"

Henry looked around. What few Japanese people there were in the crowds were all heading home, some of them running. "You'd better go, your parents are probably worried sick right now." He handed her the record.

Sheldon agreed, looking at Henry. "You better get home too, young man. Your family's going to be just as worried. Button or no button."

Keiko hugged Henry, lingering a long time. Looking up, Henry could see the fear in her eyes. Not just for herself--for her entire family. He felt it too. They said a wordless good-bye before splitting up, each running in a different direction of home.

Parents

(1942)

Within a week, the evacuation of Bainbridge Island was already old news-

-within a month it was almost forgotten, on the surface, anyway--everyone was doing their best to go about business as usual. Even Henry felt the restless calm as he and Keiko made plans for lunch on Saturday. She had surprised him by calling his home. Henry's father had answered the phone. As soon as she spoke in English, he handed the receiver to Henry. His father didn't ask who it was, just asked if it was a girl--knowing full well the answer.

I guess he just wanted to hear it from my lips, thought Henry. "Yes, it's a girl" was all he offered. The words came out in meaningless English, but he nodded and explained,

"She's my friend." His father looked confused, yet seemingly resigned to the fact that his son was practically in his teens. Back in China,
the Old Country
, marriages happened as early as thirteen or fourteen. Sometimes they were arranged at birth, but only for the very poor or the very rich.

His father would probably be more concerned if he knew the purpose of the call--to meet Keiko's family. No, Henry realized,
concerned
was too gentle a word, his father would be livid.

Henry, on the other hand, was less worried until he realized that lunch might qualify as a date--a thought that made his stomach churn and his palms sweat. He reassured himself that it was nothing fancy, just lunch with the Okabes.

At school, things seemed abnormally normal--so restrained and peaceful that he and Keiko didn't know what to think. The other children, and even the teachers, seemed unaware of the Japanese exodus from Bainbridge Island. The day had come and gone in relative quiet. Almost like it never happened. Lost in the news of the war--that the U.S.

and Filipino troops were losing at Bataan and that a Japanese submarine had shelled an oil refinery somewhere in California.

Henry's father had become more adamant than ever that Henry wear his button.

"On the outside--wear it on the outside, where everyone can see it!" his father demanded in Cantonese as Henry was heading out the door.

Henry unzipped his coat and left it open so the button was plainly visible, slumping his shoulders, awaiting his father's stern approval. He had never seen his father so serious before. His parents even went one step further, each wearing an identical button. Some sort of collective effort, Henry reasoned. He understood his parents'

concern for his own well-being, but there was no way that they'd be mistaken for Japanese-- because they rarely left Chinatown. And if they did, there were simply too many people to round up in Seattle. Thousands.

Henry and Keiko's plan was to meet in front of the Panama Hotel. It had been built thirty years earlier by Sabro Ozasa--some architect that Henry's father had mentioned once or twice. Japanese, but of some renown, according to Henry's father anyway, who rarely acknowledged anything in the Japanese community in a positive light. This being the rare exception.