Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet (26 page)

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 burned.

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?

Steps

(1986)

After dinner, Henry insisted on doing the dishes. Samantha had done a marvelous job. When Henry walked in, he half-expected to find take-out boxes from the Junbo Seafood Restaurant hidden beneath the sink or at least oyster-sauce-stained recipe books strewn about. Instead, the kitchen was neat and tidy--she'd washed the pans as she cooked, the way Henry did. He dried and put away what few dishes remained and put some serving platters in the sink to soak.

When he poked his head out to thank her, it was too late. She'd already kicked off her shoes and was asleep on the couch, snoring gently. Henry looked at the half-empty bottle of plum wine and smiled before covering her up with a green afghan Ethel had knitted. Ethel had always been crafty, but knitting had become a necessary pastime. It gave her something to do with her hands while she sat there during chemotherapy. Henry had been amazed that she could knit so well with an IV in her arm, but she didn't seem to mind.

Henry felt a draft and noticed the front door was open. He could see his son's silhouette behind the screen door. Moths flitted in the porch light, pinging against the bulb, helplessly drawn to something they could never have.

"Why don't you stay the night?" Henry asked, as he opened the screen door. He sat down next to Marty, waiting for an answer. "She's asleep, and it's too late to be out driving."

"Says who?" Marty snapped back.

Henry frowned a little. He knew his son hated it when he appeared to be bossing him around, even if the offer was genial. These were the times when he and Marty seemed to argue for the sake of arguing. And no one ever won.

"I'm just saying that it's late ..."

"Sorry, Pops," Marty said, checking his reaction. "I think I'm just tired. This year has been a rough one." He palmed an unlit cigarette. Ethel had finally succumbed to the cancer when it spread to her lungs. Henry had quit smoking years ago, but Marty still struggled--having quit when his mother became ill but sneaking smokes now and then.

Henry knew how guilty his son felt about smoking while his mom was dying of lung cancer.

Marty tossed the cigarette into the street. "I can't help thinking about Mom and how much things have changed the last few years."

Henry nodded, looking out across the sidewalk. He could see into the front window of his neighbors' house. Their TV was on, and they were watching a Hispanic variety show of some kind. The neighborhood keeps changing, Henry thought as he looked down the block past the Korean bakery and a dry cleaner run by a nice Armenian family.

"Can I ask you something, Pops?"

Henry nodded again.

"Did you keep Mom at home to spite me?"

Henry watched a low-ride pickup truck boom down the alleyway. "What do you think?" he asked, knowing the answer but surprised that his son would ask such a direct question.

Marty stood up and walked to the cigarette he'd tossed into the street. Henry thought he might pick up the dirty cigarette and light it. Instead Marty stepped on it, grinding it to pieces. "I used to think that. It didn't make sense to me, you know? I mean, this isn't exactly a plush neighborhood--we could have put her someplace with a view, with a rec room." Marty shook his head. "I think I get it now. It doesn't matter how
nice
home is--it just matters that
it feels
like home."

Henry listened to the booming truck in the distance.

"Did Yay Yay know about Keiko?" Marty asked. "Did Mom know?"

Henry stretched and sat back. "Your grandfather knew, because I told him." He looked at his son, trying to gauge his reaction. "He stopped talking to me after that ..."

Henry had told his son little about his childhood, and stories of Marty's grandfather were seldom shared. Marty rarely asked. Most of what he knew he'd gleaned from his mother.

"But what about Mom?"

Henry let out a big sigh and rubbed his cheeks where he'd forgotten to shave in the commotion of the last few days. The stubble reminded him of all those months, years caring for Ethel. How days would pass without his ever leaving the house, how he'd shave for no real reason, just out of habit. Then he'd occasionally let himself go--living with someone who didn't notice, who couldn't notice.

"I'm not sure what your mom knew. We didn't talk about it."

"You didn't talk about old flames?" Marty asked.

"What old flames?" Henry laughed, a little. "I was the first boy she'd ever dated. It was different back then--not like now."

"But you had one, evidently." Marty held out a sketchbook that had been sitting on the steps next to his jacket.

Henry took it, flipping through the pages, touching the impressions where Keiko's pencil had danced across the paper. Feeling the texture of the drawings, he wondered why she had left her sketchbooks. Why she'd left everything behind. Why he had too.

All these years, Henry had loved Ethel. He had been a loyal and dedicated husband, but he would walk blocks out of his way to avoid the Panama Hotel and the memory of Keiko. Had he known her belongings were still there ...

Henry handed the sketchbook back to his son.

"You don't want it?" Marty asked.

Henry shrugged his shoulders. "I have the record. That's enough."
A broken
record
, he thought. Two halves that will never play again.

Sheldon's Record

(1942)

When Monday came, Henry was still beaming from finding Keiko and seeing Chaz hounded by the police. There was a bounce in his step as he left school and ran, walked, then ran some more, weaving around the smiling fishmongers of South King all the way over to South Jackson. People on the streets seemed happy. President Roosevelt had announced that Lieutenant Colonel James Doolittle had led a squadron of B-25s on a bombing raid of Tokyo. It seemed that morale had been boosted everywhere.

When asked where the planes had launched from, the president had joked, telling reporters they'd come from
Shangri-La--
which happened to be the name of a jazz club Henry wandered by on his way to find Sheldon.

Locating him this late in the afternoon was an easy task. Henry just followed his ears, homing in on the bluesy notes coming from Sheldon's instrument, a tune Henry recognized--called "Writin' Paper Blues." It was one Sheldon had played in the club with Oscar. Most appropriate considering Henry still had to round up stationery for Keiko, among other things.

Plunked down on an apartment step near where Sheldon was performing, Henry spotted a small mountain of change in the open sax case. That, and a vinyl record, a 78, propped up on a little wooden display. It was the same kind Henry's mother used in the kitchen to display what few pieces of fine china they could afford. A small, hand-painted sign read "As featured on Oscar Holden's new disk record."

To Henry, the crowd looked about the same, but to his pleasant surprise, they clapped with much more vigor as Sheldon played his heart out. They clapped harder as he ended on a sweet, stinging note that echoed in the clatter and din of nickels, dimes, and quarters pinging into the sax case. The mound of coins was more money than Henry had ever seen, in pocket change anyway.

Sheldon tipped his hat to the last of the crowd as they dispersed. "Henry, where you been, young sir? I haven't seen you running the streets on a weekend for two, three weeks now."

It was true. Henry had been so busy at Camp Harmony, and hiding that fact from his parents, that he hadn't seen Sheldon since E-day He felt a little guilty about his absences. "I've picked up a weekend job--at Camp Harmony, it's that place--"

"I know. I know all about
that
place--been in the paper now for weeks. But how--tell me, how on God's green earth did this bit of intrigue come about ... this job?"

It was a long story. And Henry didn't even know the ending. "Can I tell you later?

I'm running errands and I'm running late--
and I need a favor.
"

Sheldon was fanning himself with his hat. "Money? Take what you need," he said, pointing to the case filled with silvery coins. Henry tried to guess how much was in there, twenty dollars at least, in half-dollars alone. But that wasn't the flat, round object Henry needed.

"I need your record."

There was a moment of stunned silence. In the distance Henry heard drums from a rehearsal upstairs at one of the other clubs.

"That's funny, that sounded a lot like 'I need your record,' " Sheldon said. "It sounded a lot like 'I need your
last
record.' The only record I own--of my
own
playing.

The only record that was left at the music store since Oscar sold them out like hotcakes just last week."

Henry looked at his friend, biting his lip.

"Is that what I heard?" Sheldon asked, seemingly joking, but Henry wasn't entirely sure.

"It's for Keiko. For her birthday ..."

"Owwww" Sheldon looked like he'd been stabbed. His eyes closed and his mouth screwed up in a grimace of pain. "You got me. You got me right here." He patted his heart and cracked a toothy smile at Henry.

"Does this mean I can have it? I can replace it. Keiko and I bought one together, but she wasn't allowed to bring it to the camp and now it's stored somewhere, I can't get to it--it's probably lost now."

Sheldon put his hat back on and adjusted the reed on his sax. "You can have it.

Only because it's for a
higher
power."

Henry didn't pick up on Sheldon's gibe, otherwise he would have blushed horribly and denied that
love
was driving him in any way imaginable.

"Thank you. I'll pay you back someday," he said.

"You go play that thing. You go play that thing in that camp down there. You go.

I kinda like the sound of that," Sheldon said. "It'd be the first time I ever played in a
white
establishment--even if it's for a bunch of Japanese folks, bit of a captive audience."