Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet (33 page)

The Hearthstone Inn was one of the nicer nursing homes in West Seattle, nice to Henry anyway--not that he was an expert on nursing homes. He was more of an expert on the ones he didn't like. Those cold, gray places--like those state institutions that he'd fought so hard to keep Ethel out of. Those small-windowed, cinder-block buildings where people gathered to die, alone. The Hearthstone, by contrast, was more like a rustic hunting lodge or a resort than a rest home.

The entrance featured a chandelier made from deer antlers. A nice touch, Henry thought as he found his way to the one wing he was somewhat familiar with. He didn't bother stopping at the nurses' station. Instead, he went directly to Room 42, knocking lightly just below the nameplate that read "Sheldon Thomas."

There was no answer, but Henry peeked in anyway. Sheldon slept half-upright in his elevated hospital bed. His once-robust cheeks, which had ballooned when he played his sax, now simply draped the bones of his face. An IV ran to his wrist, where it was taped along the weathered, crumpled-paper-bag skin of his forearm. A clear plastic tube went around his ears and hung just below his nose, whistling oxygen into his lungs.

A young nurse, someone new whom he didn't recognize, came up to Henry and patted him on the arm. "Are you a friend or a family member?" She whispered the question in his ear, trying not to disturb Sheldon.

The question hung there like a beautiful chord, ringing in the air. Henry was Chinese, Sheldon obviously wasn't. They looked nothing alike. Nothing at all. "I'm distant family," Henry said.

The answer seemed sufficient. "We were just about to wake him up to give him some meds," the nurse said. "So now's a good time to go on in for a visit. He'll probably be waking up soon anyway. If you need anything, I'll be right outside."

Henry closed the door halfway. A Lava lamp with a bright purple bow on top was the only light on in the room, aside from the red lights on the various monitors hooked up to his old friend. The curtains were open, and light from the cloudy early afternoon twilight warmed up the room.

A gold 45 record hung on the wall in a dusty frame, a single Sheldon's band had recorded in the late fifties. Alongside were photos of Sheldon and his family--children and grandchildren. Drawings in crayon and marker dotted the bathroom door and the wall just beneath where the television hung from the ceiling. A bedside table was covered with small piles of photos and sheet music.

Henry sat in the well-worn chair next to the bed and looked at a recent birthday card. Sheldon had turned seventy-four last week.

One of the many monitors began beeping, then went quiet again.

Henry watched as Sheldon's mouth opened first in a silent yawn, then his eyes, blinking and adjusting to the light. He looked at Henry and smiled an old gold-toothed grin. "Well, well ... How long have you been hanging out?" he asked, stretching and rubbing his balding pate, flattening out the white hair he had left.

"Just got here."

"Is it Sunday already?" Sheldon asked, waking up, shifting in his hospital bed.

In the months since Ethel had died, Henry had made a habit of coming over on Sunday afternoons to watch the Seahawks game with Sheldon. A nurse would help Sheldon into a wheelchair, and they'd go down to the big rec room. The one with the giant rear-projection TV But in recent weeks, Sheldon hadn't had the energy. Now they just watched the game in the quiet of his room. Occasionally Henry would sneak in a bag of buffalo wings, clam chowder from Ivar's, or another of Sheldon's favorite foods that the nurses wouldn't normally allow. But not today.

It wasn't Seahawk Sunday and he had brought something different to share with Sheldon. "I came early this week," Henry said. Loud enough so Sheldon could hear without his hearing aids in.

"What, you think I ain't gonna make it to Sunday?" Sheldon laughed.

Henry just smiled at his old friend. "I found something I thought you would like to have. Something I've been looking for--something you've been looking for--for years."

Sheldon's wide, bloodshot eyes looked at Henry; youthful wonder filled out his sagging face. It was a look Henry hadn't seen in a long time.

"You got a surprise for me, Henry?"

Henry nodded, smiling. He knew that the old Oscar Holden record meant as much to Sheldon as it did to himself. Maybe for different reasons, but it meant the world to each of them. Oscar Holden had given Sheldon his big break back in 1942. He'd played with Holden for a year after the war ended and the club reopened. Then Sheldon had formed his own band when Oscar passed away years later. The street cred Oscar gave him landed him a lot of long-term gigs and even earned him a modest recording contract with a local label.

"Well, I ain't getting any younger, and Christmas is coming," Sheldon said.

"Now I found it, but there's one problem--it's going to need a little restoration before you can play it."

"That don't matter none." As Sheldon spoke, a shaky finger tapped his forehead.

"I still play that song in my head every night. I've heard it. I was there, remember?"

Henry reached into his bag and pulled out the old 78 record, still in its original sleeve. He held it out to show Sheldon, reading him the words on the record label as his friend pawed the side table for his reading glasses. "Oscar Holden and ..."

"The Midnight Blue." Sheldon finished Henry's sentence.

Henry handed the record to his old friend, who draped it across his chest. His eyes closed as if he were listening to the music play somewhere, sometime, long ago.

Waiting

(1942)

Henry woke up on a dingy, straw-filled mattress on the floor, hearing the rain leak through the roof and plip-plop into a half-full laundry basin in the middle of what was the Okabes' living room. To his right was a curtained area where Keiko and her little brother slept on one side, and her parents on the other.

He could hear Keiko's mother snoring softly, along with the pinging of the rain on the tin roof--a relaxing, melodic sound that made Henry feel like he was still dreaming.

Maybe it was a dream. Maybe he was really at home in his own bed, with his window overlooking Canton Alley, the window cracked open despite the wishes of his mother.

Henry closed his eyes and inhaled, smelling the rain but not the fishy, salty air of Seattle.

He was here. He had made it all the way to Minidoka. He'd made it even farther, all the way to Keiko's
house.

She didn't want him to leave, and he didn't want to go. So he'd met Keiko on the other side of the visitors' building. Everything was designed to keep people from escaping, not to keep people from sneaking in. And much to Henry's surprise, he didn't even have to try very hard. He'd just told a surprised yet approving Sheldon that he would meet him the next day, grabbed a stack of schoolbooks being carried by a group of Quaker schoolteachers, and followed them in past the guards. For once in his life, there was a benefit to Caucasian people thinking that he was one of
them--
that he was Japanese.

Henry rolled over, rubbing his eyes, and froze midyawn. Keiko was lying in her bed, facing him, her chin propped up on her arms and her pillow, staring at him. Her hair was messy, hanging down and sticking out at odd angles, yet somehow it just worked.

She smiled, and Henry came alive. He couldn't believe he was here. Even more than that, he couldn't believe that her parents were okay with him being here. His would have thrown him out probably. But she'd said it would be okay and somehow it was. Her parents had looked flattered and strangely honored to have a guest in their makeshift home, surrounded by barbed wire, searchlights, and machine-gun towers.

When Keiko had walked in, Henry could barely bring himself to step through the door. Her parents were bewildered and flattered that Henry had come all this way, but somehow, they didn't seem
too
surprised. He gathered that Keiko hadn't forgotten about him. In fact, it may have been quite the opposite.

Henry turned around so he was closer to Keiko, wrapping the hand-sewn quilt around him as he lay down facing her. She was a few feet away, brushing the hair from her eyes.

"I dreamed you came to see me last night," Keiko whispered. "I dreamed you came all this way because you missed me. And when I woke up, I was so sure it was a dream, and then I looked over and there you were."

"I can't believe I'm here. I can't believe your parents--"

"Henry, this isn't about us. I mean it is, but they don't define you by the button you wear. They define you by what you do, by what your actions say about you. And coming here, despite your parents, says a lot to them--and me. And they're Americans first. They don't see you as the enemy. They see you as a person."

The words were a strange comfort. Was this acceptance? Was that what this was?

The sense of belonging was foreign to him, something alien and awkward, like writing with your left hand or putting your pants on inside out. Henry looked at her parents sleeping. They seemed more restful here, in this cold, wet place, than his own parents in their warm, cozy home.

"I'll have to leave today. Sheldon and I have a bus to catch tonight."

"I know. I knew you couldn't stay forever. Besides, one of the other families might turn us in. You're a secret we wouldn't be able to keep forever."

"Can you keep a secret?" Henry asked.

Keiko sat up. That must have got her attention, Henry thought as she fluffed the pillow in her lap, pulling her blanket around her shoulders. She held up two fingers.

"Scout's honor, Kemosabe."

"I came here thinking I'd be sneaking you out, not you sneaking me in."

"And how were you going to do that?"

"I don't know. I guess I thought I'd give you my button, like at the train station--"

"You are the sweetest, Henry. And I wish I could, I really do. But you're going to be in enough trouble when you get home. If you came home with me, you'd really get it.

We'd both be thrown in jail.

"Do

you
want to know a secret?"

Henry liked this game, nodding.

"I would go. So don't ask, because I would go back with you. I'd try anyway."

Henry was flattered. Touched even. The meaning sank in.

"Then I guess I'll just wait for you."

"And I'll write," Keiko said.

"This can't last forever, right?"

They both turned toward the window, looking out at the nearby buildings through the rain-streaked glass. Keiko lost her smile.

"I don't care how long. I'll wait for you," Henry said.

Keiko's mother stopped snoring and stirred, waking up. She looked at Henry, confused for a moment, then smiled brightly. "Good morning, Henry. How's it feel to be a prisoner for a day?"

Henry looked at Keiko. "Best day of my life."

Keiko found her smile all over again.

Breakfast with Keiko's family was rice and
tamago--
eggs, hard-boiled. It wasn't fancy, but it was filling, and Henry enjoyed it immensely. The Okabes seemed happy to be settled into someplace more permanent than the ramshackle horse stalls of the Puyallup Fairgrounds. Keiko's mother made a pot of tea while her father read a newspaper printed inside the camp. Aside from the simple confines and their modest clothing, they seemed like any other American family.

"Is it nice not having to go to the mess hall all the time?" Henry tried his best to make polite table conversation in English.

"On rainy days, it's always nice," Keiko's mother said, smiling between bites.

"I still can't believe I'm here. Thank you."

"There are almost four thousand of us here now, Henry, and you're our first guest, we're delighted," Mr. Okabe said. "There's supposed to be another six thousand coming in the next month, can you believe that?"

Ten thousand? It was a number that still seemed unimaginable to Henry. "With that many people, what's to keep you from just taking over the camp?"

Mr. Okabe poured his wife another cup of tea. "Ah, that's a very profound question, Henry. And it's one I've thought about. There are probably two hundred guards and army personnel--and there are so many of us. Even if you counted just the men, we'd have a whole regiment in here. You know what keeps us from doing just that?"

Henry shook his head. He had no idea.

"Loyalty.

We're

still
loyal to the United States of America. Why? Because we too are Americans. We don't agree, but we will show our loyalty by our obedience. Do you understand, Henry?"

All Henry could do was sigh and nod. He knew that concept all too well.

Painfully well. Obedience as a sign of loyalty, as an expression of honor, even as an act of love, was a well-worn theme in his household. Especially between him and his father.

But that wasn't the case now, was it? Did I cause my father's stroke? Was it brought on by my disobedience? As much as Henry reasoned otherwise, he had a hard time convincing himself the answer was no. His guilt remained.

"But even that's not enough for them," Keiko's mother added.

"It's true, in a way," Mr. Okabe said, sipping his tea. "There is a rumor that the War Relocation Authority plans to have each male seventeen and over sign an oath of loyalty to the United States."