Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet (37 page)

Henry's father looked at him for a moment, then cast his frustrated eyes on the radio, as though Henry were a bill collector or a houseguest who had long overstayed his welcome.

"I'll get to that," Henry said, eyeing the radio. He left it off to make sure his father was listening, undistracted. "I just want to talk about something first." In his hands was the travel scrip from the China Mutual Steam Navigation Co.--his passage to China.

Henry let a moment of silence exist between the two of them. A period on the end of the sentence of their whole fractured father-son relationship.

"I'll go." As the words punched the air, Henry wasn't sure if his father heard him.

He held the travel envelope up for his father to see. "I said, I'll go."

Henry's father looked up at his son, waiting.

Henry had considered his father's offer to go back to China to finish his schooling.

Now that he was older, his time there would only be a year or two. Traveling overseas by steamship and starting life again, far away from everything that reminded him of Keiko, seemed like a reasonable alternative to moping up and down the crowded streets of South King.

Still, part of him hated to give in to his father. His father was so stubborn, so bigoted. Yet the more Henry thought about it, the more he realized maybe there was something good to be had from the whole sad affair.

"I'll go, but only on this condition," Henry said.

Now he really had his father's attention, weak and frail as it was.

"I know the Panama Hotel is for sale. I know who wants to buy it. And since you're an elder member of the downtown associations, I know you have some say in the matter." Henry took a deep breath. "If you can prevent the sale, I will do as you wish, I will go and finish my schooling in China. I'll finish the rest of the year here in Seattle, then take the August steamer to Canton." Henry examined his father's paralyzed expression; the stroke had taken so much of who he was already. "I'll go."

Henry's father's hand began to tremble in his lap; his cocked head straightened on the frail stem of his weakened neck. His lips quivered as they formed to make sounds, to speak words Henry hadn't heard in years.
"Do jeh"--
thank you. Then he asked,
"Why?"

"Don't thank me," Henry said in Chinese. "I'm not doing this for
you
, I'm doing it for me, for the girl, the one you hated so much. You got your wish. Now
I
wish something. I want that hotel left as is. Unsold." Henry didn't quite know why. Or did he?

The hotel was a living, breathing memory for him. And it was a place his father wanted gone, so having it spared somehow suited him. Somehow balanced the scales in his mind.

Henry would go to China. He'd start over. And maybe, if that old hotel were still around, Nihonmachi could start over too. Not for him. Not for Keiko. But because it needed a place to start from. Sometime in the future. After the war. After the bittersweet memories of him and Keiko were long since paved over, he'd have one reminder left. A placeholder that would be there for him sometime in the future.

The next day, Henry mailed his last letter to Keiko. She hadn't written in six months. And then she'd only talked about how much she loved school there, going to sock hops and formal dances. Life for her was full and abundant. She didn't seem to need him.

Still, he wanted to see her. In fact, his hopes were high that it might actually happen. And who knew, maybe he would have a moment with her again. Word was that many families had been released as early as January. And since Minidoka was known as a camp for "loyal internees," Keiko might be out right now. If not, she'd be coming home soon. Germany was losing. The war on both fronts would be ending sooner rather than later.

Henry hadn't written in several weeks, but this letter was different.

This letter wasn't just a good-bye--it was a farewell. He was wishing her a happy life, and letting her know that he'd be leaving for China in a few months, that if she might be returning soon, he'd meet her, one last time. In front of the Panama Hotel. Henry chose a date in March--a month away. If she were coming home soon, she'd get the invitation in time. And if she were still in the camp and needed to write back, there was time for that as well. It was the least he could do. After all, he still loved her. He'd waited over two years for her; he could wait one more month, couldn't he?

The clerk took the letter and attached the twelve-cent overland carriage postage.

"I hope she knows how much you care about her. I hope you tell her." She held up the envelope and then reverently set it on a pile of outgoing letters. "I hope she's worth the wait, Henry. I've seen you come and go for all these months. She's a lucky girl, even if she doesn't write back as often as you'd like."

Or ever, Henry thought, smiling to hide his sadness. "This is probably the last time you'll see me, 'cause this is my last letter to that address."

The clerk looked crestfallen, like she'd been following a soap opera that had taken a turn for the worse. "Oh ... why? I hear the camps are sending people home left and right. She might be coming home soon, to Seattle, right?"

Henry looked out the window at the crowded streets of Chinatown. If people
were
leaving the camps, few were returning to their original homes. Because they weren't there any longer. And besides, no one would rent to them. Stores still refused to sell them goods. The Japanese were no longer welcome in Japantown.

"I don't think she's coming back," Henry said and turned to the postal clerk and smiled. "And I don't think I can wait any longer. I'm going to Canton to finish my schooling in a few months. Time to look forward. Not back."

"Finishing your Chinese schooling?"

Henry nodded, but it felt almost like an apology. For giving in, and for giving up.

"Your parents must be so proud then--"

Henry cut her off. "I'm not doing it for them. Anyway, nice knowing you." He forced a polite smile and turned to the door, looking back, detecting more than a hint of sadness in the young clerk's face. Some things aren't meant to last, Henry thought.

One month later, just as Henry had said he would, he waited on the steps of the Panama Hotel. From his vantage point, the view had completely changed. Gone were the paper lanterns, and the neon signs for the Uji-Toko Barber and the Ochi Photography Studio. In their place stood Plymouth Tailors and the Cascade Diner. But the Panama remained as a bulwark against the rising tide of opportunistic development.

Henry brushed the pants of his suit and straightened his tie. It was too warm for the jacket, so he kept it in his lap, occasionally brushing the hair that hung across his face to the side as the wind blew it back again. The suit, the one his father had bought and his mother had tailored, fit him well--he'd finally grown into it. Soon he'd be wearing it on his voyage to China. To live with relatives and attend a new school. A place where he'd be
special
all over again.

Sitting there, watching handsome couples stroll by arm in arm, Henry allowed himself to miss Keiko. He'd pushed those feelings aside months ago, when her letters stopped, knowing that time and space don't always make the heart remember--sometimes just the opposite. At the thought of Keiko not coming back, or the more dreaded yet all-too-real alternative--that she'd forgotten or moved on--Henry grew less worried and simply began to despair. After school, sometimes alone, sometimes with Sheldon, he'd walk down Maynard Avenue, looking at what was left of the once vibrant Nihonmachi.

The time he'd spent there, walking Keiko home, sitting and watching her paint or draw in her sketchbook--it all seemed like a lifetime ago, someone else's lifetime. He didn't really think she'd show up. But he had to try, to make one last noble gesture, so when he boarded that ship, he could leave knowing he'd given it his all. One last hope. Hope was all he had, and like Mr. Okabe had said as he and his family had left on that train almost three years earlier, hope can get you through anything.

In his suit pocket was his father's silver pocket watch. Henry drew it out and opened it, listening to the sweeping, ticking sound to make sure it was working. It was. It was almost noon, the time he'd said he'd be here--waiting. He looked at his reflection in the polished crystal of the pocket watch. He looked older. More grown-up. He looked like his father when his father had been in his prime, and it surprised him. The seconds ticked by, and in the distance he could hear the noon whistle blow at Boeing Field and then an echo on the wind as Todd Shipyards signaled their lunchtime hour.

Time had come and gone. He was done waiting.

Then he heard footsteps. The unmistakable
clip-clop
of a woman's heels against the pavement. A long, slender shadow bled across the steps and blanketed his reflection in the watch, revealing the second hand and the hour hand, straight up, twelve o'clock.

She was standing there. A young woman, in fine black leather heels, bare legs, a long blue pleated skirt that rocked back and forth from her hips in the cool springtime air.

Henry couldn't bear to look up. He'd waited so long. He held his breath and closed his eyes, listening-- listening to the sounds on the busy street, the cars cruising by, the chatter of the street vendors, the wailing of a saxophone on some nearby street corner. He could smell her jasmine perfume.

He opened his eyes, looking up to see a short-sleeved blouse, white, with tiny blue speckles and pearl buttons.

Looking into her face, he saw her. For a brief moment, he saw Keiko's face.

Older, her long black hair parted to one side, wearing a touch of makeup, just enough to define her supple cheeks, something he'd never seen before. She stepped to the side, and Henry blinked, staring into the sun for a moment before she blocked out the glare and he

could see her again.

It wasn't Keiko.

He could see her clearly. She was young and beautiful, but she was
Chinese.
Not Japanese. And she held a letter in her hands, offering it to him. "I'm so sorry, Henry."

It was the clerk, the young woman from the post office. The one Henry had said hello to for over two years, coming and going, mailing letters to Minidoka. Henry had never seen her dressed up before. She looked so different.

"This came back, unopened, last week. It's marked 'Return to Sender.' I'm afraid she's no longer there ... or ..."

Henry took the letter and studied the ugly black return stamp, which had stepped on the address he'd so lovingly written in his best penmanship. The ink had bled across the face of the envelope, streaking like tears. When he turned it over, he noticed the letter had been opened.

"I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have, but I just felt so bad. And then I hated the thought of you sitting here, waiting for someone who was never going to come."

Henry felt numb with disappointment, and a little confused. "So you came to bring me this?"

He settled into the sidewalk and looked into her eyes, seeing them in a way he'd never seen them before, noticing how pained she looked. "Actually, I came to bring you
this.
" She handed Henry a bundle of starfire lilies, tied with a piece of blue ribbon. "I see you buying them in the market once in a while. I guess I figured they were your favorite, and maybe someone should give
you
some for a change."

Stunned, Henry took the flowers, looking at each one, inhaling the sweet fragrance, feeling the weight of them in his hands. He couldn't help but notice her earnest, hopeful, fragile smile.

"Thank you." Henry was touched. His disappointment melted away. "I ... I don't even know your name."

Her smile brightened. "I'm Ethel ... Ethel Chen."

V-J Day

(1945)

Five months. That was how long Henry had been dating Ethel.

She was a sophomore at Garfield High School and lived up the hill on Eighth Avenue with her family, of whom Henry's parents immediately approved. In many ways, Henry felt like Ethel was a second chance. He'd hoped, even prayed for Keiko to come back, or at least to write and explain where she'd gone and why. Not knowing hurt almost as much as losing her--because he never really knew what had happened. Life got complicated, he supposed. Yet in some strange, loving way, he hoped she was happy wherever she was and with whoever she might be with.

Henry on the other hand was with Ethel now. And Sheldon from time to time, of course--as always. Still, Henry could never forget about Keiko; in fact, each morning he'd wake up, think of her, and ache for what he'd lost. Then he would remind himself of Ethel and imagine a time, years from now, when he might actually forget about Keiko for a day, a week, a month, maybe longer.

On a park bench at the corner of South King and Maynard, he and Sheldon sat and soaked up the warm August afternoon. His friend didn't play the streets much anymore. His regular gig at the Black Elks Club paid the bills, and the streets just weren't the same, Sheldon complained. He'd even headed north along the waterfront, looking for new corners to play, new tourists to play for, but his heart wasn't in it. The club was where he belonged now.