Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet (40 page)

"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.

Tickets

(1986)

Stepping 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 okay?"

"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.

Sheldon's Song

(1986)

Sheldon didn't have much time left, Henry knew for certain. With his friend's failing health, the desire to go to New York to find Keiko would have to be put on hold. It had been forty years, he could wait awhile longer--he would have to wait.

At the Hearthstone Inn, Sheldon had enjoyed a steady stream of visitors--family, friends, and former co-workers. Even a few loyal music fans who recognized his place in the paved-over history of Seattle's once-vibrant jazz scene.

But now most of his well-wishers had come and gone. They'd paid their last respects to a man they loved. Just his family remained, along with the minister from Sheldon's church, trying his best to comfort the family.

"How is he?" Henry asked Minnie, a silver-haired woman ten years the junior of the old sax man.

She hugged Henry in the doorway and let go, but still held on to his elbows. Her wrinkled eyes puffy, showing the redness from so much crying, her cheeks still damp. "It won't be long now, Henry. We know that. I know that. We're just so ready for him to have his peace, to not be in any pain," she said.

Henry felt a quiver in his lip, something that surprised even him. He bit his tongue and stood up taller, not wanting his tears to add to Minnie's grief

"Is this your doing? The music, I mean? The record?"

Henry felt horrible. He'd taken the record, and now everyone knew it was missing. He held it tight under his arm, beneath his coat to keep it out of the misty rain that filled the Seattle air. "I ... I can explain ..."

"No need to explain, Henry, I mean"--she was searching for the right words--"it's amazing, like a miracle, really. Listen. Can you hear it? It sounds like a miracle to me."

And for the first time in forty years, Henry heard it. Playing in Sheldon's room was the long forgotten song he'd first heard in the Black Elks Club. The Oscar Holden song he and Keiko had shared. Their song-- but Sheldon's too. And it was playing, loud and clear.

Walking into the room, Henry saw a woman standing there. In his mind's eye, he thought it might be Keiko, her caring smile was almost as bright. But it was Samantha, sitting next to an old portable record player, the boxed kind you could check out of the public library years ago. On it spun a complete vinyl recording of Oscar Holden's lost classic "The Alley Cat Strut," the song he'd dedicated to Henry and Keiko.

Sheldon lay unconscious, drifting in and out of that gray, empty space between life and whatever fate had in store for him next. Beside him were an assorted collection of kids and grandchildren, many of whom Henry recognized from earlier meetings or from the photos Sheldon had proudly shared when he and Henry would get together over the years.

"I like Grampa's record," a little girl confided. Henry estimated her to be about six, a great-granddaughter perhaps.

"It's wonderful, Henry," Samantha said, smiling with bright eyes wet but hopeful.

"You should have seen him smile when we put it on and played it the first time. Like he'd been wanting to hear this, needing to hear this, all these years."

"But ..." Henry took out the broken record he held in his coat. "Where?"

"She
sent it." Samantha said it with a glowing reverence, like a bit player in awe of a featured performer about to set foot on the main stage. "Marty found her living on the East Coast, and she asked about you, asked about everyone, Sheldon too. And when she found out, she sent the record immediately. Can you believe that? She kept it all those years, the Holy Grail you knew existed." She handed Henry a note. "This came for you."