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

A
fter breakfast, Henry helped his mother carry the laundry upstairs from where she’d hung it to dry in Canton Alley and then sat next to their old Emerson radio, listening to
Texaco Star Theater
, a variety show – not the usual news program his father listened to. Henry looked up as his mother wheeled his father into the living room and next to his old reading chair. Behind her ear was a fresh starfire lily that Henry had picked up at the market earlier.

‘Put it on your
father’s
show,’ she implored in Cantonese.

Henry just turned the radio down, then off completely with a hard click.

‘I need to talk to him about something. Something important, do you mind?’ Henry asked as politely as possible. His mother just threw up her hands and walked away. He knew she didn’t see the use in his having these one-way conversations.

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 goodbye – 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.’

F
ive 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.

‘I’m gonna miss seeing you around these parts, Henry,’ Sheldon said, cracking a roasted peanut, tossing the shells into the street, offering the bag to his friend.

Henry took a handful. ‘I’ll be back. This is home. Right here. I’m going to China to learn all I can, see some long-lost relatives, but that’s not who I am. This place is who I am. This is home for me. Still, it’s hard to believe that in one more week I’ll set sail for southern China and a village filled with relatives I’ve never seen with names I couldn’t even pronounce.’

‘You do sense the irony now, don’t you?’ Sheldon asked, spitting a piece of peanut shell out the side of his mouth.

‘That I waited for her – for Keiko – and now I’m asking Ethel to wait for me? I know, it doesn’t exactly make sense, but she said she’d wait, and I believe her. She will. My parents love her. And as much as I hate to see my father so happy under the circumstances, he is. But he did his part. I told him I’d go if he’d do me a favor in return, and he kept his word. He wants to talk all the time now, but I just don’t know …’

‘About your old man?’

‘We lived under the same roof, but didn’t speak for two, almost three years; at least he didn’t speak to me, didn’t acknowledge my presence. And now he wants his proud son back, and I don’t know how to feel. So I just let Ethel talk to him, and that seems to work.’

Sheldon cracked open another peanut, shaking his head, sucking the salt off the shell before tossing it. ‘Speaking of …’

Henry looked up to see Ethel running across the street, crossing into traffic.

They had begun dating the day Henry waited at the Panama Hotel. She’d bought him lunch, and he’d bought her dinner. Although they went to different schools they saw each other as much as they could. They spent all day together on Saturdays – walking arm in arm along the waterfront, or catching the No. 6 bus to Woodland Park, splashing in the wading pools, and chasing each other through the zoological gardens. They even shared their first kiss atop the Smith Tower, thirty-five stories up, watching the sun set over the city, lighting the harbor, shadowy mountains in the distance. Henry kept the admission ticket, a worn stub for fifty cents that reminded him of that perfect evening, in his wallet.

One place Henry never took Ethel, though, was the Black Elks Club. He never even mentioned the smoking joint where Oscar Holden held court and Sheldon played backup. That memory was special to Henry, something he couldn’t easily share. Sheldon never asked about it. He seemed to understand without needing an explanation.

As Henry stood up, she threw her arms around him,
squeezing him, shaking him, looking frantic and ecstatic at the same time.

‘Hey … hey, what’s the hurry? Did I miss something? What’s the matter, are you OK?’ Henry said as she tried to get the words out.

‘Shhhh …’ was all she could muster, holding Henry’s hand. She was almost hysterical, blissful in her abandon. ‘Listen! Listen! Can you hear it?’ She reached out and took Sheldon’s hand as well.

Henry looked down the street in stunned amazement. All the cars on South King had stopped, frozen. Some right in the middle of the intersection with Seventh Avenue. People were running into the streets, pouring out of shops and office buildings.

In the distance, everywhere, Henry heard bells ringing, then cars honking. The commuter ferries that sat in their terminal moorings sounded their foghorns. The sounds roared from open windows and storefronts. Not the wailing siren of an air-raid drill. Not that piercing, menacing horn blaring from the rooftops, but cheering – that roared like a wave, crashing into all parts of Chinatown, the International District, and the whole city of Seattle.

The news spread from person to person, house to house, block to block – the Japanese had surrendered. Everywhere Henry looked, people flooded into the streets, dancing on the hoods of parked cars. Grown men were screaming like little boys, grown women, even stoic Chinese women, openly crying tears of joy.

Sheldon broke out his horn, slipped in the reeded mouthpiece, and began to wail, strutting around in the middle
of South King between a milk truck and a police car, whose sirens flashed in slow, lazy circles.

Ethel wrapped her arms around Henry. He looked down and kissed her. Everyone else was doing it; even total strangers embraced and cried. Others brought out glasses of wine, glasses of anything.

Deep down, Henry had known the war’s end was imminent. Everyone knew. Everyone felt it. He’d wondered what he would feel. Joy? Relief? He’d wondered what his father would do to occupy his time now that the Japanese had surrendered. Then again, he knew the war would go on in his father’s mind. This time it would be the Kuomintang, the nationalists versus the communists. China’s struggle would continue, and so would his father’s.

Despite the years of
scholarshipping
at Rainier, and the hordes of Chinese kids who had shouted ‘White devil’ as he walked to school each morning, Henry had never felt more American than right then, celebrating the greatest victory in the history of history. It was a joy that was simple, unexpected, and carried with it a quiet peace. It was a happy ending that brought the promise of a new beginning. So when Ethel finally let go, her lips still wet and soft from Henry’s kiss, the words came out like a secret confession. And somehow it made sense. Somehow it fit. If Henry had had doubts before, they were obfuscated by the ringing church bells and yelling, crying crowds.

‘Ethel …’

She straightened her hair and pulled the seams of her dress, trying to look composed in the frenzy of the moment.

‘Will you marry me?’ No sooner had Henry said it than
alarms went off in his head. The realisation that words aren’t toys to be played with, and hearts were at stake. He didn’t regret asking, he was just a little surprised that he had. After all, they were young. But no younger than many of the picture brides who had come over from Japan. Besides, he was leaving in a week for China. He’d be gone two years at least, and she had said she’d wait. Now she’d have something worth waiting for.

‘Henry, I could have sworn you just asked me to marry you.’

Jazz musicians began pouring into the streets from the clubs on South Jackson, some cheering, other riffing spontaneously.

‘I did. I’m asking you now. Will you marry me?’

She didn’t say a thing. The tears in her eyes from the happiest day in the history of Seattle flowed again for a whole new reason.

‘Is that a yes, or a no?’ Henry asked, suddenly feeling naked and vulnerable.

Ethel, on the other hand, looked inspired. Henry watched her climb on the hood of a police car even before the officer could get out to stop her. She turned to the crowd in the street and yelled, ‘I’m getting married!’ The crowd roared its approval, and men and woman tilted their glasses back and toasted her.

As the officer helped her down, she found Henry’s eyes and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’ll wait … And yes, I’ll marry you. So hurry back, I might not wait forever.’

It was during that moment, that exchange, when all fell silent in Henry’s mind. The crowds and the horns and the
sirens lowered their volumes. And he noticed for the first time a few Japanese families in the crowd. Trying their best to go about their business unnoticed. Saddled with the poor luck of somehow being related to the losing team, or coming from the wrong side of town due to unfortunate circumstances beyond their control. Some Japanese families, scores in fact, had trickled back in the previous months. But they found little left of their belongings and even less in the way of opportunity to start again. Even with the assistance of the American Friends Service Committee, a group that offered to help Japanese families find homes and rent apartments, few stayed.

It was during this stolen moment, this spot of quiet melancholy, that Henry saw what he most wanted, and most feared. Standing across the street, staring directly at him, were a pair of beautiful chestnut brown eyes. What did he see in them? He couldn’t tell. Sadness and joy? Or was he projecting what was in his own heart? She stood motionless. Taller now – her hair much longer as it drifted away from her shoulders in the direction of the cool summer breeze.

Henry rubbed his eyes and she was gone, lost in the celebrating crowds that still flooded the streets.

But it couldn’t have been Keiko.
She’d have written.

Walking home along the littered, ticker-tape-covered sidewalk, Henry wondered how his father was taking the news. He knew his mother would probably prepare a feast, something to celebrate was so rare during times of rationing. But his father, who knew?

Inside, in Henry’s quiet thoughts, he couldn’t escape the
memory of Keiko. The what-ifs. What if he had said something differently?
What if
he’d asked her to stay?

But he couldn’t forget the love, the sincere feelings Ethel had as she delighted in her engagement, holding Henry close, giving all of her heart so unselfishly.

Around the corner, Henry looked up at the window of his Canton Alley apartment – he’d be leaving it next week for China. As he was thinking of how his mother would hold up during his farewell, he heard her shouting his name. Yelling, in fact. Not the vocal celebration of the others on the street – this was something else.

‘Henry! It’s your father …’ Henry saw her waving frantically through the open window, the same one she hated for him to leave open.

He ran.

Up the street, and up the steps to his apartment. Ethel tried to keep up, then shouted at him to go on. She knew, even before Henry knew. She’d spent far more time with Henry’s father than anyone but his mother.

In the apartment he shared with his parents, Henry saw Dr Luke once again. Closing his black bag, looking broken and defeated. ‘I’m sorry, Henry.’

‘What’s happening?’

Henry burst into his parents’ room. His father was in bed, looking pale. His feet curled in at impossible angles, rigid and lifeless from the knees down. His breathing rattled in his chest. The only other noise was that of Henry’s mother crying. He put his arms around her, and she held him close, patting the side of his face.

‘He doesn’t have long, Henry,’ the doctor explained sadly.
‘He wanted to see you one last time. He’s been holding on for you.’

Ethel arrived in the doorway, out of breath and looking pained as she saw the condition of her future father-in-law. She patted the arm of Henry’s mother, who began to have that vacant look of quiet acceptance.

Henry sat next to the frail shell that was left of his once domineering father.

‘I’m here,’ he said in Chinese. ‘You can go now, your ancestors are waiting … You don’t need to wait for me anymore. The Japanese surrendered – I’m going to China next week. And I’m marrying Ethel.’ If the words were a surprise to anyone, no one had cause to show it at the moment.

His father opened his eyes and found Henry.
‘Ngoh jo bei neih.’
The words rattled out between haggard breaths.
I did it for you
.

That was when Henry knew. His father wasn’t speaking about sending him to China, or about his planning to marry Ethel. His father was superstitious and wanted to die with a clear conscience so he wouldn’t be haunted in the next world. His father was confessing.

‘You fixed it, didn’t you?’ Henry spoke with quiet resignation, unable to feel anger toward his dying father. He wanted to feel it, but unlike his father, he wouldn’t allow himself to be defined by hatred. ‘You used your position with the benevolent associations and fixed it so that my letters never made it to Keiko. So that hers never got delivered. That was your doing somehow, wasn’t it?’

Henry looked at his father, fully expecting him to die at any moment, leaving him with that question unanswered.
Instead, his father inhaled one last time, one long draw, and confirmed what Henry had already guessed. With his dying breath he nodded, and said it again. ‘
Ngoh jo bei neih,
’ I did it for
you
.

Henry watched his father’s eyes widen as he stared at the ceiling, his mouth releasing one long, slow breath that rattled in his chest. To Henry, he almost looked surprised as his eyes closed one last time.

His mother clung to Ethel, both crying.

Henry couldn’t look at either of them. Instead he left his father’s side and looked out the window. The excitement of the Japanese surrender was still palpable in the air, and people wandered about the streets looking for a place to continue their celebrations.

Henry didn’t feel like cheering, he felt like screaming. He did neither.

Bolting from his parents’ room and out the front door past a saddened Dr Luke, Henry ran down the stairs and headlong down King Street – south, in the direction of Maynard Avenue, in the direction of what used to be Nihonmachi.