Clark and Division

by Naomi Hirahara

  “What?” He seemed confused and then his face fell upon understanding. “In the morning. When her older sister was in church.”

  It was at the same time I had been wandering around Clark and Division by myself, eating strawberry ice cream at the Ting-A-Ling. I felt queasy as I returned to the front desk.

  “He’s a dreamboat,” commented Nancy, who had not heard the conversation about Phillis’s brother. Phillis smiled in agreement as she restacked some books the reference librarian had requested. Art’s visit had put both of them in a better mood. Some of that elation spilled over to me, too, but I couldn’t help but feel the darkness of his original message: a Nisei woman had been attacked.

  When I went home, I casually disclosed the incident to my mother, not revealing how I had received the information. I was curious how she would respond.

  “Mah, these Nisei girls are so ill-behaved. There’s no wonder something like that would occur,” my mother commented as she attached a new button to my father’s shirt.

  But how about me at Aloha? I had done nothing to provoke that stranger. I just happened to be in his vicinity. That in itself had been enough for him to think that he could have his way with me.

  Chapter 13

  The following morning I made sure that I was wearing one of Rose’s dresses. Ever since I had donned the teal wraparound at the Aragon, I felt a new freedom to raid my sister’s wardrobe. This dress was red gingham with ruffles, a bit flashy for me. I had been hoping to wear it for a special occasion, and meeting Art in a park seemed special enough.

  The day started off with momentous news. allies invade france was the headline, splashed in block letters across the front page of the Chicago Daily Tribune. Troops had converged on the northern beaches in Normandy. Some reporters referred to it as “D-Day,” a code for a secret military invasion.

  My stomach flip-flopped with both anticipation and dread. Did this mean that we were winning? But such an expansive invasion meant more fallen soldiers. Nancy and I exchanged glances as we silently arranged that day’s newspapers for our patrons.

  Phillis caught our silent exchange. “Reggie’s not in Europe,” she reminded us.

  “That’s right,” Nancy said and breathed out a sigh of relief. Afterward, the three of us went to the bathroom to wash the newspaper ink off our hands.

  The morning flew by. I made a deal with Phillis so I could skip my lunch break and take a late-afternoon break. When I mentioned that I was meeting Art, she couldn’t help but smile.

  I wrote my phone number with a short pencil on a piece of scratch paper that our library patrons used to write Dewey decimal call numbers. As soon as I saw Art at the gate, I gave it to him. During our conversation, I could see the outline of my name on that piece of paper through the fabric of his shirt pocket, which made me happy to no end.

  We relaxed on a bench on the south side of the park underneath an elm tree. D-Day was at the top of our minds.

  “I hope the war will soon be over,” I said.

  “Don’t we all. But there will be much blood spilled before we get to that point.”

  I hope that you won’t be drafted, I thought to myself.

  It was as if Art had read my mind. “It’s only a matter of time before I’ll get my letter.” He sounded like he was ready to serve. For a Midwestern Nisei like Art who had never spent time behind barbed wire, the decision to fight for our country wasn’t so complicated.

  We remained quiet for a moment. Art placed his arm behind me on the edge of the bench, and I felt my heart pounding. I’d never really dated before. I had gone to a few dances in high school and after graduation, but the boys always seemed to treat me like a sister and not a girlfriend.

  “They say it’s going to be hot this weekend,” he said.

  “It’s hot every weekend.”

  “But no thunderstorms. How about we go to Lake Michigan?”

  “Really?” I thought about all those sun-kissed hakujin I saw lying out on the white sands and playing volleyball. And then I remembered that I didn’t have anything to wear.

  “I’ve had bad experiences with swimsuits.” I explained briefly what had happened to me in eighth grade at Vivi Pelletier’s house.

  “Well, wear shorts and we’ll walk along the beach. Barefoot.”

  “I can do that.” I smiled, thinking of walking alongside Art, maybe his bare, sinewy legs brushing against mine. We spoke about silly things for a while, but my mind returned to my encounter with Hammer on Sunday. I tried to ask as casually as possible, “Have you heard anything more about the Nisei girl who was attacked? I imagine that it’s quite awful for her and her family.”

  “She only has a sister here,” Art said. From the strained expression on his face, I knew that he hadn’t planned to share that bit of information.

  For a moment, I felt as though my mind and heart were leaving my body. I wanted to escape and run away from the pain as usual, but I instead reined myself in. “I would like to talk to her,” I murmured. “To lift her spirits, I mean.”

  “I don’t think she’d feel comfortable with that. At least not now. She doesn’t want anyone’s company.” Art hesitated. “She’s been too afraid to leave her apartment.”

  “Has she gone to the police?”

  “I told her to. I said I could even go with her and her sister. But she’s scared.”

  “He could do it again, you know.”

  “I know,” Art said. “Believe me, I know.” He looked down at his fingernails. “Let’s talk about something else for a while.”

  I readily agreed. Who would want to spoil a moment with Art Nakasone by talking about such darkness?

  During the nights that followed my outing with Art in the park, I couldn’t sleep well. I kept thinking about the girl who had been attacked. I tried to catch Harriet outside the apartment building to ask her what she knew, but she was always on her way to an appointment. I was starting to get the feeling that she was avoiding me.

  I hadn’t seen Hammer for days. It seemed as if he had completely disappeared from Clark and Division. Concerned enough about his whereabouts, I called out to Manju as he rambled through the neighborhood one evening.

  “Have you seen Hammer?” I asked, a bit breathless from my run to catch up to him.

  Manju exhaled some smoke, aiming it directly into my face. This man lacked manners, that was for sure. “Nope. Even went to his lady friend’s apartment in Chinatown. She hasn’t seen him, either.”

  Then where was he staying? And those terrible scratches on his face. I didn’t think Roy had done that. They looked like the handiwork of someone with long nails.

  “Does he do this often? I mean, disappear.”

  “He tries to, but I keep tabs on him. This time, though, is different.” Manju’s distress was palpable. I had no idea that a man could care so much for a friend. Maybe it was more about Hammer’s general charisma. I was both repelled by and attracted to him at the same time. Had Rose succumbed to his yogore magnetism? Maybe Roy had suspected something wicked in Hammer all along. That would explain his outbursts of anger toward him.

  “I’m sure that he’ll turn up,” I said, not convinced of it at all. Manju had not heard me. He was already trudging up Clark, leaving behind a plume of smoke.

  The next few days I felt jumpy and unsettled, like pinballs were whizzing inside me. Being in Chicago was like riding a roller coaster at the Pike in Long Beach. There was the excitement of rising emotions, the anticipation of seeing Art, abruptly followed by a whiplash of panic over a rapist at large.

  Phillis had also seemed distracted these past few days. She was the one we relied on to retrieve the more obscure books, the ones requested maybe once every ten years. Even during her breaks, she wandered around the deserted corners of the stacks, as if the most ignored books deserved some visitors now and then.

  A new patron, a v
isiting history professor at Northwestern, had started coming to the library on a regular basis, sometimes making rush requests at the end of the day. He was studying military history, specifically the Gallic Wars under Julius Caesar. The Newberry had dozens upon dozens of editions of these accounts, and both Nancy and I deferred to Phillis’s expertise to find the ones that he wanted.

  Only this day, she kept bringing the wrong volumes.

  The professor, a short man barely taller than me, snapped a little when she did it for the first time. But by the third time, he had lost all patience.

  “Is she some kind of idiot?” he said, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. Nancy would have given him an earful, but she had left for her break. I, meanwhile, froze. Something in his tone of voice sounded familiar. Like some of the so-called big-shot customers at the produce market, the ones who owned market chains. We, the Japanese, were below them. And now, Phillis, a young black woman, was being treated the same way by this professor.

  Phillis didn’t avert her gaze from this man like I would have done. Her mahogany eyes didn’t even blink. “No, sir, I am not an idiot. I’d appreciate it if you spoke to me like a human being.”

  I was shocked by her answer. Her voice was steady and calm, but I could feel the rage behind each word. The professor felt it as well, as he mumbled some kind of apology and slinked away.

  “Are you all right, Phillis?” I said. Nancy had returned from her break and joined us at the front desk.

  “Reggie is wounded,” Phillis announced. “He got caught in a sniper nest. We received the telegram a few days ago.”

  “Ohmygoodness,” Nancy exclaimed, immediately hugging Phillis, whose arms hung limp at her sides.

  “Pacific Islands?” I almost whispered.

  “A place called Bougainville.”

  The name made it sound like it was located in Europe rather than Asia.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. The angle of the early-afternoon light coming through the windows temporarily blinded me, prompting me to take a few steps away from Phillis.

  “It’s not your fault. The army’s been keeping the Negro boys from fighting on the frontlines because they didn’t think they were up to it. And now this happens.”

  “Is he going to be all right?” I asked.

  “He had surgery over there. I think that they have an underground bunker for that.”

  An underground surgery room? It sounded primitive and I feared for Reggie’s recovery.

  Before we could ask Phillis more questions, Mr. Geiger came down, asking if one of us could leave early to make a delivery to the law library at Northwestern’s McKinlock campus on our way home. Still affected by Phillis’s news about her brother, I wanted to leave the confines of the library immediately but waited for either Phillis or Nancy to volunteer. I was relieved that I was the only one available. Too much was happening—with both me and the people around me. I needed to get away and think.

  Wrapped in brown paper and twine, the book was heavy and unwieldy. Even though the delivery location wasn’t that far away, I took the streetcar and transferred once at the intersection of Lake Shore Drive and Chicago Avenue. As it was rush hour, I had to stand, and I planted my feet firmly to avoid accidentally thrusting the legal book into a neighboring passenger’s stomach.

  What will I do if someone tries to accost me? I wondered. I wanted to be a Rosie the Riveter type, my hair tied back in a red kerchief, my biceps toned and my will determined. But being trapped in that corner of Aloha had reconfirmed that I was really a weakling in many areas. I didn’t want to be so handicapped. I did have a natural sense of curiosity, and I pledged that I would try to infuse such inclinations with more boldness.

  The second streetcar stopped right in front of the campus. The grounds were compact yet impressive. It was easy for me to locate the multi-level law library, which was constructed of gray stone with an ornate façade that reminded me of structures that I’ve seen in photographs of British country estates. After leaving the package for the librarian at the front desk, I decided to explore this neighborhood, which was called Streeterville, before I went home.

  The candy factory that had employed Rose and Roy was in this general area. I had looked it up once on a map and had seen that it was hemmed in by the mouth of the Chicago River, Lake Shore Drive, and a thin waterway called the Ogden Slip. Beyond Lake Shore Drive was the breakwater for the outer harbor. As I trekked, I could see Navy Pier in the distance, and I took a deep breath. Of course, no smell of salt water. Lake Michigan always had me fooled.

  I was walking on Illinois Street when I spotted the letters baby ruth, as high as a one-story building, on top of a structure shaped like a giant shoe box. A sugary, chocolatey scent spilled out onto the street, but it had a slightly burnt edge to it, as if the candy had been expelled from a car’s exhaust pipe. I had found the factory.

  One of the working shifts had ended, as evident from the women exiting. They wore white uniforms, and a couple still hadn’t pulled their white work caps from their heads. A group in street clothes was assembled outside the building, taking drags from cigarettes or chatting with one another. I recognized the brilliant red hair of one of the women and approached her. “You were at my sister’s funeral.”

  Even though we didn’t know each other well, she gave me a hug, her body feeling bony and sharp against mine. She reminded me that her name was Shirley. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “And your parents?”

  “Doing the best that they can.”

  Her hazel eyes welled up with tears, and I realized that the woman was much older than I had previously thought. She had deep bags under her eyes that her makeup accentuated rather than camouflaged. Still, her face was kind and made me want to trust her.

  “I’ve been beside myself ever since the funeral,” she said.

  Her emotional revelation seemed overblown. “I didn’t realize that you were so close to Rose.”

  She fingered a cross that hung from her necklace. “I’ve had some sleepless nights, wondering if I could have helped her in any way.”

  I struggled between curiosity and resentment that this woman felt she could have saved Rose. “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “I knew that she was upset about something.”

  How could she know? I was the only person who could sense Rose’s more vulnerable side.

  Shirley apparently read the skepticism on my face and offered more concrete evidence. “You see, I came across her crying in the restroom stall one afternoon. I did my best to console her.”

  “What?” I was starting to feel sick to my stomach.

  “I thought maybe it was our supervisor, Mr. Schultz. He can be a bear sometimes.”

  “The one who was at her funeral?” I remembered the Teddy Roosevelt look-alike who overenunciated his words.

  “Yes, I was surprised that he came out, frankly.”

  “So was he the one?” I balled up my hands.

  “What?”

  “Was he the reason my sister was so upset?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. To tell you the truth, she was very embarrassed. She wouldn’t look me in the eye after that. I was afraid that I had offended her in some way.”

  I had never seen Rose shed a tear in front of me. For her to openly cry at work meant something was desperately amiss.

  “About when did this happen?”

  Shirley lifted her face toward the water. “It was cold, that’s what I remembered. It was winter, definitely. She was wearing a heavy knit scarf around her neck. I helped wipe her tears with it.”

  A horn sounded and Shirley indicated that she needed to return to the factory. She took a few steps and then backtracked. “Are you here to see Roy?”

  “Ah, is he around?”

  “I think his shift
is ending. I’ll get him.”

  She squeezed my arm and went back in the building.

  I moved to get out of the way of the next shift streaming into the factory. I debated whether I should force myself in and demand a meeting with this Mr. Schultz. But what would I say? Did you make my sister cry that winter day? I knew a simple reprimand from a supervisor wouldn’t have caused such a breakdown. This time I needed real answers from Roy.

  Hearing sharp words being exchanged, I turned my attention to the loading docks, where three Nisei women were having an intense conversation. I recognized two of them as the women I had briefly met at the Greek-owned restaurant where I ate pancakes with Roy. The third woman was bone thin; I feared that her loose skirt would fall down to her ankles.

  “Somebody needs to go to the police. We can’t let this man get away with it.” The speaker was Marge, the short woman with the distinctive voice, scratchy like she had been yelling at someone for a while.

  “Imagine if it happened to your sister, Marge. It’s not an easy thing.” The thin woman spoke in a quiet voice, but it still commanded the other women’s attention. “She has to be not only Betty’s big sister but her mother. And she doesn’t want their parents to worry in camp. There’s nothing they can do from there.”

  The tall bespectacled woman from the restaurant nodded.

  “It’s not right; that’s all I’m saying,” Marge said.

  “Who’s that?” The thin woman pointed at me.

  Marge narrowed her eyes. She had a good memory because she recognized me. “Oh, she’s Rose Ito’s little sister.” Her tall friend in the glasses confirmed my identity. They all stared at me as if I were a black cat, a bringer of bad luck.

  Before I could respond, Roy came out of the factory in a gray uniform, his name embroidered over his chest pocket. He was still wearing a pair of work gloves, so I wondered if his shift was truly over. I strode over and greeted him. His lip had returned to almost normal. Ike was a wonder with a surgical needle.

  “What’s happened? Your dad?” he asked.