Clark and Division

by Naomi Hirahara

  “I’m having a birthday party at my house this Sunday afternoon after Mass. It’s not a big deal, so don’t bring a present or anything. I talk about you all the time at home, so my family wants to meet you.”

  I was both curious and anxious to consider what stories Nancy was telling her household. I was sure that my being Japanese was one of the talking points, but what else? I agreed to attend because, at the very least, I would have something new and interesting to share in my letters to Art.

  A phone message was waiting for me when I got home. My father rarely answered the pay phone but he had that day. In his beautiful script, he had written Tomi Kawamura’s name, tomorrow’s date and a time. Tomi was leaving on the first train out to Detroit and I had almost forgotten. I hadn’t known that Tomi had my phone number and was touched to have received the reminder.

  The next morning, I was late in getting out the door and didn’t have any omiyage to give her for her journey. By the time I arrived, the porters were rushing back and forth with the last suitcases and train conductors signaled that everyone but ticketed passengers should back away from the car.

  “Aki, Aki!”

  I spotted Tomi’s slender figure on the steps of the last car. She wore gloves and as she waved, she reminded me of a Japanese diplomat’s wife, all chanto and well coiffed. I barged by a conductor, earning his wrath, but I didn’t care. She held out her gloved hand and I thought that she wanted to shake mine, but as I got closer, I saw that she was trying to pass me an envelope.

  “Bye, Aki,” she called out as the car moved forward. I stepped back and watched the train leave the station.

  Once it was gone, I took a closer look at what she had handed me. To Aki, the outside of the envelope read. I should have given this to you sooner.

  Inside was a ripped page from Rose’s journal. There were only three sentences written on it in my sister’s distinctive handwriting:

  I wish Tomi would believe me when I tell her that everything will be okay. I’ll make it right. She has nothing to worry about.

  Was my sister referring to the aftermath of the attack? Tomi must have interpreted it that way. Why else would she have taken it from Rose’s personal diary? She had clung to my sister’s words throughout her stay in Chicago. And now that Rose was gone, there was no one who could honor that promise.

  Chapter 20

  Nancy had mentioned going to Catholic Mass before her birthday get-together, so church was on my mind. Both Art and I had an open invitation from Joey and Louise to go to Reverend Suzuki’s church service at the Moody Bible Institute. I wasn’t quite sure why because none of us were particularly religious; I got the feeling that their motivations were more social than spiritual. Without telling either one of them, I decided to check out the Moody Bible Institute that Sunday morning.

  The campus was large, with towering dormitories to house male students and a smaller one for women. Joey had told me that the service designed for Japanese Americans was held in Moody’s social hall next to its coffee shop. There was no sense in having such a small Christian gathering in Moody’s main auditorium, which could fit probably a thousand people.

  I hadn’t been sure what to wear. I had opted for my simple striped dress but, inspired by Tomi’s example, I wore a pair of my mother’s gloves to look more dignified.

  I knew the social hall’s approximate location and searched for some Nisei dressed in their Sunday best to follow. I spotted a Nisei couple in their thirties with two children, walking with their hands linked. The man wore a light-colored suit and hat; his wife, a dress made of white eyelet. The boys, their hair freshly combed to reveal their shiny, spotless foreheads, wore matching outfits of baby-blue shirts and shorts. They were perfect, all-American, and probably came from one of the ten concentration camps in California, Arizona, Utah, Wyoming, Idaho, Colorado or Arkansas.

  “Tropico, what are you doing here?” I heard Hammer’s familiar voice behind me. I stopped and turned around. Hammer’s hair was still in a pompadour, but it was less outrageous—shorter and more controlled. Instead of a zoot suit, he wore a conservative dark suit that flattered his lean physique.

  “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” I grinned. I had missed him. We were now walking side by side, and I saw the black Bible that he had tucked under his arm.

  “It’s all healed up,” Hammer said.

  “What, you mean my face? You gave me a good shiner, I’ll tell you that.”

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I even tried to go by your place to give you my mea culpas in person, but your parents didn’t seem like they were leaving your side.”

  I gave him a sideways glance. “You were spying on me?”

  “Just for a few days. Then I decided to leave Clark and Division.”

  “I heard that you’re at some okanemochi hakujin woman’s house in Lakeview.”

  “Yeah, she’s a church person. She’s helping Reverend Suzuki set up this place.”

  “Oh, I get it now,” I said.

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  “This whole church business. Your latest scheme?”

  Hammer looked wounded. “I’m trying to turn my life around, Tropico. Things were spinning out of control. Kuru-kuru-pa.” What in the world was he referring to?

  We walked into a two-story building made of dark-brown brick, in contrast to the taller reddish ones. Folding chairs were set up across the wider axis of the room with an aisle in the middle, all facing a podium with a large cross on the front.

  I was amazed that Hammer knew the other parishioners and they seemed genuinely happy to see him. About half were hakujin, probably do-gooders like his patron, while the rest were Issei and Nisei. I scanned the small-yet-animated crowd for familiar faces, but I recognized no one, not even Joey and Louise. While Hammer disappeared into the choir room, I sat in the back row, feeling a bit out of place. I was so bored that I even opened up the hymnal that had been placed on my chair and tried to find songs I had heard before.

  “Miss Ito?”

  I was surprised Reverend Suzuki had recognized me. He was in the same robe that he had worn for Rose’s funeral.

  “Hello, Reverend.”

  “I’m so glad to see you. I’ve been meaning to call you, but I had no phone number for you on file.” He asked me the perfunctory minister questions: How were my parents doing? Where was I working? How was I finding Chicago?

  I could not answer any of his inquiries honestly. I surely could not have told him that I was no longer a virgin and I was secretly engaged. Or that my parents and I were not getting along. Or, most importantly, that my sister had been assaulted and I was determined to find and punish whoever had done this awful thing to her.

  Instead, I sat in my folding chair with the hymnal on my lap, said some pleasantries, nodded and smiled. Thankfully, an older couple approached Reverend Suzuki, releasing me from my charade.

  I took no comfort from Reverend Suzuki’s homily, which was about forgiveness, but I was moved by the choir. There were only about ten of them, Japanese, hakujin, and one black woman. Hammer stood in the back row and I cringed a little because it was such an incongruous sight. But he behaved himself and moved his lips along with everyone else’s. They sang a hymn that I had heard maybe once before, “Be Still, My Soul.”

  When disappointment, grief and fear are gone

  Sorrow forgot, love’s purest joys restored

  Be still, my soul: when change and tears are past

  All safe and blessed, we shall meet at last

  A hakujin male soloist belted the refrain and I was overcome with tears. I wiped them away with the tips of my fingers. What was happening to me?

  At the end, Reverend Suzuki gave the benediction and marched down an aisle between the rows of folding chairs. I didn’t want to talk to him again but had to if I wanted to leave.

  “I hope we see you agai
n, Miss Ito. And give my regards to your parents.” He covered our handshake with his left hand as if to secure some sort of promise. I wasn’t going to give it to him.

  According to my watch, it was twelve-thirty, a good time to head to Nancy’s house in Polonia Triangle.

  As I walked up Clark to catch the bus, I heard a burst of footsteps behind me. His Bible in his right hand, Hammer had caught up with me. “What did you think of it?” he asked.

  “Church? It was all right. I did like your singing. It made me cry.”

  Hammer seemed genuinely moved by my comment and he started to blink more rapidly. He said that joining the choir had been Reverend Suzuki’s idea. I smiled, remembering that Hammer had been the one to tell me that the minister had “screwed up” Rose’s funeral.

  Maybe being here with Hammer was a sign. When would I have this opportunity again? I tried to recall the details of the sermon. “Reverend Suzuki spoke a lot about forgiveness. ‘As long as you confess, your sins will be wiped clean.’”

  Hammer readjusted his grip on his Bible. From the tone of my voice, he sensed that I was going to engage him in a serious discussion. We had stopped walking and stood outside some buildings in front of the Henrotin Hospital.

  “Did you know where Rose got her abortion?”

  Hammer flinched, as if the word caused him pain. “Why? Why would you want to know something like that?” His voice became rough; he sounded like the old Hammer. “Are you planning to go to the cops?”

  I already tried that, I thought. “No, no. I need to know, Hammer. It may not make sense to you, but I can’t rest if I don’t find out everything that happened to Rose while she was in Chicago.”

  Hammer took a deep breath. “There’s a doctor’s office on State Street near Marshall Field’s. His name is Thomas McGrath. He delivers babies but he also has this side business on Sundays.”

  Side business. That sounded hideous.

  “I found out about him through his driver who is a regular at Aloha.” We both resumed walking but Hammer slowed as he saw some Nisei women from my apartment building coming our way. He waited until they passed by before he continued. “Rose was so desperate; I said that I’d help her. At least with finding someone.”

  “Do you think that this Dr. McGrath is legitimate?”

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  “Rose was bleeding a lot afterward.”

  Hammer looked truly pained. “I was worried about that from the get-go. I told Rose not to do it. I said we could get married, at least in the short run.”

  I was amazed by Hammer’s offer.

  “She laughed about that one. Not at me, though. She thanked me but said that she had to handle it her way.”

  I started to head up Clark but Hammer didn’t follow.

  “I’m staying away from Clark these days.”

  I fanned my face with the church bulletin. “Why?”

  “I can’t get into it with you.” Hammer’s voice dropped an octave.

  “Does it involve Aloha?”

  “No, no.”

  “How about Manju? You aren’t spending any time with him these days?”

  “Tropico, stop. Believe me, some things are best unsaid.” The demon face returned, only this time Hammer seemed more afraid than tortured.

  I said goodbye and left him on the corner. When I was halfway up the block, I turned back, surprised to see that he was still there, unable to decide what his next move would be.

  Chapter 21

  From Clark and Division, the bus ride to Polonia Triangle was easy, a straight shot two miles west. The bus was relatively open and I had a seat to myself. I was still a bit shaken by my conversation with Hammer. I had written Dr. Thomas McGrath’s name in my notebook as soon we separated so I wouldn’t forget. I planned on stopping by his office after Nancy’s birthday party. I wasn’t sure if I would be allowed in because they were engaged in an illicit activity. Going to the office at least would give me some idea of what kind of doctor he was.

  Getting off at the stop for Polonia Triangle, I tried to readjust my mood. Luckily, the neighborhood was bright and lively, with a large fountain in its square and red awnings on storefronts. The area’s gigantic churches were impressive, with twin spires and columns like I’d seen in photos of the Supreme Court. I followed Nancy’s directions and found myself in front of a two-story concrete building with a balcony that faced the street. I went through the gate and up the stairs, but before I could ring the bell, the front door flew open. I looked down to see a girl who was about nine, with wavy blonde hair and an impish grin like Nancy’s.

  “Hello, I’m Aki. I work with Nancy.”

  The girl didn’t bother to say anything and opened the door wider to let me in.

  The house was filled with people—balding men wearing short-sleeved shirts and suspenders, women in aprons running from the kitchen to the living room with steaming dishes, skinny teenagers with terrible skin. They were all hakujin and some of them did a double take when they saw me. As I walked in, I was enveloped by smells of starchy potatoes, fragrant dill and acidic vinegar.

  “Aki, you came!” Nancy was dressed in a marigold-colored dress that complemented her eyes. She had her Brownie camera and took a quick snapshot of me before I could fix my makeup. “Come here, Mama, here’s one of the girls I work with, Aki.”

  “My, you’re a beauty. Nancy wasn’t wrong about that.”

  Two other women added their agreement, nodding and murmuring in a foreign language, probably Polish.

  I was mystified about why all these women were paying me such compliments. Maybe it was a Midwestern practice, I figured.

  Nancy’s mother sat me down at a table and a plate full of food was placed in front of me. Nancy recited the menu: pierogi, a type of dumpling filled with potatoes and cheese; kielbasa sausage; cabbage roll; and a pile of sauerkraut. “Oh, and here’s some pickle soup,” Nancy said, leaving her camera on the table to carefully place a cup of yellow broth by my plate.

  I thought that maybe Nancy was joking, but I looked into the cup and, lo and behold, bits of green pickle were floating on the surface. The women watched as I took a sip. Delicious! So was everything else on my plate. They were astonished and delighted by my appetite.

  I was finishing off some strudel when Phillis appeared at our table, her hair curled around her face instead of pinned into victory rolls.

  “I ate already,” she said, a gift in her hand.

  Before Phillis could object, Nancy took a quick photo of her, too. I was impressed by Nancy’s speed in capturing her guests on film.

  “Oh, I brought you something, too,” I said, wiping my mouth with my handkerchief, while one of Nancy’s older female relatives whisked away my dirty plate. It was like musical chairs, and someone new needed to take my place.

  Gesturing that we should follow her with our presents, Nancy wound past the tables crammed with food. Bumping shoulders and elbows with different generations of Kowalskis, we walked up a staircase to the second-floor hallway. Framed photos were plastered on every inch of the walls. It was a bit overwhelming to see so many Kowalskis in one place, not only live on the first floor, but also captured in photos here.

  Phillis and I followed Nancy out a set of French doors leading to the balcony.

  Nancy moved a loose brick on the edge of the balcony connected to the outer wall and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a plastic ashtray.

  She offered us a cigarette and we each declined. “I didn’t know that you smoked,” I said as she took one out for herself.

  “Only on special occasions.” She grinned, pulling a match against the matchbook and lighting the cigarette. Both Phillis and I laughed. We figured that every weekend was a special occasion for Nancy.

  We presented her gifts. Phillis had given her a small photo album, which Nancy cooed over. I pulled out my present, a Red Maj
esty lipstick in a paper tube. I hadn’t bothered to wrap it.

  Nancy seized upon it, immediately twisting off the top and checking the shade. “This is the color you wear. I adore it.”

  “It was actually my older sister’s favorite color lipstick. That is, when she was alive.”

  Both of them stared at me.

  “I thought she was maybe stuck in one those camps,” Nancy said.

  I shook my head. A welcome breeze blew through the ash trees and reached up to the balcony.

  I told them everything that had happened. How we were forced out of our homes and how the Tonai produce market was taken over by a neighboring market run by whites. The frightening drive to Manzanar with a military escort. The whip of the Owens Valley winds and loneliness of the desolate basin held in place by the majestic Sierra Nevadas. The line of freshly constructed barracks that were to be our homes—for more than two years in my case. And then, a thread of hope—the good ones, the American-born, would be released into America’s interior, to places we had never been before. My sister was one of those early chosen ones. We were to follow her to Chicago, but as it turned out, we never saw her alive again.

  Phillis’s eyes took on a fierce glare. “That’s not right,” she said and shook her head.

  Nancy had snuffed out her first cigarette in the ashtray and was already working on her second one. “What happened to your sister?”

  “She was killed by a subway car on Clark and Division. But before that, she was sexually assaulted. She got pregnant and went through an abortion in Chicago.”

  Nancy was horrified. I wasn’t sure which part of it angered her the most.

  “I don’t think the procedure went well. I found out that it was done at a doctor’s office on State Street. I’m planning to go over there after the party to see what kind of place it is.”

  “Well, you can’t go alone. I’ll go with you,” Nancy quickly volunteered.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Phillis said.