Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet

by Jamie Ford

  All of the boys stopped, except for Chaz, who inched closer to Henry staying just out of range of his makeshift club.

  "Go home, Chaz." The anger in his voice surprised Henry. He felt the blood drain away from his fists where they clenched the broom handle until his knuckles turned pale.

  Chaz spoke softly, a mock gentleness to his voice. "This is my home, this is the United States of America-- not the United States of Tokyo. And my dad is probably going to end up owning this whole neighborhood anyway. What are you going to do, take us all on? You think you can beat us all up?"

  Henry knew he didn't stand a chance against all seven of them. "You might get to me eventually, but I know one of you'll be going home with a limp." Henry swung the club, smacking it on the dirty, gritty pavement between him and the larger boy. He vividly remembered the bruised cheek and black eye he'd received outside the train station, courtesy of Chaz.

  The boys in the back hesitated. Retreating, they dropped the items they'd pilfered from the alley, then turned and fled around the corner. Henry swung fiercely at Chaz, who backed up too, looking pale and even a little scared. The spiked hair of his crew cut seemed to wilt. Without a word, Chaz spit on the ground between them and then walked away.

  Henry held on to the broom handle, resting it on the pavement, his whole body shaking and his heart pounding. His legs felt limp. I did it. I beat them. I stood up to them. I won.

  Henry turned around and walked face-first into a soldier, actually two soldiers--with army MP bands on their arms. Their rifles were slung across their shoulders, and each had a long black baton dangling from a short leather strap attached to his wrist. One of the soldiers looked down, poking Henry's chest with his baton, tapping his button.

  Henry dropped the broom handle, which made a wooden, clattering sound on the pavement.

  "No more looting, kid. I don't care who you are--beat it."

  Henry backed up, then walked away as fast as his wobbly legs would carry him.

  Out on South Main, he hustled in the direction of Jackson, Sheldon's neighborhood. He saw the lights of a police car reflected in the wet pavement and the puddles he tried to avoid. Looking back, he saw Chaz and his friends sitting on the sidewalk being questioned by a police officer who had a notepad out and was busy writing something. It looked like the officer wasn't buying whatever excuse Chaz was stringing along. There had been too much vandalism and looting. And now he'd been caught in the act.

  Dinner

  (1986)

  Much to Henry's surprise, Samantha was an incredible cook. Henry had a special affinity for anyone with talent in the kitchen, since he himself did most of the cooking in his own home. Even before Ethel fell ill, he had liked to cook. But after the cancer hit, all of the cooking--and the cleaning, the washing--everything fell to Henry. He didn't mind. She was in such pain, always sick, always suffering from the cancer or the radiation treatments that were designed to kill parts of her insides. Both ravaged her small, frail body. The least Henry could do was cook her favorite panfried noodles or make her fresh mango custard with mint. Even though near the end, as wonderful as it sounded, she'd had little appetite. It was all Henry could do to get her to drink fluids. And at the very end, she really just wanted to go, needed to go.

  He thought of that, and fought off a wave of melancholy as his son offered a toast, raising his teacup of heutig jou, a fermented wine that tasted more like grain alcohol.

  "To a successful find, in the basement time capsule of the Panama Hotel."

  Henry raised his glass but followed up with only a sip as Marty and Samantha downed their cups, wincing and grimacing at the strong, eye-watering taste.

  "Geez, that burns," Marty groaned.

  Smiling, Henry filled his son's cup again with the clear, innocent-looking liquid that could just as easily be used to strip the grease from used car parts.

  "To Oscar Holden, and long-lost recordings," Samantha toasted.

  "No. No. No. I'm done. I know my limit," Marty said, lowering her arm, grounding it once again to the round table in the corner of the small dining room that also functioned as Henry's living room. It was a quiet, reflective place, alive with potted plants, like the jade plant that Henry had nurtured since Marty was born. The walls were covered with family photos, colorful and bright against the once-white surface that now looked tarnished and yellow, darkened in the corners like coffee-stained teeth.

  Henry looked at his son and the young woman he was obviously enchanted with.

  Holding their cups. Feeling the burn. How different they were. And how little it mattered.

  Their differences were unnoticeable. So alike, and so happy. Hard to tell where one person ended and the other began. Marty was happy. Successful, good grades, and happy.

  What more could any father want for his son?

  And as Henry looked at the vast pile of crab shells and the empty platter of choy sum, he realized Samantha's cooking rivaled that of Ethel's in her heyday--even his own cooking. Marty had chosen well.

  "Okay, who's ready for dessert?"

  "I'm so full," Marty groaned, pushing his plate away.

  "There's always room," Henry taunted as Samantha stepped into the kitchen and returned, bringing out a small platter.

  "What's this?" Henry asked, stunned. He'd expected green-tea ice cream.

  "I made this especially for my future father-in-law--the ice cream's for me. But this"--she set a plate of delicately spun white candies in front of Henry--"this is something for a special occasion. It's dragon's beard candy."

  The last time Henry had had dragon's beard candy was long before Ethel got sick.

  As he bit into the thread-thin strands of sugar, wrapped around a filling of grated coconut and sesame seeds, he watched Marty smile, nodding in approval--as if to say, "See, Pops, I knew you'd like her."

  It was delicious. "This takes years to learn to make, how did you ..."

  "I've been practicing," Samantha explained. "Sometimes you have to just go for it.

  Try for what's hardest to accomplish. Like you and your childhood sweetheart."

  Henry choked a little on his dessert, tasting the sweet filling and clearing his throat. "I see my son's been sharing stories."

  "He couldn't help it. And besides, haven't you ever wondered what happened to her? No disrespect to your wife, but this girl, whoever she may be, might still be out there somewhere. Aren't you curious where she is, where she might be?"

  Henry looked at his cup of wine, then finished it in one slow pour. Biting back the sting and watery sensation it brought to his eyes, he felt his sinuses clearing as it burned.

  Setting the cup down, he looked at Samantha and Marty. Weighing their expressions, equal parts hope and wishful thinking.

  "I have thought about her." Henry searched for the words, unsure of Marty's reaction. Knowing how much his son loved Ethel, not wanting to trample her memory. "I have thought about her." All the time. Right now, in fact. It would be wrong to tell you that, wouldn't it? "But that was a long time ago. People grow up. They marry, start families. Life goes on."

  Henry had thought about Keiko off and on through the years--from a longing, to a quiet, somber acceptance, to sincerely wishing her the best, that she might be happy. That was when he realized that he did love her. More than what he'd felt all those years ago.

  He loved her enough to let her go--to not go dredging up the past. And besides, he had Ethel, who had been a loving wife. And of course, he had loved her as well. And when she fell ill, he would have changed places with her if he could. To see her get up and walk again, he'd gladly have lain down in that hospice bed. But in the end, he was the one who had to keep living.

  When he saw those things coming up from the basement of the Panama Hotel, he had allowed himself to wonder and to wish. For an Oscar Holden record no one believed existed. And for evidence of a girl who'd once loved Henry for who he was, even though

  he was from the other side of the neighborhood.

&nbs
p; Marty watched his father, deep in thought. "You know, Pops, you have her stuff, her sketchbooks anyway. I mean, even if she's married and all, I think she'd still appreciate getting those back. And if you were the one to give them to her, what a nice coincidence that might be."

  "I have no idea where she is," Henry protested as his son filled his cup with more wine. "She might not even be alive. Forty years is a long time. And almost no one has claimed anything from the Panama. Almost no one. People didn't look back, and there was nothing to return to, so they moved on."

  It was true. Henry knew it. And from the look on his face, Marty knew it too. But still, no one had thought the record still existed, and it was found. Who knew what else he might find if he looked hard enough?

  Steps

  (1986)

  After dinner, Henry insisted on doing the dishes. Samantha had done a marvelous job. When Henry walked in, he half-expected to find take-out boxes from the Junbo Seafood Restaurant hidden beneath the sink or at least oyster-sauce-stained recipe books strewn about. Instead, the kitchen was neat and tidy--she'd washed the pans as she cooked, the way Henry did. He dried and put away what few dishes remained and put some serving platters in the sink to soak.

  When he poked his head out to thank her, it was too late. She'd already kicked off her shoes and was asleep on the couch, snoring gently. Henry looked at the half-empty bottle of plum wine and smiled before covering her up with a green afghan Ethel had knitted. Ethel had always been crafty, but knitting had become a necessary pastime. It gave her something to do with her hands while she sat there during chemotherapy. Henry had been amazed that she could knit so well with an IV in her arm, but she didn't seem to mind.

  Henry felt a draft and noticed the front door was open. He could see his son's silhouette behind the screen door. Moths flitted in the porch light, pinging against the bulb, helplessly drawn to something they could never have.

  "Why don't you stay the night?" Henry asked, as he opened the screen door. He sat down next to Marty, waiting for an answer. "She's asleep, and it's too late to be out driving."

  "Says who?" Marty snapped back.

  Henry frowned a little. He knew his son hated it when he appeared to be bossing him around, even if the offer was genial. These were the times when he and Marty seemed to argue for the sake of arguing. And no one ever won.

  "I'm just saying that it's late ..."

  "Sorry, Pops," Marty said, checking his reaction. "I think I'm just tired. This year has been a rough one." He palmed an unlit cigarette. Ethel had finally succumbed to the cancer when it spread to her lungs. Henry had quit smoking years ago, but Marty still struggled--having quit when his mother became ill but sneaking smokes now and then.

  Henry knew how guilty his son felt about smoking while his mom was dying of lung cancer.

  Marty tossed the cigarette into the street. "I can't help thinking about Mom and how much things have changed the last few years."

  Henry nodded, looking out across the sidewalk. He could see into the front window of his neighbors' house. Their TV was on, and they were watching a Hispanic variety show of some kind. The neighborhood keeps changing, Henry thought as he looked down the block past the Korean bakery and a dry cleaner run by a nice Armenian family.

  "Can I ask you something, Pops?"

  Henry nodded again.

  "Did you keep Mom at home to spite me?"

  Henry watched a low-ride pickup truck boom down the alleyway. "What do you think?" he asked, knowing the answer but surprised that his son would ask such a direct question.

  Marty stood up and walked to the cigarette he'd tossed into the street. Henry thought he might pick up the dirty cigarette and light it. Instead Marty stepped on it, grinding it to pieces. "I used to think that. It didn't make sense to me, you know? I mean, this isn't exactly a plush neighborhood--we could have put her someplace with a view, with a rec room." Marty shook his head. "I think I get it now. It doesn't matter how nice home is--it just matters that it feels like home."

  Henry listened to the booming truck in the distance.

  "Did Yay Yay know about Keiko?" Marty asked. "Did Mom know?"

  Henry stretched and sat back. "Your grandfather knew, because I told him." He looked at his son, trying to gauge his reaction. "He stopped talking to me after that ..."

  Henry had told his son little about his childhood, and stories of Marty's grandfather were seldom shared. Marty rarely asked. Most of what he knew he'd gleaned from his mother.

  "But what about Mom?"

  Henry let out a big sigh and rubbed his cheeks where he'd forgotten to shave in the commotion of the last few days. The stubble reminded him of all those months, years caring for Ethel. How days would pass without his ever leaving the house, how he'd shave for no real reason, just out of habit. Then he'd occasionally let himself go--living with someone who didn't notice, who couldn't notice.

  "I'm not sure what your mom knew. We didn't talk about it."

  "You didn't talk about old flames?" Marty asked.

  "What old flames?" Henry laughed, a little. "I was the first boy she'd ever dated. It was different back then--not like now."

  "But you had one, evidently." Marty held out a sketchbook that had been sitting on the steps next to his jacket.

  Henry took it, flipping through the pages, touching the impressions where Keiko's pencil had danced across the paper. Feeling the texture of the drawings, he wondered why she had left her sketchbooks. Why she'd left everything behind. Why he had too.

  All these years, Henry had loved Ethel. He had been a loyal and dedicated husband, but he would walk blocks out of his way to avoid the Panama Hotel and the memory of Keiko. Had he known her belongings were still there ...

  Henry handed the sketchbook back to his son.

  "You don't want it?" Marty asked.

  Henry shrugged his shoulders. "I have the record. That's enough." A broken record, he thought. Two halves that will never play again.

  Sheldon's Record

  (1942)

  When Monday came, Henry was still beaming from finding Keiko and seeing Chaz hounded by the police. There was a bounce in his step as he left school and ran, walked, then ran some more, weaving around the smiling fishmongers of South King all the way over to South Jackson. People on the streets seemed happy. President Roosevelt had announced that Lieutenant Colonel James Doolittle had led a squadron of B-25s on a bombing raid of Tokyo. It seemed that morale had been boosted everywhere.

  When asked where the planes had launched from, the president had joked, telling reporters they'd come from Shangri-La-- which happened to be the name of a jazz club Henry wandered by on his way to find Sheldon.

  Locating him this late in the afternoon was an easy task. Henry just followed his ears, homing in on the bluesy notes coming from Sheldon's instrument, a tune Henry recognized--called "Writin' Paper Blues." It was one Sheldon had played in the club with Oscar. Most appropriate considering Henry still had to round up stationery for Keiko, among other things.

  Plunked down on an apartment step near where Sheldon was performing, Henry spotted a small mountain of change in the open sax case. That, and a vinyl record, a 78, propped up on a little wooden display. It was the same kind Henry's mother used in the kitchen to display what few pieces of fine china they could afford. A small, hand-painted sign read "As featured on Oscar Holden's new disk record."

  To Henry, the crowd looked about the same, but to his pleasant surprise, they clapped with much more vigor as Sheldon played his heart out. They clapped harder as he ended on a sweet, stinging note that echoed in the clatter and din of nickels, dimes, and quarters pinging into the sax case. The mound of coins was more money than Henry had ever seen, in pocket change anyway.

  Sheldon tipped his hat to the last of the crowd as they dispersed. "Henry, where you been, young sir? I haven't seen you running the streets on a weekend for two, three weeks now."

  It was true. Henry had been so busy at Camp Harmony, and hiding that fact from
his parents, that he hadn't seen Sheldon since E-day He felt a little guilty about his absences. "I've picked up a weekend job--at Camp Harmony, it's that place--"

  "I know. I know all about that place--been in the paper now for weeks. But how--tell me, how on God's green earth did this bit of intrigue come about ... this job?"

  It was a long story. And Henry didn't even know the ending. "Can I tell you later?

  I'm running errands and I'm running late-- and I need a favor. "

  Sheldon was fanning himself with his hat. "Money? Take what you need," he said, pointing to the case filled with silvery coins. Henry tried to guess how much was in there, twenty dollars at least, in half-dollars alone. But that wasn't the flat, round object Henry needed.