Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet

by Jamie Ford

  If the men and women thought it was odd that a Chinese boy was following them back to their quarters, they didn't say a word. They just spoke to each other in English and Japanese both, talking about the impending move--the conversation that seemed to echo in every area of the camp. It would be this coming week, Henry was certain of it now.

  Nearing the large building where most of the families in Area 4 lived, Henry was amazed at how normal life had become here. Grandfatherly old men sat in homemade chairs smoking pipes while small children played hopscotch and four square. Clusters of women tended to long lines of laundry and even weeded small gardens that had been planted in the barren soil.

  Henry slipped through the main entrance of the building--a huge, sliding barn door that had been left open to allow cool air to seep into the sweltering interior. Inside were rows and rows of stalls, most covered with makeshift privacy curtains hung by pieces of rope. Henry realized that the lucky ones had windows, bringing fresh air inside.

  The unlucky ones, well, they made do the best they could. Henry could hear a flute playing somewhere, among the noise of the crowds, which was surprisingly subdued the farther in he walked. Each stall accommodated one family, but they had evidently been cleaned by the new residents and didn't smell like horses or cows. Not in the slightest, much to Henry's surprise.

  Walking down the hallways between the rows of makeshift homes, Henry had no idea how he would find Keiko or her family. Some families had put up signs, or banners--in Japanese, English, and sometimes both. But many more stalls were left bare. Then he saw a sign above a curtain and knew this was where Keiko lived. The banner was written in English and read "Welcome to the Panama Hotel."

  Henry knocked on a wooden beam making up one corner of the stall. He knocked again. "Konichi wa."

  "Donata deu ka?" came from behind the curtain. Henry recognized the phrase as

  "Who is it?" The voice was Keiko's. When had she learned to speak Japanese? Then again, when had Henry started saying "Konichi wa"?

  "Is there a vacancy at the hotel?" he asked.

  There was a pause.

  "Maybe, but you might not like it, the sento bath in the basement is awfully crowded these days."

  She

  knew.

  "I'm just passing through, wouldn't mind staying for a while if you have room."

  "Let me check with my manager. Nope, sorry, we're all full. Maybe if you try the pig barn two buildings over. I hear they have some very nice rooms."

  Henry wandered off, taking noisy, exaggerated steps. "Okay thanks for the tip, have a nice day ..."

  Keiko pulled back the curtain. "For the boy who chased me down in the train station with soldiers running around, you sure give up easy!"

  Henry spun on his heel and walked back to where Keiko stood, then looked around the building, taking it all in. "Where's your family?"

  "Mom took my little brother to see the doctor about an earache he's been having, and you know about my dad--he left a week ago. He's finishing the roofing at the camp in Idaho. Our next stop. I've always wanted to travel, I guess this is my chance." Henry watched Keiko's face turn serious. "You've crossed some sort of line coming all the way down here, haven't you, Henry?"

  He just looked at her. She wore a yellow summer dress and sandals. Her hair was pulled back with a white ribbon from the present he had given her on her birthday.

  Strands of black hair fell at the sides of her face, which had tanned quite a bit since she'd been at Camp Harmony.

  He shrugged. "I'm breaking a lot of rules to be down here right now, but it's okay

  ..."

  "Of course you know I'm leaving then, don't you?" Keiko asked. "You got my letter. You know we're all leaving."

  Henry nodded, feeling sad but not wanting to show it, afraid that it might make Keiko feel even worse.

  "They're taking us to Minidoka next week. Buses have already taken some families from the other areas. I wish you could come with us."

  "Me too," Henry confessed. "I would if I could. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it."

  "About you coming with us, or me leaving with you?"

  "Either, I guess."

  "There's no place for me to go, Henry. Nihonmachi doesn't exist anymore. And I need to be here with my family. And you need to be with yours. I understand. We're not that different, you know."

  "I don't have much to go home to. But I can't go with you either, though I've thought about trying to blend in--how easy it would be to just get swept up in it all, to tag along. But I'm Chinese, not Japanese. They'd find out. Everyone would find out. I can't hide who I am. My parents would find out too, and they'd know where I'd gone. We'd all get in a lot more trouble than we'd know what to do with."

  "So what brings you all the way down here? Or is Mrs. Beatty with you?" Keiko asked, looking up and down the rows of stalls.

  How do I say this? Henry thought. What can I say that will make any difference, to anyone? "I just had to come see you, face-to-face. To tell you how sorry I am for the way I acted that first day at school."

  "I don't understand ..."

  "I was afraid of you. Honestly. Afraid of what my father might say or do. My father had said so many things--I just didn't know what to think. I didn't have any Japanese friends, let alone any ..." Henry couldn't bring himself to say the word girlfriends, but he trailed off in a way that he was certain Keiko knew what he meant.

  Keiko smiled and looked up at him, her brown eyes unblinking.

  "It's just that, this is probably our last time together--for a very long time. I mean, we don't know when you're ever coming back, or if you'll even be let back. I mean, there are senators that want to send you all back to Japan, win or lose."

  "It's true." Keiko nodded. "I'll still write--if you want me to? Does your father know about the letters?"

  Henry shook his head no. He reached out and took her hands in his, feeling her soft skin, looking at her slender fingers, slightly dirty from working in the camp.

  "I'm sorry I've caused so much trouble in your family," Keiko said. "I'll stop writing if that will make it better for you at home."

  Henry exhaled deeply. "I'll turn thirteen soon. The same age my father was when he left home and began working full-time back in the Old Country. I'm old enough to make my own decisions."

  Keiko leaned in closer. "And what decision is that, Henry?"

  He searched for the words. Nothing he ever learned in English class at Rainier Elementary could describe what was going on inside him. He'd seen movies where the hero takes the girl, where the music comes to a crescendo. He wanted so badly to wrap his arms around her and hold her and somehow keep her from going. But he also lived in a home where the most dramatic display of emotion was usually a nod and occasionally a smile. He'd just assumed all families were that way--all people too. Until he met Keiko and her family.

  "I ... it's just that ...," Henry stammered.

  What am I doing? I need to let her go, so she can be with her family-- with her own community. I need to let her move on.

  "I'm going to miss you," he said, letting go of her hands and putting his own in his pockets, looking at his feet.

  Keiko looked crushed. "More than you know, Henry."

  For the next hour, Henry stayed there, listening to Keiko talk about the little

  details. Like what kinds of toys her father was making for her little brother. Or how difficult it was to sleep with the noisy old lady who snored and broke wind through the night, even though she herself never woke up. The time passed quickly. Never once did they mention missing each other or how they felt again. They were together, alone even, but they might as well have been standing up at the visitors' fence-- Henry on one side, Keiko on the other--separated by razor wire.

  Stranger

  (1942)

  The ride home was more quiet than usual. Henry stared out the passenger window, watching the sun set one last time. Watching the farmland give way to the landscape of Boeing Field, its
enormous buildings draped in camouflage netting--a feeble attempt to keep entire factories hidden from enemy bombers. Henry didn't say a word, and Mrs. Beatty, perhaps out of sympathy, didn't either. She just left him to his thoughts.

  All of which were about Keiko.

  With the last of the prisoners taken to camps farther inland, Camp Harmony would revert back to being the site of the Washington State Fair just in time for the fall harvest season. Henry wondered if anyone going to the fair this year would feel different walking through the trophy barn, admiring prized heads of cattle. He wondered if anyone would even remember that, two months earlier, entire families had been sleeping there.

  Hundreds of them.

  But what now? Keiko would be on her way to Minidoka, Idaho, in a few days. A smaller work camp somewhere in the mountains near the Oregon border, he presumed. It was closer than Crystal City, Texas, but still seemed like a world away.

  Their good-bye had been a formal one. After he'd decided to let her go (for her own good, he reminded himself), he'd kept a polite distance, not wanting to make it any harder on either of them. She was his best friend. More than a friend, really. Much more.

  The thought of her leaving was killing him, but the thought of telling her how he really felt and then watching her go, that was more than his small heart could manage.

  Instead, he said good-bye with a wave and a smile. Not even a hug. She looked away, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands. He'd done the best thing, right? His father had said once that the hardest choices in life aren't between what's right and what's wrong but between what's right and what's best. The best thing was to let her go. And Henry had done just that.

  But his mind had filled with doubts.

  To his surprise, no one had even noticed he was gone. Or if they had, they hadn't cared enough to say anything. The truth was, the residents of Camp Harmony would be leaving, and the camp workers, the soldiers, all just wanted to go back to their lives. They had done their duty and were ready to wash their hands of the whole ugly matter once and for all.

  Mrs. Beatty was thoughtful enough to drop Henry off in Chinatown, a block from the apartment he shared with his family. She had never done that before.

  "I guess that's that," she said. "Stay out of trouble this summer--and don't go changing schools on me now. I still expect to see you in the kitchen this fall, got it?" Mrs.

  Beatty let the engine idle as she stubbed out a cigarette in a beanbag ashtray she kept on the dashboard for when the truck's ashtray got too full.

  "I'll be careful. I hope you hear some news about your father. I'm sure he's doing okay," Henry said, thinking about Mrs. Beatty's father and the crew of the SS City of Flint--merchant marines imprisoned somewhere in Germany, like Keiko and her family.

  Mrs. Beatty smiled slightly, nodding. "Thank you, Henry. Mighty thoughtful of you. I'm sure he'll get by. You will too." She struggled to put the truck in gear, then regarded Henry once more. "And so will Keiko."

  He watched her drive off, bumping along the potholed streets, her arm waving out the window. Then she rounded the corner and was gone. The streets were peaceful.

  Henry listened for Sheldon playing over on Jackson but heard only the rumble of trucks, the squeal of brakes, and a dog barking in the distance.

  He walked up the steps and down the hall to his apartment, the steamy smell of rice in the air. When he reached his home, the door was partially open and light spilled out. A shadow moved, the silhouette of an older man, but not that of his father.

  Henry stepped inside. His mother was sitting at the kitchen table, sniffling into a handkerchief, her eyes red and her nose puffy from crying. Henry recognized the man immediately by the stethoscope that hung around his neck. Dr. Luke, one of the few Chinese doctors who had a practice on South King--and still made house calls. He'd once come by when Henry had "fallen off the swing" at school (a beating actually, courtesy of Chaz Preston) and had a concussion. Henry had thrown up and passed out, and his mother had immediately called the local doctor. But Henry had been fine, and his mother, despite the tears, looked reasonably well. This time, she looked scared, her body shaking.

  That's when Henry knew.

  "Henry--your mother was just talking about you. You look like you've grown since my last visit." Dr. Luke was being polite, speaking in Chinese, but nervous too.

  What isn't he telling me? Henry thought.

  Henry's mother left her chair and fell to her knees, hugging him so hard it hurt.

  "What's the matter? Where's Father?" Henry asked, guessing the answer.

  She propped herself up, wiping the tears from her eyes, and spoke in a positive tone that somehow didn't fit the news she was about to share. "Henry, your father's had a stroke. Do you know what that is?"

  He shook his head no. Though he had some vague recollection of Old Man Wee in the fish market, who always talked funny and used only his right arm to weigh the day's catch.

  "Henry, it's a very bad stroke," Dr. Luke said, putting his hands on Henry's small shoulders. "Your father is tough, and stubborn. I think he's going to pull through, but he's going to need rest--for at least a month. And he can barely talk. He might gain some of that back, but for right now, it's going to be difficult for all of us. Especially him."

  The only words Henry heard were "he can barely talk." Father had barely said anything when he could, and in the last two months hadn't said a single word to Henry.

  Not even a good night. Not a hello, or a good-bye.

  "Is he going to die?" was all Henry could think of to ask, his voice cracking.

  Dr. Luke shook his head, but Henry saw through to the truth. He looked at his mother, and she looked terrified, not saying a thing. What could she say?

  "Why did this happen? ... How?" Henry asked his mother as well as Dr. Luke.

  "These things just happen, Henry," Dr. Luke answered. "Your father gets worked up about so many things, and he's not a young man inside. He lived such a hard life back in China. It ages a body. And now so much worry, with the war ..."

  A wave of guilt crashed over Henry. He was sinking beneath it. His mother took his hand. "Not your fault. Don't think this. Not your fault--his fault, understand?"

  Henry nodded to make his mother feel better, but he was torn inside. He had so little in common with his father. He had never understood him. But still, he was the only father he had, the only one he would ever have.

  "Can I see him?" Henry asked.

  Henry watched his mother's eyes meet Dr. Luke's; the doctor paused, then nodded. At the door of his parents' room, Henry could smell Buddhist incense burning, along with some kind of cleaning solution. His mother turned on a small lamp in the corner. As Henry's eyes adjusted, he beheld his father, looking small and frail. He lay like a prisoner of his bed--the covers pulled up tight around his chest, which seemed to move in a jerky, uneven rhythm. His skin was pale, and one side of his face looked bloated, like it had been in a fight while the other side watched and did nothing. His arm lay at his side, palm up; a long tube connected at his wrist led to a bottle of clear fluid that hung from the bedpost.

  "Go on, Henry; he can hear you," Dr. Luke said, prodding him forward.

  Henry walked to the side of the bed, afraid that touching his father would injure him or push him closer to his ancestors.

  "It's okay, Henry, I think he'd want to know you're here." His mother gently caressed his nervous shoulder, taking his hand and putting it in his father's frail, limp fingers. "Say something, let him know you're here."

  Say something? What can I possibly say now? And in what language? Henry took the "I am Chinese" button off his shirt and set it on the nightstand near what he assumed to be his father's medicine. There were assorted brown glass bottles, some with labels in English while others, herbal concoctions, were labeled in Chinese.

  Henry watched his father open his eyes, blinking twice. Henry couldn't tell what lurked behind that stricken, expressionless face. Still, he knew what he had to say.
"Deui mh jyuh." It meant, "I am unable to face," a formal apology when you're admitting guilt or fault. Henry felt his mother's hand on his face for a moment, a caress of comfort.

  His father looked up at him, his mind straining to force his disobedient body into activity. Each movement of his mouth took incredible effort. Just breathing in and out enough to generate sound appeared nearly impossible. Still, his fingers gripped Henry's so slightly it was almost imperceptible. And a single phrase slipped out. "Saang jan."

  It meant "stranger." As in "You are a stranger to me."

  Thirteen

  (1942)

  One month later Henry grew up, or so it felt. He turned thirteen, the age that many laborers had left China two generations earlier in search of Chinshan--the Gold Mountain, seeking their fortunes in America. It was the same age his father had been when he took a job as a laborer, the age Henry's father considered a boy to be a man. Or a girl to be a woman, for that matter, since arranged marriages often happened as early as thirteen--the age a girl's education typically ended--and only for those who could afford such arrangements.