Southland

by Nina Revoyr

  What struck her immediately was that the coffee shop was filled mostly with old people, about equal numbers Asian and black. She had seen gatherings of elderly Asian people; she’d seen gatherings of elderly blacks; but never before had she seen the two in one place. It was such a surprise to her, so visually inconceivable, that it was as if someone had taken footage of two senior citizens’ groups and then skillfully spliced them together. There, in front of her, a table full of Japanese grandmothers. Two tables behind her sat three older black men. There were a few tables where old couples sat together, including a squat and hawkeyed woman who looked at her closely, certain she had seen her before. One large table held three Asian couples. And here and there, interspersed with these single-race groups, were groups of Asian and black people together. Then Jackie became aware of a loud, hollow striking sound, and realized she was hearing people bowl. When she looked to the right, she saw another door, which led to the bowling alley. Listening more carefully, she could make out the low rumble of bowling balls and the buzz of conversation from the other part of the building. She remembered her grandfather, during a rare thunderstorm one summer, telling her that thunder was the sound of the gods bowling. She’d have to go investigate when she was finished with breakfast.

  She pulled the menu out now, opened it, flattened it on the table. Here, more hodge-podge: hot links, donburi, jambalaya, ramen, hamburgers, corn bread, sashimi. For breakfast, there were omelets with home fries or rice. She looked up, slightly dizzy from the oddness and variety of her choices, and saw that the Sumitomo Bank clock read 9:15. She wondered if anyone here had known her grandfather.

  When the old waitress wandered back to her table, Jackie ordered two fried eggs and sausage. Then she took out the newspaper she’d brought and pretended to read until the food arrived. Although she wasn’t very hungry, she shoveled it down, and when the waitress came back to take her empty dishes away, Jackie thanked her. Then, after clearing her throat, she asked, “Did you happen to know a man named Frank Sakai?”

  The woman looked startled. “Frank Sakai,” she said. “Yes, a very nice man. I’m sorry, but he died a few weeks ago.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m his granddaughter. I came down here because I knew that he met friends here sometimes.”

  “His granddaughter!” The woman looked so surprised that Jackie was afraid she’d drop the plate. Now she leaned forward, peering at Jackie more closely. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Your grandfather was a wonderful man.”

  Then she turned quickly and walked away. Was the woman so overcome that she had to flee? But no—she was headed toward another table, the one with the hawk-eyed woman, half of a couple about the waitress’s age. The waitress stopped right next to them and said a few words. The man looked up at her sharply, and even from twenty feet away, Jackie heard him say, “Granddaughter!” The waitress turned and pointed at Jackie, and when the man spotted her he grinned and waved her over. Jackie hesitated a moment; then she stood and walked over to the couple’s table.

  “Frank Sakai’s granddaughter,” the man repeated as she approached. “The law school student, right?”

  “Right,” Jackie answered. She turned to look at the waitress, but she was already gone.

  “Bradley Nakamura,” the man offered. Then he nodded toward the woman. “And this is Christina, my wife.”

  “Call me Tina,” the woman said. Mr. Nakamura reached behind him and pulled another chair over, the legs squeaking across the tiles. Jackie sat. Nakamura was a short, squarish man, with sun-browned skin and cheeks split with deep creases from smiling. His wife was stockier, with thick curls of silver hair. Behind her glasses, her eyes were sharp and watchful. “I thought I recognized you. Bradley and I went to the funeral. We’re very sorry about your grandfather.”

  “What brings you down here?” Mr. Nakamura asked. “Want to check out your grandpa’s old haunts? From what he used to say, you usually stay locked in the library.”

  Jackie shifted in her chair. It bothered her that this man knew the outline of her life when she hadn’t even known he existed. “Kind of,” she responded. “My mother grew up around here and I’ve never seen it. No one ever brought me around.”

  “Your grandfather did,” said Mrs. Nakamura quietly, and the other two turned to face her. “When you were little. Brought you in here for breakfast, even.”

  Jackie cocked her head. “Really? I don’t remember that at all.”

  Mrs. Nakamura put her coffee cup down. “Well, it was a Saturday, if I remember correctly. And your grandfather always came here on Saturdays for breakfast and bowling, even after the family moved to Gardena. He just stopped coming regularly a few years ago, in fact. Anyway, I think he was babysitting that day. Later he told us that your mother got mad at him for bringing you here.” She laughed. “I guess she didn’t think it was safe.”

  “I don’t think that was the problem,” Jackie said. Suddenly she felt a rush of anger—why didn’t her mother want Jackie to see the place that her grandfather loved? Why would she deny her daughter this connection to her past? How many other things— stories, people, places, histories—had Rose denied her daughter? After a few moments, Jackie remembered the Nakamuras, who were looking at her curiously. “How long did you know my grandfather?”

  “Almost all my life,” Mrs. Nakamura replied. “I was born in 1940, right before the war, and I spent most of my first few years in the camps. And after we came back to Angeles Mesa, we always shopped at your grandfather’s store. He was such a compassionate man. My brother Harry was a No-No Boy, and Frank was one of the few people who didn’t treat him like he had a disease.” She paused, thinking about her brother. When the loyalty questionnaires were circulated at Manzanar, Harry, who was fighting age, had answered No, No. It wouldn’t have been so awful, maybe, if he’d done this out of principle. But he didn’t appear to be either protesting the internment or signaling allegiance to Japan. He had simply said no. As a result, he was sent to Tule Lake with the rest of the No-No Boys, and Tina’s family was shunned. And when the family moved back to Angeles Mesa, Harry was refused jobs by whites and Japanese. Eventually, tired of the shame he was bringing on the family and the harassment of Nisei vets, Harry left without leaving a note. “You don’t know how unusual Frank’s attitude was,” she said, “especially for a military man.”

  Jackie was half moved and half uncomfortable. “Do you know anything about his years in the army?”

  “Not because of him, of course—he never talked about the war. But I met someone once who fought with Frank, and he said your grandfather was the best soldier in his battalion. It always struck me, because he seemed like such a peaceful man to me. He was a small man, you know, and so mild. He had none of the swagger of some of the other Nisei vets.”

  Jackie felt slightly queasy now. It disconcerted her to know that her grandfather was capable of killing someone. She had known in theory that being a soldier meant having to hurt other people, to kill them, but she hadn’t actually thought about the more brutal aspects of her grandfather’s service. Her own war, the Gulf War, hadn’t seemed quite real—so sudden, and over as soon as it started. Her strongest memory of the war came not from any of the protests she witnessed, or the images she saw on TV, but from a perfect summer day the August before President Bush set out to liberate Kuwait. She was at the beach with Laura, among thousands of other people, all laughing, splashing, smoothing on lotion, playing volleyball, tossing footballs and Frisbees. Then, from the east, a buzzing, which grew louder and nearer, until they saw the first planes, small and flying low to the ground. Soon the sky was thick with them—thousands it seemed, as far as the eye could see, so loud Jackie covered her ears. She stared up at the planes, which went on and on and on for ten minutes or more, and after they were gone, the last of them shrinking to small points on the horizon, Jackie noticed how quiet it was. She looked around her then. And all down the beach, the swimmers, the sunbathers, the tossers had stopped. All of them—thousands—we
re standing there, stunned, still staring off into the sky.

  She looked at Tina Nakamura now, trying to keep her expression neutral. “Are any of these men still around? Do any of them come here?”

  “Not really, no. And a lot of your grandfather’s friends have passed.”

  “What about Kenji Hirano?” asked Mr. Nakamura. “Isn’t he still around?”

  “That’s right,” she replied. “He is.” In fact, he was around that very day, which Tina knew, because she’d glimpsed him in the bowling alley when she’d gone to the restroom. But she didn’t want to set Frank’s grandchild on that particular path—not without thinking about it, not without warning, although she wasn’t sure who she was trying to protect.

  “Kenji Hirano’s been in the neighborhood forever,” her husband said. “Knew your grandpa a lot better than we did. He’d be a good person to talk to, if you’ve got the patience for it.”

  “Does he come here?” Jackie asked.

  “Yes,” answered Mrs. Nakamura. “But he’s old, you know, and he’s not always completely coherent. He and his friends still meet on Tuesday mornings to bowl.”

  “Maybe I’ll come back and talk to him,” said Jackie. Then, worrying that she was pushing too much, but unable to stop herself, “Do you know Akira Matsumoto or Derek Broadnax? I found their names in some of my grandfather’s papers.”

  “Akira I know,” said Mrs. Nakamura. “He worked for Frank at the store. A real hot-head, if I remember. I think he ended up going to Japan to write for an English-language newspaper, didn’t he, Bradley?”

  “But you don’t know Derek Broadnax?”

  “Well, there was a Derek who worked for him, too, but I don’t know what happened to him. Everyone seemed to scatter so fast, you know, after Frank shut down the store. It was a real shame, I’ll tell you. The neighborhood was never the same after your grandfather left.”

  Jackie tried not to look at her too closely. Before, she’d wondered if the Nakamuras were just being considerate in not mentioning the murders, but now she was starting to think they didn’t know about them. Why were so few people aware of what had happened? And if people didn’t even know about it, then how were she and Lanier going to find anyone to corroborate his theory? She finished her coffee, made some final small talk, and decided she’d had enough for the day. She was excited about her leads on Akira Matsumoto and this older man Hirano, but she was starting to feel her schoolwork looming like a pile of unpaid bills. And it was only later, after she’d paid for her meal and was driving home to Fairfax, that she realized she’d never gone into the bowling alley.

  As soon as she left, Bradley looked at his wife and sighed. “You think introducing her to Kenji is such a good idea?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know how helpful it would be to either of them.” And she thought about Kenji, the old shell of a man in the next room. She remembered how he had changed after the Sakais left Crenshaw; how his comments, more and more, were directed only to God, and how even his rare moments of lucidity grew fewer and further between, until they’d disappeared altogether. She had known this man, too, for most of her life. Finally, Tina got up and wandered back into the bowling alley. Kenji and his friends—Aaron Bennett, Trace McKinney, and the Third LeRon Johnson—had finished bowling, and the old man was sitting at a table behind the rail, nodding at his paper cup of coffee. “Kenji,” she said, stopping in front of him.

  He raised his head quickly. “Yep, bowled a 285 today. Jesus was watching over me.”

  “That’s great, Kenji.” She wondered, not for the first time, what it was like to be inside his head; to go home to an empty house for forty years. No one really knew what was wrong with him—he’d been functional enough to work as a gardener for most of his life, and he kept himself immaculate and organized. He had friends, Frank among them, people who didn’t question the odd swayings of his mind; who accepted his crooked readings of the world. “Listen, Kenji,” Tina said. “I just met Frank’s granddaughter.”

  Kenji kept looking at her for a moment, the fine lines in his eyes getting darker. Then he looked over at the lanes. “Yep, 285. Not bad considering I only had one cup of coffee this morning.”

  Tina felt her heart sink. She didn’t know if he understood. “She wants to talk to you, Kenji. Not today. But she wants to know some things about Frank.”

  The old man stared at the lane and slid his cup back and forth, paper scraping softly over wood. His voice, when he spoke, sounded pained. “It’s so cold in here. So cold.” He crumpled his cup and left it on the table, then stood and walked stiff-legged to the door. And Tina, looking after him, wondered at his head. She picked up the scorecard he’d left behind to fan herself absentmindedly, fighting off the stifling heat.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  KENJI, 1955

  KENJI HIRANO was closer to Jesus than most people, so when He advised him to take up bowling as a way to occupy his hands, Kenji went down to the Holiday Bowl that very day. It was 1955, and Kenji had just turned thirty-six. His father Seiichi, who was suspicious of all forms of sport, had to defer to the Lord in the case of his son. It was Seiichi, after all, who had written the bishop in Japan back in 1912 and asked if he could confess his sins—and be pardoned—through international mail. The horrified bishop, realizing the dire situation of the tiny flock in Southern California, arranged for the formation of the Catholic church in Little Tokyo. Seiichi Hirano was and continued to be one of the most influential members. A cheerful, rugged man, he’d made his trip to the Land of Rice on faith alone. Denied a visa in Japan, he’d taken a ship to Mexico, fighting off heat, snakes, sandstorms, starvation, and a pack of masked bandits (Catholic, so he believed they wouldn’t hurt him) on his way up the bent elbow of Baja, California. Once in the City of Angels—he chose Los Angeles over San Francisco because it sounded more holy—he spent several years at the mercy of the sour-breathed labor agents who took huge cuts from his pay and lied about the nature of the back-breaking jobs they found him. Finally, he joined up with another laborer and started a gardening business. He’d never worked as a gardener before, but this didn’t concern him—he was from a farming family and knew how to grow things. Gardening was just a matter of water and balance and what you did with your tools, plus a few rocks you dragged down from the mountains. So with the help of Jesus, whom he asked to bless his shears, truck, and lawnmower, he and his partner prospered.

  Seiichi eventually saved the money he needed to send for a picture bride. Noriko, the young girl who became his wife, was from one of the few Catholic families in Wakayama Prefecture. Once she got over her fear of the crowded American sidewalks and the sputtering of cars, she found a job at the orphanage on Alameda Street for abandoned and homeless children—many of whom had been deposited there, it was rumored, by the women engaged in shameful work near Chinatown. Kenji, the couple’s only child, spent his early years going to church twice during the week and all day on Sunday. But by ten years after the second world war had ended, Jesus was less a distant deity the Hiranos went to church to worship, and more like a member of the family. The wisest member, though. So when Jesus instructed Kenji to start in with the new craze of bowling, all the Hiranos paid attention. Especially after what happened the one time that Kenji had ignored his advice.

  Kenji defied the Son of God in the fall of 1942, soon after the Hiranos had been evacuated to Heart Mountain. He became convinced that he and his new wife, Yuki, should have a baby, because of the rumor that all Nisei men would soon be sterilized. His wife did not believe the rumors—the government, she knew, would never resort to such measures—but she liked the idea of having a baby. And besides, there was very little to do with all their leisure time but try. But then, one already-cold evening, as Kenji took a walk along the border of the camp, getting as close to the fence as he dared to with the snake-like rifles sniffing his way, Jesus fell in step beside him. He was wearing a government-issue peacoat just like the internees so as not to draw the guards’ attention,
but his flowing beard, the bleeding scars on his hands, his limp from the wounds on his feet, were unmistakable. “It is not time, my child,” He said.

  Kenji didn’t want to seem disrespectful, so he folded his hands together and nodded. “But the rumors,” he said, not looking his Lord in the eye.

  “Nevermind them,” said Jesus. “Wait awhile. Your child is not yet ready to enter the world.”

  Kenji nodded, but didn’t pay the words much heed. Jesus couldn’t understand such earthly matters. Besides, he and Yuki were enjoying themselves, sneaking brief, clutching moments in their barracks when his parents were out; and in the mess hall after lunch; and in the closet of the supplies office where she worked afternoons, boxes of bandages falling down on their heads. Their marriage had been arranged by their parents and negotiated by two baishakunin who were also members of their church. And while the two intendeds had liked each other—they were both good-looking and educated, and very devout Catholics—they’d been shaped just enough by the country of their birth to regret not marrying for love. So when they found themselves, a year into their marriage, starting to grin and blush and shiver in each other’s presence; starting to feel like it was Christmas morning every day, they knew that they were the luckiest couple alive. Yuki finally missed her period in November, and they celebrated with two rare, fresh oranges that a friend had smuggled out of the camp kitchen.

  A few months later, when the recruiters came, Kenji signed up for the army. He was sent to Camp Shelby for boot camp with the other Nisei men, but allowed to come back to Wyoming for the birth of his child. When he stepped into the barracks he’d left five months before, he hardly recognized his wife. She was puffed up all over, her features bloated and exaggerated from the salt tablets the doctors had prescribed to fend off dehydration. He had never seen a woman look this way—pillow-like, almost comical—and worry settled in his gut like a pile of stones. A few days after he arrived, Yuki went into labor. Kenji took her to the camp hospital, where they were shunted into a corner, shut off from the rest of the patients by a hanging brown blanket. A nurse came once to talk to Yuki and take her temperature; then she disappeared. But Yuki’s contractions, her pain, her moaning went on for hours, and Kenji, between prayers, finally emerged from behind the blanket to ask the nurse where the doctor was. The nurse looked uncomfortable. She finally informed him that there were only two doctors capable of delivering a baby, and that one of them, a Nisei woman, had been suspended for treating—and thus endangering—the white employees of the camp. The other, the hakujin, was not in the hospital, and she didn’t reveal her suspicion that he was being entertained by a certain large-busted Nisei woman who’d been given a private room. They stayed there—nurse, Kenji, Yuki—through one sunrise, one sunset, and part of another sunrise, Kenji pleading and praying, catching snippets of sleep between his wife’s contractions. Finally, the nurse determined that the baby could not emerge through the normal avenues, and she ran off to the Nisei woman’s barracks to fetch the doctor. Kenji held his wife’s hand and looked into her sweating face—the rounded cheeks, the pert but nowspreading nose. “If it’s a boy,” she said, “we name him Timothy, after my brother.”