“Mrs. who?”
“Jericho.”
“As in Joshua fought the battle of Jericho?”
“You know her?” My aunt looked surprised. “You met her?”
“No, why?”
“I thought you know her. She has son named Joshua.”
I laughed, Tom laughed, and Emi said, “I need a cookie.” We all sat around the table and ate from a tin of raisin cookies. Papa even entered the kitchen and ate one.
“We could be at this house for Christmas,” said my aunt. “We could get a tree with a string of lights.”
We were really going to move. And this time, we weren’t being forced out of our home with regret. We were all glad to be rid of the apartment.
Thankfully, friends of my aunt let us use an old Ford truck to haul our belongings to the new house. Tom, Papa, and I lifted the four twin beds onto the truck, as well as the lumpy couch, kitchen table, and chairs.
The new house had a large porch with two rocking chairs that made me nostalgic for Mr. Kubo. I recalled how he’d built matching chairs for his makeshift porch at camp, and the thought of him made me miss the strong presence he had been in my life. Inside was drafty with wooden floors that echoed when you walked. But it had space. And four bedrooms! That meant I got my own. My own bedroom! Just putting those three words together was sweeter than a slice of apple pie. Emi and Tom were excited to have their own rooms, and our aunt said having a bedroom to herself was zeitaku, which she translated as a luxury.
And Papa, Papa planted himself on the couch and said it was fine.
Someone from the church brought over a box filled with three kinds of cereal, a loaf of Wonder bread, bologna, mayonnaise, milk, Granny Smith apples, butter, and a box of chocolate cookies. We feasted on bologna sandwiches, apples, and chocolate cookies the first night in our new home.
We had cutlery and plates, a few glasses, and cups for tea, but we realized that in a larger house it was much more evident that we had less than we thought we had. Our belongings were sparse.
“Once we had lots of dishes, and linens and blankets and even antiques from Japan,” my aunt recalled. “But where did all that go? They told us to put our items in boxes and that they would ship them to us.” She said no more after that.
The day after we moved, I took a trip down to the pawn shop to look for items we needed.
The owner, Mr. Rizzardi, was an immigrant from Italy and spoke with his hands. Each time I inquired about an item, he told me the price by lifting his hands and wiggling his fingers. It was comical, but I tried to hold my laughter. I didn’t want to offend him, and hoped he would cut me a break and give me some poor man discounts.
In the corner, I saw a wooden bed, the headboard carved from red oak. Immediately I thought of how nice the bed would be for Papa. I tried to bargain with Mr. Rizzardi. “Five? I’ll give you five.”
“Five? You joking with me?” He raised his hands. “No, no. That bed is not going anywhere for less than fifteen.”
Papa probably wouldn’t sleep in a bed anyway, I thought, even if I told him I’d bought it for him. I moved from the bed and walked around the shop. I saw bookcases, armchairs, and even a red wagon. But what caught my eye was in a corner. Inside a box was a pink teapot. Along with the pot were matching plates, eight of them. I looked one over and checked for cracks or chips. “How much?”
“Twenty cents.”
“Ten.”
He started to raise his hands and instead, slapped them both against the glass showcase that held jewelry and watches. “You got a deal!”
In my pocket I found a dime and paid for the dishes. Aunt Kazuko would be excited to have a new teapot to make her tea in, and eight plates would be perfect to set our kitchen table with. The whole walk home I felt happy.
When I stepped onto our porch, Aunt Kazuko greeted me. She must have been waiting, seated on a rocking chair. “You never believe this,” she said.
“What?”
Leading me into the living room, she giggled.
And there it was, a piece of our past—Mama’s piano! The box of dishes almost slipped from my hands. I handed it to my aunt and then just stood there, staring. Certain that I was dreaming, I looked for other signs, something to tell me that I was not. Quickly, I went over to the 1927 Gulbransen fifty-five-inch upright, but before getting to it, I tripped on one of Emi’s building blocks and jarred my ankle. The pain helped me know that I was fully awake, and that this piano was actually here before me.
Emi and Tom entered the room, singing in unison that we had a piano. Tom sometimes forgot that he was a teenager around four-year-old Emi. Instead of acting older, he played along with her as though he were a pre-schooler.
Aunt Kazuko said, “Henderson brought it over. He called and said, ‘I have your piano.’”
“Who is Henderson?” I touched the walnut top, the matching bench, opened the seat, and felt a lump fill my chest as I saw the music sheets still nestled inside. I pulled one out: “Jesus Loves Me.” Mama had taught me how to play that. She hadn’t let me outside for the neighborhood baseball game until I’d gotten it perfect.
My aunt repeated my question. “Who is Henderson? Who is Henderson? Our old neighbors. Henderson O’Farley worked at the canning company. Don’t you remember nothing?”
Ah, yes, the O’Farley family. Good folk who had come to America to escape some sort of family feud in Ireland.
“They kept our piano for us. When they moved to San Francisco in 1943 to work at Henderson’s brother’s restaurant, they asked for somebody else to keep piano for us.”
“And who did?”
“They stored it here, at the canning company. Can you believe it?”
“No.”
“Today Henderson was in town visiting sister and had the piano put on a truck to bring to us. And also, boxes. My things I put in boxes when we had to go to Santa Anita!” She’d already opened one of the boxes and pulled out a few books. Now she shoved a grayish photo album into my hands. “This was what I put in a box when they said to pack up all our things. I put it on the piano bench and Henderson kept it for me. Can you believe it?”
“No,” I said, which seemed to be all I was capable of saying today.
“Sure enough, there was my money still inside the photo album. Just like I always told you.”
My attention turned from the piano. “Money? How much?”
She glistened like a Christmas tree ornament. “Sixty dollars.”
“That’s great.”
“I know. I am so happy. I thank God over and over and then I must call Mrs. Jericho to tell her that was answer to prayer.”
I smiled as my aunt continued to beam at us all. Mama, I almost said aloud. We are reunited with your piano. I bent over to check the front right leg of the bench and sure enough, there was that large scratch on it. That scratch was what made us able to afford it. Papa said afterward, “It is amazing how one little blemish can make ordinary folk think that an item must be discarded.”
“Well,” said my aunt. “Don’t just stare. It won’t bite you. Play.”
Could I play? What should I play?
“What can you play for us?” Tom asked, as though reading my mind.
Hesitantly, I sat on the bench and opened the lid to display those ivory and black keys. I breathed in nostalgia, a summer breeze, the feeling of being ten and eleven years old, even the aroma of hot dogs grilling on a Sunday afternoon.
“Look at it,” said Tom. “It’s a real piano.”
He and Emi crowded around my elbows, one on each side.
“Let him play. Now shoo,” said my aunt. “Come into the kitchen with me to help me with dinner.”
They protested, pleaded to stay, but soon knew that listening to their aunt was the best decision. They followed her into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the room.
Now it was just me and the piano.
I lifted my right hand and let my fingers rest against the middle C. Pressing it, the sound that c
ame out was hollow. I hit it again. It was hopeless. It was as though my fingers would not bend to the keys. My joints felt stiff. After a moment, I spread my fingers over the keys and let the weight of them heave against the ivories.
“What is that noise?” Aunt Kazuko rushed into the living room, her hands holding a dish towel.
I looked up. “I think I’ll go for a walk,” I said.
“You need tea?”
No, no, I don’t need tea. I shook my head.
“You need a good woman.”
“What?”
“You need love, sharing an ice cream float with two straws, a movie at the theater, a ride in a convertible. Top down.”
“You’ve been reading too many of those paperback romances.”
She snorted. “At least I know what to do. You—you just sit and dream. Too much dreaming is no good. You have to start living.”
Chapter Twenty-four
It was easier to dream than it was to face reality.
Reality reminded me that we needed money. When we first arrived back in San Jose, I had my savings from working at the camp. My aunt had been smart to hide money in a photo album. But all of our money was running out. I needed to find work. My dream of owning our fish shop again seemed dismal to me now. I didn’t know enough about fish to hold a business based on buying and selling them. Back in jail, I had dreamed about Papa helping me, but that was back before I knew what accusations, confinement, and losing a spouse could do to a man’s heart.
On one of my walks I went down East Empire Street to see a shop that was for rent. SHOP FOR LEASE the bold letters read from a thick piece of plywood that was propped up inside against the showcase window. Seeing that there were no derogatory words against my race on that sign or any in the window, I wrote down the phone number that was also printed on the sign.
My pencil and pad of paper were often stuffed into my back pants pocket. An English teacher I once had, repeatedly told our class to always carry pen and paper because one never knew when inspiration might strike. “Be ready,” she’d said. “Never expect your memory to recall a great thought. Always rely on writing it down. That way it is saved forever.”
Within seconds of copying the number, I realized I was not alone on the sidewalk.
“Evening.” A middle-aged man in a hat and cardigan greeted me.
“Good evening.”
“It would make a fine place to have a store.”
“Do you know how much it is to rent?” I asked, as I peered in the window and saw a bare floor, a counter, tables, and a few empty crates.
He eyed me a few times. Gruffly, he said, “Sixty a month.”
Taking in a breath of air, I ran the number over in my mind. The shop was nothing special; how could he get away with asking sixty? The house we were renting was far bigger than this place, and we only paid forty-two dollars each month. “Sixty,” I said. “Sixty,” I said again, realizing the enormity of the number.
“That would be affirmative.”
“Are you the one I would rent from?”
“That would be affirmative, too.”
“Can I go inside?”
He looked me over again. “What is your name?”
Quickly, I crammed the pencil and notepad into my pocket. I stood as tall as I could and extended my hand. “Nathan Mori,” I said. I tried not to flinch when he shook my hand with the strength of a bodybuilder.
“Lived here long?” he asked. He locked his eyes with mine.
Discomfort came over me. Was I going to have to tell him that I used to live here but had been sent away after Pearl Harbor? That I was born here but not recognized as a citizen with constitutional rights? I swallowed hard. This was not the time to voice political views. I only wanted a shop and a way to provide for my family. Yet, if I gave him an answer he didn’t like, would he choose not to let me in? God, help me, I prayed. What was the correct reply? My mind buzzed until at last the words came out. “I love San Jose. How about you?”
“You can’t beat the weather here, that’s for sure,” he said. “I’m Jonathan Jones, by the way.” And then, he was unlocking the front door, and soon I was inside.
The next day while Tom was at school, my aunt was cleaning the wealthy house, and Emi was playing at our neighbor’s, I prepared to set out to the Empire Street location again. I was going to talk the man down. Sixty a month was too much. During the “tour” of the inside of the shop yesterday, I knew that the bare shop with a small restroom in the back and an even smaller storage closet was not worth a sixty-dollar-a-month price tag.
Papa was on the front porch when I headed out. Seated in one of the rockers, he had the morning paper spread out before him. He turned a page and focused on the sports section. “The Yankees won last night,” he said.
“What was the score?”
Silently, he turned the page, and became absorbed in something far beyond baseball. I got a glimpse of the caption under a photo: “Hiroshima atomic bomb victims.”
I wanted him to put the paper away and look at me. “Papa.” I hoped he heard me. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”
He removed a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and nodded my way.
“Do you think I should try to open a fish market?”
He lit a cigarette and together we watched the smoke curl and drift away from us. Solemnly he said, “Nobu, you have always been able to do the right thing.”
I thought of our watch—gone. Not just gone, but stolen. Or given away. Or something. Regardless of how it left our possession, it was not ours anymore. That was the point. A watch that had been gifted to my grandfather—a man who was no longer alive—would not be passed down to the next generations. I would never be able to tell my children the story of the watch, and at the end, show them the shiny gold piece. I was sure that I had done the right thing to demand it back. But should I have fought harder? Should I have taken it to the court in Cheyenne? Would a jury of my peers have seen it my way?
Papa patted the chair next to him.
I didn’t want to sit. I had work to do, decisions to make. I’d sit for a few minutes, just to appease him.
He smoked. I listened to the sounds from the streets. Cars, dogs in the distance, an occasional voice calling for someone, the cry of a cat. A door opened, another one slammed. What did God have for us? How were we to sustain this family?
“Papa, do you think God has a plan for us here? If so, why are things so hard?”
I waited, and when I looked over at my father, I knew that he wouldn’t be answering me. His eyes were closed; his head leaned against the wall. He was asleep.
I studied him for a moment before entering the house. What went on in his mind? Why couldn’t he work like all the other papas? How could he have let the past reduce him to half a man?
Inside, I sat at the piano. I could play something simple. Something Mama never played. Nothing came to me. All I could hear was a voice that belonged to another woman, one much younger, and equally as beautiful.
I had dreamed of being back in San Jose. Back with the warm breezes, the balmy dry climate, the bright blue skies, the swaying palms, and gardens of flowers. But now that I was back, my thoughts kept returning to Heart Mountain. At least there she had been close by. Always. There, even though I lived through fear, uncertainty, confinement, and separation from Papa, I had had her presence. Each day, I knew that I would see her. If I didn’t get an opportunity to talk with her, at least I could watch her from a distance, and at night, her voice filled our billet with her songs.
Now I found myself humming the tunes to those songs. When Tom turned the radio on, I listened for her voice. Her parents who lived on the edge of San Jose said she was in Manhattan making a record. I also heard from someone else that she was in Washington State sitting on a pier waiting for Ken to come back to America. I hoped that the latter was not true.
There were nights when I was desperate to hear her voice.
After dinner, Tom did his homework
and my aunt read to Emi from a donated picture book. Papa sat at the kitchen table reading the evening newspaper. I once read the News, but then, when a letter to the editor showed that there was anxiety about Japanese—whether they be Issei, Nissei or Sansei—and that propaganda was out there against yellow-skinned people, I refused to subject myself to the paper again.
I went into the living room and sat at the piano bench. When Papa found his spot on the sofa, I contemplated pawning the piano. This piano would certainly bring some much-needed money for us. Mr. Rizzardi should be able to sell it to someone. As I recalled the day that Mama had found it at a little shop, and Papa had later bought it for her one Christmas, Papa asked me to play.
At first I ignored him. He seldom responded to any of us, so I felt he deserved the same treatment.
“Play Chopin.”
I said I had an appointment to go to.
“Don’t neglect your talent.”
“What talent?”
He just nodded at me, his chin jutted out like it was a ruler pointing me into some sort of direction.
Suddenly, Emi had joined me at the piano bench.
“Teach her some songs,” my aunt said, as she entered the living room, pulling in one of the chairs from the kitchen. She sat on it and opened a worn paperback.
Emi put a tiny hand over a few of the keys. “Can you play this?” She looked at me intently.
I sighed. Could I? Mechanically, I hit each key to play the scales, starting with middle C.
She watched closely. I played them again and again until she said, “Can you do anything else but that? It’s getting on my nerves.”
“Why don’t you try?”
I placed her index finger on the C key. “This is C. Before it are A and B and after it are D, E, F and G.”
She pressed C, listened to the sound that the note made and pressed it again. “What do the black keys do?”
After that I taught her the major scales. The piano needed tuning, but Emi didn’t know that. She carefully took her time to play each key as I did. Once she paused to bat at her bangs which were in her eyes. Her fingers then slid over the keys to play the scales again. And again. After playing them five times, she paused a second time to give me a sidelong glance. “You never told me you could play the piano,” she said.
Under the Silk Hibiscus Page 14