by John Okada
“What the hell’s the matter with those damn doctors?” He slammed his fork angrily against the table.
“Tom, please,” said Hanako, looking deeply concerned.
“No, no, no,” he said, gesturing freely with his hands, “I won’t please shut up. If they can’t fix you up, why don’t they get somebody who can? They’re killing you. What do they do when you go down there? Give you aspirins?” Slumped in his chair, he glared furiously at the table.
The father grasped Tom’s arm firmly. “If you can’t talk sense, don’t.”
“It’s okay, Tom. This’ll be a short trip. I think it’s just that the brace doesn’t fit right.”
“You mean that?” He looked hopefully at Kenji.
“Sure. That’s probably what it is. I’ll only be gone a few days. Doesn’t really hurt so much, but I don’t want to take any chances.”
“Gee, I hope you’re right.”
“I ought to know. A few more trips and they’ll make me head surgeon down there.”
“Yeah,” Tom smiled, not because of the joke, but because he was grateful for having a brother like Kenji.
“Eat,” reminded the father, “baseball on television tonight, you know.”
“I’ll get the pie,” Hanako said and hastened to the kitchen.
“Lemon meringue,” said Tom hungrily, as he proceeded to clean up his plate.
The game was in its second inning when they turned the set on, and they had hardly gotten settled down when Hisa and Toyo came with their husbands and children.
Tom grumbled good naturedly and, giving the newcomers a hasty nod, pulled up closer to the set, preparing to watch the game under what would obviously be difficult conditions.
Hats and coats were shed and piled in the corner and everyone talked loudly and excitedly, as if they had not seen each other for a long time. Chairs were brought in from the dining room and, suddenly, the place was full and noisy and crowded and comfortable.
The father gave up trying to follow the game and bounced a year-old granddaughter on his knee while two young grandsons fought to conquer the other knee. The remaining three grandchildren were all girls, older, more well-behaved, and they huddled on the floor around Tom to watch the baseball game.
Hisa’s husband sat beside Kenji and engaged him in conversation, mostly about fishing and about how he’d like to win a car in the Salmon Derby because his was getting old and a coupe wasn’t too practical for a big family. He had the four girls and probably wouldn’t stop until he hit a boy and things weren’t so bad, but he couldn’t see his way to acquiring a near-new used car for a while. And then he got up and went to tell the same thing to his father-in-law, who was something of a fisherman himself. No sooner had he moved across the room than Toyo’s husband, who was soft-spoken and mild but had been a captain in the army and sold enough insurance to keep two cars in the double garage behind a large brick house in a pretty good neighborhood, slid into the empty space beside Kenji and asked him how he’d been and so on and talked about a lot of other things when he really wanted to talk to Kenji about the leg and didn’t know how.
Then came the first lull when talk died down and the younger children were showing signs of drowsiness and everyone smiled thoughtfully and contentedly at one another. Hanako suggested refreshments, and when the coffee and milk and pop and cookies and ice cream were distributed, everyone got his second wind and immediately discovered a number of things which they had forgotten to discuss.
Kenji, for the moment alone, looked at all of them and said to himself: Now’s as good a time as any to go. I won’t wait until tomorrow. In another thirty minutes Hana and Toyo and the kids and their fathers will start stretching and heading for their hats and coats. Then someone will say “Well, Ken” in a kind of hesitant way and, immediately, they will all be struggling for something to say about my going to Portland because Hana called them and told them to come over because I’m going down there again and that’s why they’ll have to say something about it. If I had said to Pop that I was going the day after tomorrow, we would have had a big feast with everyone here for it tomorrow night. I don’t want that. There’s no need for it. I don’t want Toyo to cry and Hana to dab at her eyes and I don’t want everyone standing around trying to say goodbye and not being able to make themselves leave because maybe they won’t see me again.
He started to get up and saw Hanako looking at him. “I’m just going to get a drink,” he said.
“Stay, I’ll get it,” she replied.
“No. It’ll give me a chance to stretch.” He caught his father’s eye and held it for a moment.
Without getting his drink, he slipped quietly out to the back porch and stood and waited and listened to the voices inside.
He heard Hisa’s husband yell something to one of his girls and, the next minute, everyone was laughing amusedly. While he was wondering what cute deviltry the guilty one had done, his father came through the kitchen and out to stand beside him.
“You are going.”
Kenji looked up and saw the big shoulders sagging wearily. “I got a good rest, Pop. This way, I’ll be there in the morning and it’s easier driving at night. Not so many cars, you know.”
“It’s pretty bad this time, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said truthfully, because he could not lie to his father, “it’s not like before, Pop. It’s different this time. The pain is heavier, deeper. Not sharp and raw like the other times. I don’t know why. I’m scared.”
“If . . . if . . .” Throwing his arm around his son’s neck impulsively, the father hugged him close. “You call me every day. Every day, you understand?”
“Sure, Pop. Explain to everyone, will you?” He pulled himself free and looked at his father nodding, unable to speak.
Pausing halfway down the stairs, he listened once more for the voices in the house.
Hoarsely, in choked syllables, his father spoke to him: “Every day, Ken, don’t forget. I will be home.”
“Bye, Pop.” Feeling his way along the dark drive with his cane, he limped to the car. Behind the wheel, he had to sit and wait until the heaviness had lifted from his chest and relieved the mistiness of his eyes. He started the motor and turned on the headlights and their brilliant glare caught fully the father standing ahead. Urged by an overwhelming desire to rush back to him and be with him for a few minutes longer, Kenji’s hand fumbled for the door handle. At that moment, the father raised his arm once slowly in farewell. Quickly, he pulled back out of the driveway and was soon out of sight of father and home and family.
* * *
—
He fully intended to drive directly to the grocery store to get Ichiro, but found himself drawn to the Club Oriental. Parking in the vacant lot where only the previous night Ichiro had experienced his humiliation, he limped through the dark alley to the club.
It was only a little after ten, but the bar and tables were crowded. Ignoring several invitations to sit at tables of acquaintances, he threaded his way to the end of the bar and had only to wait a moment before Al saw him and brought the usual bourbon and water.
Not until he was on his third leisurely drink did he manage to secure a stool. It was between strangers, and for that he was grateful. He didn’t want to talk or be talked to. Through the vast mirror ahead, he studied the faces alongside and behind him. By craning a bit, he could even catch an occasional glimpse of couples on the dance floor.
It’s a nice place, he thought. When a fellow goes away, he likes to take something along to remember and this is what I’m taking. It’s not like having a million bucks and sitting in the Waldorf with a long-stemmed beauty, but I’m a small guy with small wants and this is my Waldorf. Here, as long as I’ve got the price of a drink, I can sit all night and be among friends. I can relax and drink and feel sad or happy or high and nobody much gives a damn, since they feel the same way. I
t’s a good feeling, a fine feeling.
He followed Al around with his eyes until the bartender looked back at him and returned the smile.
The help knows me and likes me.
Swinging around on the stool, he surveyed the crowd and acknowledged a number of greetings and nods.
I’ve got a lot of friends here and they know and like me.
Jim Eng, the slender, dapper Chinese who ran the place, came out of the office with a bagful of change and brought it behind the bar to check the register. As he did so, he grinned at Kenji and inquired about his leg.
Even the management’s on my side. It’s like a home away from home only more precious because one expects home to be like that. Not many places a Jap can go to and feel so completely at ease. It must be nice to be white and American and to be able to feel like this no matter where one goes to, but I won’t cry about that. There’s been a war and, suddenly, things are better for the Japs and the Chinks and—
There was a commotion at the entrance and Jim Eng slammed the cash drawer shut and raced toward the loud voices. He spoke briefly to someone in the office, probably to find out the cause of the disturbance, and then stepped outside. As he did so, Kenji caught sight of three youths, a Japanese and two Negroes.
After what sounded like considerable loud and excited shouting, Jim Eng stormed back in and resumed his task at the register though with hands shaking.
When he had calmed down a little, someone inquired: “What’s the trouble?”
“No trouble,” he said in a high-pitched voice which he was endeavoring to keep steady. “That crazy Jap boy Floyd tried to get in with two niggers. That’s the second time he tried that. What’s the matter with him?”
A Japanese beside Kenji shouted out sneeringly: “Them ignorant cotton pickers make me sick. You let one in and before you know it, the place will be black as night.”
“Sure,” said Jim Eng, “sure. I got no use for them. Nothing but trouble they make and I run a clean place.”
“Hail Columbia,” said a small, drunken voice.
“Oh, you Japs and Chinks, I love you all,” rasped out a brash redhead who looked as if she had come directly from one of the burlesque houses without changing her make-up. She struggled to her feet, obviously intending to launch into further oratory.
Her escort, a pale, lanky Japanese screamed “Shut up!” and, at the same time, pulled viciously at her arm, causing her to tumble comically into the chair.
Everyone laughed, or so it seemed, and quiet and decency and cleanliness and honesty returned to the Club Oriental.
Leaving his drink unfinished, Kenji left the club without returning any of the farewells which were directed at him.
He drove aimlessly, torturing himself repeatedly with the question which plagued his mind and confused it to the point of madness. Was there no answer to the bigotry and meanness and smallness and ugliness of people? One hears the voice of the Negro or Japanese or Chinese or Jew, a clear and bell-like intonation of the common struggle for recognition as a complete human being and there is a sense of unity and purpose which inspires one to hope and optimism. One encounters obstacles, but the wedge of the persecuted is not without patience and intelligence and humility, and the opposition weakens and wavers and disperses. And the one who is the Negro or Japanese or Chinese or Jew is further fortified and gladdened with the knowledge that the democracy is a democracy in fact for all of them. One has hope, for he has reason to hope, and the quest for completeness seems to be a thing near at hand, and then . . .
the woman with the dark hair and large nose who has barely learned to speak English makes a big show of vacating her bus seat when a Negro occupies the other half. She stamps indignantly down the aisle, hastening away from the contamination which is only in her contaminated mind. The Negro stares silently out of the window, a proud calmness on his face, which hides the boiling fury that is capable of murder.
and then . . .
a sweet-looking Chinese girl is at a high-school prom with a white boy. She has risen in the world, or so she thinks, for it is evident in her expression and manner. She does not entirely ignore the other Chinese and Japanese at the dance, which would at least be honest, but worse, she flaunts her newly found status in their faces with haughty smiles and overly polite phrases.
and then . . .
there is the small Italian restaurant underneath a pool parlor, where the spaghetti and chicken is hard to beat. The Japanese, who feels he is better than the Chinese because his parents made him so, comes into the restaurant with a Jewish companion, who is a good Jew and young and American and not like the kike bastards from the countries from which they’ve been kicked out, and waits patiently for the waiter. None of the waiters come, although the place is quite empty and two of them are talking not ten feet away. All his efforts to attract them failing, he stalks toward them. The two, who are supposed to wait on the tables but do not, scurry into the kitchen. In a moment they return with the cook, who is also the owner, and he tells the Japanese that the place is not for Japs and to get out and go back to Tokyo.
and then . . .
the Negro who was always being mistaken for a white man becomes a white man and he becomes hated by the Negroes with whom he once hated on the same side. And the young Japanese hates the not-so-young Japanese who is more Japanese than himself, and the not-so-young, in turn, hates the old Japanese who is all Japanese and, therefore, even more Japanese than he . . .
And Kenji thought about these things and tried to organize them in his mind so that the pattern could be seen and studied and the answers deduced therefrom. And there was no answer because there was no pattern and all he could feel was that the world was full of hatred. And he drove on and on and it was almost two o’clock when he parked in front of the grocery store.
The street was quiet, deathly so after he had cut the ignition. Down a block or so, he saw the floodlighted sign painted on the side of a large brick building. It said: “444 Rooms. Clean. Running Water. Reasonable Rates.” He had been in there once a long time ago and he knew that it was just a big flophouse full of drunks and vagrant souls. Only a few tiny squares of yellowish light punctuated the softly shimmering rows of windowpanes. Still, the grocery store was brightly lit.
Wondering why, he slid out of the car and peered through the upper half of the door, which was of glass. He was immediately impressed with the neatness of the shelves and the cleanness of the paint on the walls and woodwork. Inevitably, he saw Ichiro’s mother and it gave him an odd sensation as he watched her methodically empty a case of evaporated milk and line the cans with painful precision on the shelf. He tried the door and found it locked and decided not to disturb her until she finished the case. It was a long wait, for she grasped only a single can with both hands each time she stooped to reach into the box. Finally, she finished and stood as if examining her handiwork.
Kenji rapped briskly on the door but she took no notice. Instead, she reached out suddenly with her arms and swept the cans to the floor. Then she just stood with arms hanging limply at her sides, a small girl of a woman who might have been pouting from the way her head drooped and her back humped.
So intent was he upon watching her that he jumped when the door opened. It was Ichiro, dressed only in a pair of slacks.
“You’re early,” he said, blinking his eyes sleepily.
“Yes. Is it okay?”
“Sure. Be ready in a minute. Can’t get any sleep anyway.” He shut the door without asking Kenji inside and disappeared into the back.
Looking back to where the woman had been, he was astonished not to see her. He searched about and eventually spied her on hands and knees retrieving a can which had rolled under one of the display islands. He followed her as she crawled around in pursuit of more cans, which she was now packing back into the case. Ichiro came out with a suitcase and went directly to the car.
&n
bsp; Kenji looked once more before driving off and noticed that she, having gathered all the cans, was once more lining them on the same shelf.
“We’ll make good time driving at night. Won’t be so many cars on the road.” Out of the corner of his eye he watched Ichiro light a cigarette.
“Snapped,” he said harshly.
“What?”
“Snapped. Flipped. Messed up her gears.” Drawing deeply on the cigarette, he exhaled a stream of smoke noisily. He twisted about on the seat as if in great anguish.
“Is it all right for you to be going?”
“Sure, sure, nothing I can do. It’s been coming for a long time.”
“You knew?”
Ichiro rolled down the window and flung the lighted butt into the wind. As it whisked back, spraying specks of red into the dark, he craned his neck to watch it until it disappeared from sight. “Something had to happen,” he said, cranking the window shut. “Still, I guess you could say she’s been crazy a long time.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. Maybe ever since the day she was born.” He turned abruptly to face Kenji and said appealingly: “Tell me, what’s your father like?”
“My dad is one swell guy. We get along.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why. We just do.”
Ichiro laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“Things, everything’s funny because nothing makes sense. There was an Italian fellow in prison I used to talk to. Sometimes I’d confide in him because he once wanted to be a priest and so he was the kind of guy you could talk to. He got sent up for taking money from old ladies. You can see what I mean. I used to tell him about how tough it was for kids of immigrants because parents and kids were so different and they never really got to know each other. He knew what I meant because his folks were born in Italy and raised there. And he used to tell me not to worry because there would come a time when I’d feel as if I really knew my folks. He said the time would come when I grew up. Just how or when was hard to say because it’s different with everyone. With him, it was when he was thirty-five and went home on parole after four years in prison. Then it happened. He sat at the kitchen table like he’d been doing all his life and he looked at his mother and then at his father and he no longer had the urge to eat and run. He wanted to talk to them and they talked all through that night and he was so happy he cried.”