by John Okada
When his breathing became regular, he ran his fingers over the bag, inspecting it for any wetness or jagged pieces of glass. Nothing seemed to be broken.
“Okay,” he said in halting English to the inquiring faces above him, “everything okay. Just fall.”
He let the people help him to his feet and resumed his journey home. Not until he was at the door and had to shift the bag to reach for the key did he notice the soreness in his shoulder and back. Wincing a bit, he got himself inside and into the kitchen, where he’d left the bulb burning. With clumsy skill and haste, he tore the celluloid collar off one of the bottles and tilted it to his mouth. He had to grit his teeth and shake his head until the liquor settled inside of him. It was good—horrible, but good. Craning his neck, he peered at the sore shoulder and he could see where the fall had shredded his shirt and bruised the flesh. He poured some of the whisky into his palm and rubbed it vigorously against the injury. It burned painfully, so much so that he had to take another big gulp from the bottle. Finally, he felt reasonably relaxed. Then he sat down and sadly regarded the untouched plate of food and the bowl of cold rice which he had set out a few hours before. It was not the first time, nor the second. Mama had not eaten for two days, not since Ichiro had gone to Portland. He swigged at the bottle and forced himself to the bedroom door.
“Mama,” and he said it plaintively, “Mama, eat a little bit.”
She was lying on the bed, silent and unmoving, and it made him afraid. It was not the thought of death, but the thought of madness which reduced him to a frightened child in the darkness. When she was not lying or sitting almost as if dead in her open-eyed immobility, she was doing crazy things. It had started with the cans, the lining of them on the shelves, hurling them on the floor, brooding, fussing, repacking them in the boxes, and then the whole thing over and over again until hours after Ichiro had gone. Then silence, and he forgot now whether the silence was of her lying or sitting on the bed, the silence which was of the water quietly heating to boil. Following that silence had come the rain, the soft rain as always, drizzling and miserable and deceivingly cold. And he had not heard a sound, but when he had gone to the bedroom to see about throwing another blanket on her, she was out in back hanging things on the line. How long she had been out in the rain, he couldn’t say. Her hair was drenched and hanging straight down, reaching almost to the tiny hump of her buttocks against which the wet cotton dress had adhered so that he could see the crease. He called her from the doorway and was not disappointed when she hadn’t heeded him, for that was how he knew it would be. So he had watched until he could stand it no longer and this time he had run right up to her and shouted for her to stop the foolishness and come in out of the rain, and it still had done no good. He had come in then and waited and drunk some whisky, and the bottle which had been half-full was almost gone when the back door slammed. And then, once again, the awful silence. She was sitting that time. He remembered because when he went out to take the rain-soaked things off the line, he had to turn sideways to get past her.
After that? He gazed sorrowfully at the bed on which his wife lay. It didn’t matter what had happened after that. It only mattered what would happen now or tonight or tomorrow. Where and how would all this end? What was happening to her?
“Mama,” he wailed, “eat or you will take sick. Eat or you will die.”
As if in response to his voice, she stirred and rose and looked at him.
“Ya, Mama, eat.”
She walked a few steps toward him hesitantly.
Backing excitedly away from the door, he quickly made room for her to pass.
Stopping short of the kitchen, she stood undecidedly for a moment, shaking her head slowly as though to reshuffle her senses. Resolutely then she leaped onto the foot of the bed and began to pull down the several suitcases which had been piled atop the cardboard wardrobe.
“Mama!” It was an utterance filled with despair. He watched wretchedly as she pulled open drawers and proceeded to cram the cases full of whatever came into her grasping hands. How long this time, he thought, gently rubbing the ache in his shoulder with an unsteady hand, and let himself drop heavily into a chair. He gripped the bottle with both hands and his body shook tremulously. Biting his lip to imprison the swollen sob which would release a torrent of anguish, he crumpled forward until he felt the coolness of the table spreading across his forehead. It helped to relax him. Suddenly the scuffling and banging and scurrying in the bedroom stopped. Slowly, he looked up and, just as his gaze encompassed the door to the bedroom, he glimpsed her striding out and into the bathroom. She shut the door firmly behind her and, a moment later, he heard the bolt being slid into place. Then the water sounded its way into the tub, not splashing or gurgling heavily, but merely trickling, almost reluctantly so it seemed.
He gulped from the bottle and listened to the trickling of the water against the bottom of the white tub as it slowly changed into a gentle splashing of water against water as the tub began to fill.
Why doesn’t she turn the faucets on full he thought impatiently. Turn it on like you always do. Be quick and efficient and impatient, which is the way you have always been. Start the water in the tub and scrub the kitchen floor while it is filling up. When the floor is done and the mop wrung out and hung in back to dry, the water is good, just the right depth. Like a clock you are. Not a second wasted.
He gulped again and the progress of the water was so painfully slow that he could hardly discern any change in the pattern of its splashing.
At length, irritated, he retreated into the store, holding the bottle in one hand and groping his way through the darkness almost to the front door, where the sounds from the bathroom couldn’t reach him. Upending an apple box which contained a few discolored Jonathans, he sat himself down as the apples tumbled across the floor.
Straightening up to tilt the bottle to his mouth, he was suddenly overcome by the worry and strain of the past several days.
“Tired, so very much tired,” he groaned aloud as he doubled over his knees and set the whisky on the floor. Remaining thus, stretching the pain in his bruised shoulder so that it felt like a row of needles clawing into the heaviness which weighted him down, he bemoaned his fate:
Kin-chan, that is what your sister calls you now. Now that life has become too hard for her to bear, she once again calls you Kin-chan, for then she thinks of the days when we were all young and strong and brave and crazy. Not crazy like today or yesterday, but crazy in the nice, happy way of young people. No, not crazy like you, old woman. Once, I too called you Kin-chan. Kin-chan. Kin-chan. Kin-chan. You were good then. Small and proud and firm and maybe a little bit huffy, but good and soft inside. Ya, ya, I was smart too. I found out how good and soft before we married. Right under their eyes almost. Your papa was there and you beside him and your mama was already dead. Then there was myself and my mama and papa and the man who was the village mayor’s brother, whose name I forget but who was making the match. How he could talk, that man, talk and drink and talk, talk, talk. But he was only talking then because it was time for business and he was talking about how fine a wife you would make for the son of my father and mother, and your head was down low but I could see you smiling. How sweet it was then. How wonderful! Then he was talking about me and I sat up straight and full and puffed my chest and I could see you stealing a look once or twice and you were pleased. I was pleased too. Everybody was pleased and the thing was settled quickly, for that time was only for making the matter final. And when one is feeling gay and full of joy, the saké must be brought out to lift the spirits higher. And they drank, your papa and mine and the mayor’s brother, and I only a little because I was even happier than they and needed no false joy. Then the moment was at hand when Mama was telling Papa not to drink so much and you were in the kitchen heating more saké and your papa and that man were singing songs not to be heard by such as you. It was to the toilet I was going when y
ou saw me and I, you. There was nothing to be said. It was not a time for words but only deep feeling. And there, in the darkness of the narrow corridor between the house and the smelly toilet, I made you my wife, standing up. It was wonderful, more wonderful I think than even the night of the day when we really were married. Do you know it was never that good for me again? Ya, Kin-chan, that was the mistake. We should have waited and then everything would have been proper. We were not proper and so we suffer. Your papa, my papa, my mama, and that man did not know, but the gods knew. It was dark and we were standing, but they were watching and nodding their heads and saying: “Shame, black shame.”
“Aaagh,” he moaned. Then, peering into the darkness, he called softly: “Taro? Ichiro?”
There was no answer, only the darkness and the little bit of light that slanted into the other end under the curtains that blocked off the kitchen.
He leaned forward intently, smiling pleasantly as if the boys were in front of him. He knew they were not there, but the desire to voice their names could not be resisted and so again he called: “Taro? Ichiro?”
As if to catch their eager responses, he cocked his head, playing the game for all the pleasure that he could derive from it in momentary escape from the soul-crippling truth. There was a gurgle, faint and muffled. Curious, he listened. The gurgling continued for a while longer and ceased the moment he realized it was the bath water, and, abruptly, the present was crammed back into his tired being.
Snatching the bottle off the floor with a swoop of his arm, he reared back against the staggering weight of his depression and poured the whisky into his gaping mouth. All, he resolved silently to himself, I will drink all like the man that I am. Holding his breath so as not to taste the cheap liquor, he gulped greedily. He endeavored stubbornly, his stomach now extended to the point of bursting and his mouth jerking in labored gasps as his whole being clawed for air. Then he became frightened and wanted to stop, but the dizziness set in and all he could think was that his mouth was off at a distance by itself and mechanically jawing like a spasmodic reflex. Soon his mouth was filled to overflowing. His fingers no longer seemed to respond to his will and he instinctively averted his face as he sensed the bottle slipping free. Spewing whisky out of his mouth with a noisy roar, he toppled off the box and onto the floor, where he lay utterly exhausted.
Dimly, he heard a car scraping its tires against the curb beyond the thin outer wall. The illumination from its headlights filtered into the store and he found himself trying to focus upon the Lucky Strike poster which was stapled above the shelves of canned goods. The colors kept running together and the big red circle he knew was there refused to stay still or single. It kept doubling and tripling and constantly distorting itself into fuzzy-edged, lopsided circles. Sick and tired and drunk, he closed his eyes and listened to the steady purr of the idling motor and quickly succumbed to sleep.
* * *
—
Outside in the car, Ichiro sat undecided. He felt very much alone. He knew he would not see Kenji or Emi again. They had been good to him. Kenji and Emi and Mr. Carrick, three people who had given a little of themselves to him because they liked him. It had not mattered to any of them about the thing that he had done. True, he was alone again, but not quite as nakedly alone as he had been the first day out of prison and walking up Jackson Street on the way home. The motor still idling, he squinted a bit and peered into the store. Cracks of light were visible far inside. They were home, of course. Where could they go? He wondered how his mother was doing and he thought distastefully about the business of the cans.
Where the headlights sprayed into the store, he saw the red top of the Coca-Cola freezer and, beyond it, the wall full of canned goods. He looked at the Lucky Strike sign and felt somewhat bothered when he couldn’t quite make out what he knew were the words “It’s toasted.” Settling back against the seat, he peered in the opposite direction at the clock tower of the depot under which Eto had made him crawl. It was still only a few minutes after nine. Making up his mind impulsively, he pressed the accelerator pedal and, without another glance at home, drove to Kenji’s house.
When he rang the bell at the top of the steep hill, the father came to the door.
“Hello, Mr. Kanno,” he said, recognizing the man who seemed not to have changed a great deal in appearance since he had last seen him years ago in the camp in Idaho.
“I brought the car back,” he said.
“The car?”
“Yes, Ken’s car. I went to Portland with him.”
“Come in,” the man said earnestly, “please come in.”
“No, I should get on home.” He held out the keys.
“Just for a minute, please.” Kenji’s father motioned him inside.
He stepped into the house and watched as the big man strode across the living room and turned off the television set. Then Mr. Kanno came back to where he stood waiting, and regarded him thoughtfully. “I seem to recall your face, but . . .”
“I’m Ichiro Yamada. I guess I’ve changed.”
“Of course. I remember. How’s your family?”
“Fine, sir.”
“Sit down. I’m all alone tonight. Been watching the ball game.”
“I’m sorry I interrupted.”
“Doesn’t matter. Seattle’s got a rotten team this year.” He pulled his chair closer to Ichiro and it was apparent that his mind was not on baseball.
“The keys,” said Ichiro and placed them in the other’s palm.
“Thank you.”
It was quiet in the house, quiet and warm and comfortable.
“Would you care for a drink?”
“No.”
“When did you see him?”
“This morning.”
“How was he?”
“Seemed pretty fair.” He knew he should have remained still, but he found himself clumsily shifting on the sofa.
Mr. Kanno waited until he had settled down once more before saying: “Still alert was he? Able to talk and see and feel?”
Alarmed, he suddenly began to ramble with too much fervor: “Of course. He’s fine. He was in excellent spirits when I left him this morning. A week, ten days, before you know it, he’ll—” and he stopped as suddenly upon seeing the look in the father’s eyes which said: My son and I had no secrets and if death is the truth about which you wish not to speak to me, do not speak at all.
“You mean well, but this is not the time for kindness,” said the father gently.
“I’m sorry.”
“We’re all sorry. Now, tell me.”
“We drove down two nights ago and, on the way, got a ticket for speeding in some hick town. I was driving but Ken switched places with me because he knew I didn’t have a driver’s license. The cop tried to make us pay off but Ken said no and got a ticket, which he tore up. Then, just before he went into the hospital, he said something about the cop having to come a long ways to get him. He was implying that he was going to die and . . .”
“Yes, that sounds like him.” The father looked pleased.
“In the hospital I just saw him the one time this morning. He knows he’s going to die. He said as much. He looked bad, physically that is, and he sounded a little bitter. I wish he were wrong, but I don’t think there’s any doubt. It’s a matter of time, I guess.”
“But his mind, it was all right? He talked sensibly?”
“Yes. He seemed a little weak, but otherwise he was just as usual.”
“Good. If he had to go, I wanted it to be quick and so it has been.”
Not grasping what the father meant, Ichiro regarded the man questioningly.
“Ken is dead. Three o’clock this afternoon.”
At three o’clock he had been in a roadside café, eating pie and drinking coffee while Kenji’s Oldsmobile was being gassed up. There were no words to describe the numbness o
f feeling in himself and he made no attempt to seek them.
“Let me drive you home now before the others start returning,” said the father softly. “I did not tell them at dinner because they had planned to see a movie tonight and I could see no reason for denying them the fulfillment of the day’s pleasures. Tomorrow, I will go to Portland and make arrangements for the funeral.”
“You will be bringing him back here?”
“No. We were talking once, Ken and I, one of the several times when we talked about his dying . . .” He shut the door without locking it and they walked slowly to the car. “‘Don’t bother about me when I die, Pop,’ he said, ‘no fuss, no big funeral. If I’m in Portland when it happens, let them take care of it. Let them dig the hole.’ And then he said: ‘I’ll come back and haunt you if you stick me in Washelli with the rest of the Japs. I’ve got ideas about the next place and I want to get started right.’”
Starting the car, the man swung the Oldsmobile in a tight semicircle and eased down the hill. “I thought it was pretty nice when the community got together and secured permission to bury their dead in Washelli. For a long time it was only for white people, you know. True, they keep the Japanese dead off in a section by themselves, but, still, I thought it was pretty nice. Ken, well, he was upset. ‘Put my ashes in an orange crate and dump them in the Sound off Connecticut Street Dock where the sewer runs out,’ he used to say. He knew I wouldn’t do that, but I’ll see he’s not put in Washelli. We’ll have a small service, just the family, and maybe they’ll find a place for him down there where he’ll be happy.”
Ichiro listened to the quiet voice of the father and, when he turned to say something, he saw the glistening of the tears on the sorrow-stricken face. Turning away, he replied: “He deserved to live.”
“And to be happy,” added the father. “He was a good boy, pleasant, thoughtful, well-liked, but never really happy. The others, they seem not to mind so much. They say to themselves this is the way things are, and they are quite happy. He was not that way. He was always asking why things had to be the way they were. For him, I often think I should have never come to America. For him, I think I should have stayed in Japan, where he would have been a Japanese with only other Japanese, and then, maybe, he would not now be dead. It is too late now for such thoughts.”