"I guess I just like to come down and reminisce with my horn once in a while.
Think about the good ol' days, you know?" Sheldon winked at Henry, who didn't feel like smiling. Those times were gone. Things were different. I'm different, Henry thought.
"Looks like you're heading home empty-handed?" Sheldon half-asked, half-stated--as if Henry's sad walk home from the post office would be made any better that way.
"I guess I don't understand. I thought we'd write more. Is it wrong to think that? I know she's busy. Her last letter said she's in school now, playing sports--even on the yearbook staff." Henry shrugged. "I just didn't think she'd forget about me so quickly."
"Henry, there's no way she's forgotten about you. I guarantee that. Maybe there's just more to do, more to be busy with, what with ten thousand Japanese folks all crammed into one area. Beats what she was used to up at that white-bread, blue-blood elementary school y'all used to hang out at."
"At least we were together."
"At
most you were together--and that's a beautiful thing," Sheldon said. "Don't worry, she'll be back someday. Keep the faith. Keep writing. Time and space is a hard one to deal with, let me tell you. Moving all the way up here from the South, I can testify to that one. People relations is hard business. Hard to keep that going. But don't give up, something good will come of it all--things have a way of working out just fine, you'll see."
"I wish I was as hopeful as you are," Henry said.
"Hope is all I got. Hope gets you through the night. Now you run along now, go home and take care of that mama of yours--and you have a fine day, sir!"
Henry waved good-bye, wondering if he should try to see her again. Then he thought of what Keiko's life must be like right now. How wonderful it must be for her finally to go to school with nothing but Japanese kids, all just like her. A whole community growing in the desert. Maybe there was more for her there than here with me?
Maybe she was better off. Maybe.
"Good news, Henry." The young Chinese clerk brushed the hair from her eyes and held out the tattered envelope with both hands. "Looks like she does care after all."
Henry looked up and took the letter, detecting a wisp of a sigh. "Thanks" was all he could muster. It had been three weeks since the last correspondence. He had grown nervous and sometimes even anticipated a Dear John letter--the kind of dreaded brush-off normally reserved for enlisted men.
He held the envelope in his hand, unsure of whether to open it or not, then walked outside and around the corner, finding a bench at the nearest bus stop.
Opening it, Henry drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly as he unfolded the letter. He noticed the date immediately; it was from last week. Seemed like the mail was still occasionally running on time.
"Dear Henry ..."
It wasn't a Dear John letter. Just one of Keiko's normal heartfelt missives--catching Henry up on the crazy day-to-day life in the camp. About how all the men were required to sign loyalty oaths, which would then make them eligible for the draft and military service fighting the Germans. Some, like Keiko's dad, had signed up immediately, so eager to prove their loyalty. Others became resisters, refusing to sign; the worst of them were taken away and imprisoned somewhere else.
The note made little mention of Henry's own letters, saying only that she missed him dearly, and hoped he was doing okay.
Henry wrote her again that night and mailed the letter the next day.
This time he waited months for a reply, and when it came, Keiko seemed more confused and busy than ever. He'd written her two more times while waiting and couldn't tell which letter she was responding to. Or had a letter been lost?
Henry was learning that time apart has a way of creating distance-- more than the mountains and time zone separating them. Real distance, the kind that makes you ache and stop wondering. Longing so bad that it begins to hurt to care so much.
Years
(1945)
Henry rounded the corner of South King and ran into Chaz heading home from the post office. Henry had grown a foot since he last saw Chaz and now realized he wasn't just looking directly into the eyes of his former tormentor. He was actually looking down an inch or two. Chaz looked small and weak, even though he outweighed Henry by twenty or thirty pounds.
Face-to-face, all Chaz could muster was a grudging hello. He didn't even smile.
Henry just stared back, doing his best to look cold and intimidating. Chaz, by contrast, looked soft and doughy, cracking first, stepping around Henry and passing him by.
"My father's still going to own your girlfriend, Henry," Chaz muttered as he walked past, just loud enough for Henry to hear.
"What did you say?" Henry grabbed Chaz by the arm and spun him around, a move that surprised both of them.
"My father's still buying up what's left of Nip-ville, and when your girlfriend gets back from that concentration camp she's holed up in, she's not going to have anything to come home to." He shrugged Henry off and backed away, more pathetic and annoying than menacing. "Then what are you going to do?"
Stung, Henry let him go, watching him waddle off, up the hill and around the corner out of sight. Henry looked down the street to what was left of Nihonmachi. Not much. The only fixtures that remained were the larger buildings, too expensive to buy, like the Panama Hotel, which stood as the sole remaining evidence of a living, breathing community. Little else remained that wasn't completely gutted, torn down, or taken over by Chinese or white business interests.
Henry could hardly believe that two years had passed. For his father it had been two years of air raids and war updates--from Indochina to Iwo Jima. For Henry it had been twenty-four months of writing to Keiko, occasionally getting a reply maybe every few months. Just catching up, her concern for him waning.
Each time he visited the post office, the same young clerk looked at him with what Henry regarded as a sad combination of pity and admiration. "She must be very special to you, Henry. You've never given up on her, have you?" The clerk didn't know much about Henry, just his writing habits and his dedication. And maybe she sensed his pang of emptiness, a hint of loneliness as Henry left the post office empty-handed each week.
Henry thought about taking another bus trip. Back in the belly of the big dog, as Sheldon liked to put it, that long Greyhound bus ride through Walla Walla all the way to Minidoka. But he let those thoughts go. He was busy here helping his mother keep up with things, and Keiko seemed okay from the few letters that he received.
In her early letters, Keiko had wanted continuous updates on life in Seattle. At school, and in the old neighborhood. Henry had slowly broken it to her that little remained of what she'd once called home. She never seemed to believe that it could disappear like that, in such a short amount of time. She loved this area so much--a place with so many memories. How could it be gone? How could he tell her?
When she asked, "What's become of the old neighborhood--is it still deserted?"
He could say only, "It's changed. New businesses have moved in. New people." She seemed to know what that meant. No one seemed to care what happened to what was left of Nihonmachi. Chaz had gotten off on his vandalism charges years earlier--the judge wouldn't even hear of it. Henry kept that news to himself, and in the meantime, he'd updated Keiko on the jazz scene on South Jackson. How Oscar Holden was once again holding court at the Black Elks Club. How Sheldon was a regular in the band and even played a few of his own numbers. Life was moving forward. The United States was winning the war. There was talk of the war in Europe being over by Christmas. The Pacific would be next. Then, just maybe, Keiko would be coming home. Back to what?
Henry wasn't sure, but he knew he'd still be here, waiting.
At home, Henry spoke politely to his mother, who seemed to regard him as the man of the house now that he was fifteen and helping with the bills. He'd taken a part-time job at Min's BBQ, though he didn't feel particularly helpful. Not when other kids his age were lying about their birth
days and enlisting, fighting on the front lines. But it was the least he could do. Despite his mother's best intentions and his father's wishes, Henry remained at home--his schooling in China would wait. It would have to. He had promised to wait for Keiko, and that vow was one he intended to keep, no matter how long it took.
His father still had not spoken to him. Then again, since the stroke, he spoke very
little to anyone. He'd had another mild one, and his voice was little more than a whisper.
Still, Henry's mother turned the radio off and on near his bed when there was a report on the fighting in the Philippines, or Iwo Jima--each battle in the Pacific drawing a breath closer to the expected invasion of Japan itself, a daunting task since Premier Suzuki had announced that Japan would fight to the very end. When the news was over, she'd read the newspaper to him and report on fund-raising activities at the benevolent associations that dotted Chinatown. She told him about how the Kuomintang had expanded their office into an outpost where expressions of nationalist pride could be printed and distributed, along with various fund-raising efforts to arm and equip the factions that were fighting back on the mainland.
Henry would sit occasionally and have one-way conversations with his father. It was all he could do. His father wouldn't even look at him, but Henry was certain the man couldn't turn his ears away. He had to listen; he was too weak to move on his own power.
So Henry spoke gently, and his father, as always, stared out the window, pretending not to care.
"I ran into Chaz Preston today. Do you remember him?"
Henry's father sat motionless.
"He and his father came by a few years ago. His father was looking for your help in buying some of the vacant buildings--the ones left behind after the Japanese left?"
Henry continued despite his father's lack of response. "He tells me they're buying up the last of Nihonmachi--maybe even the Northern Pacific Hotel. Maybe even the Panama." Despite his father's silence and frailty, he was still a highly regarded member of the Bing Kung Benevolent Association and the Chinese Chamber of Commerce. His age and health only made him more revered in certain circles, where honor and respect must be paid to those who had given so much. After he had raised so much money for the war effort, Henry's father's opinion still mattered. Henry had often seen members of the business community come by to get his father's blessing on business arrangements in the neighborhood.
"You don't think they'd let Chaz's family--the Prestons--buy the Panama, do you?"
Henry had hoped the hotel would remain unsold until Keiko returned, or at least that it might be bought by Chinese interests. But few had the money to make a worthy offer.
Henry looked at his father, who turned back and, for the first time in months, intentionally made eye contact with him. It was all he needed to know. Even before his father mustered the energy for a crooked smile, Henry knew. Something was in the works. The Panama Hotel would be sold.
Henry didn't know what to make of it. He had waited for Keiko for nearly three years. He loved her. He would wait longer if he had to. But at the same time, he wished that, when she came home, it would be to more than just him; that part of her old life, part of her childhood would still be there. That there might be a few of the places she had drawn in her sketchbook, those memories that meant so much to her.
Meeting at the Panama
(1945)
After breakfast, Henry helped his mother carry the laundry upstairs from where she'd hung it to dry in Canton Alley and then sat next to their old Emerson radio, listening to Texaco Star Theater, a variety show--not the usual news program his father listened to. Henry looked up as his mother wheeled his father into the living room and next to his old reading chair. Behind her ear was a fresh starfire lily that Henry had picked up at the market earlier.
"Put it on your father's show," she implored in Cantonese.
Henry just turned the radio down, then off completely with a hard click.
"I need to talk to him about something. Something important, do you mind?"
Henry asked as politely as possible. His mother just threw up her hands and walked away. He knew she didn't see the use in his having these one-way conversations.
Henry's father looked at him for a moment, then cast his frustrated eyes on the radio, as though Henry were a bill collector or a houseguest who had long overstayed his welcome.
"I'll get to that," Henry said, eyeing the radio. He left it off to make sure his father was listening, undistracted. "I just want to talk about something first." In his hands was the travel scrip from the China Mutual Steam Navigation Co.--his passage to China.
Henry let a moment of silence exist between the two of them. A period on the end of the sentence of their whole fractured father-son relationship.
"I'll go." As the words punched the air, Henry wasn't sure if his father heard him.
He held the travel envelope up for his father to see. "I said, I'll go."
Henry's father looked up at his son, waiting.
Henry had considered his father's offer to go back to China to finish his schooling.
Now that he was older, his time there would only be a year or two. Traveling overseas by steamship and starting life again, far away from everything that reminded him of Keiko, seemed like a reasonable alternative to moping up and down the crowded streets of South King.
Still, part of him hated to give in to his father. His father was so stubborn, so bigoted. Yet the more Henry thought about it, the more he realized maybe there was something good to be had from the whole sad affair.
"I'll go, but only on this condition," Henry said.
Now he really had his father's attention, weak and frail as it was.
"I know the Panama Hotel is for sale. I know who wants to buy it. And since you're an elder member of the downtown associations, I know you have some say in the matter." Henry took a deep breath. "If you can prevent the sale, I will do as you wish, I will go and finish my schooling in China. I'll finish the rest of the year here in Seattle, then take the August steamer to Canton." Henry examined his father's paralyzed expression; the stroke had taken so much of who he was already. "I'll go."
Henry's father's hand began to tremble in his lap; his cocked head straightened on the frail stem of his weakened neck. His lips quivered as they formed to make sounds, to speak words Henry hadn't heard in years. "Do jeh"-- thank you. Then he asked, "Why?"
"Don't thank me," Henry said in Chinese. "I'm not doing this for you, I'm doing it for me, for the girl, the one you hated so much. You got your wish. Now I wish something. I want that hotel left as is. Unsold." Henry didn't quite know why. Or did he?
The hotel was a living, breathing memory for him. And it was a place his father wanted gone, so having it spared somehow suited him. Somehow balanced the scales in his mind.
Henry would go to China. He'd start over. And maybe, if that old hotel were still around, Nihonmachi could start over too. Not for him. Not for Keiko. But because it needed a place to start from. Sometime in the future. After the war. After the bittersweet memories of him and Keiko were long since paved over, he'd have one reminder left. A placeholder that would be there for him sometime in the future.
The next day, Henry mailed his last letter to Keiko. She hadn't written in six months. And then she'd only talked about how much she loved school there, going to sock hops and formal dances. Life for her was full and abundant. She didn't seem to need him.
Still, he wanted to see her. In fact, his hopes were high that it might actually happen. And who knew, maybe he would have a moment with her again. Word was that many families had been released as early as January. And since Minidoka was known as a camp for "loyal internees," Keiko might be out right now. If not, she'd be coming home soon. Germany was losing. The war on both fronts would be ending sooner rather than later.
Henry hadn't written in several weeks, but this letter was different.
This letter wasn't just a good-bye--it was a farewell. He was wishin
g her a happy life, and letting her know that he'd be leaving for China in a few months, that if she might be returning soon, he'd meet her, one last time. In front of the Panama Hotel. Henry chose a date in March--a month away. If she were coming home soon, she'd get the invitation in time. And if she were still in the camp and needed to write back, there was time for that as well. It was the least he could do. After all, he still loved her. He'd waited over two years for her; he could wait one more month, couldn't he?
The clerk took the letter and attached the twelve-cent overland carriage postage.
"I hope she knows how much you care about her. I hope you tell her." She held up the envelope and then reverently set it on a pile of outgoing letters. "I hope she's worth the wait, Henry. I've seen you come and go for all these months. She's a lucky girl, even if she doesn't write back as often as you'd like."