Free Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford Page A

them locals. That ain't happening around here. Too many ships over in Bremerton, and parked right out there." He thumbed in the direction of Puget Sound.

    Henry stared at Keiko, wishing she could read his thoughts, hoping she would read his eyes. Please don't say it. Don't tell him that man, Mr. Toyama, was your schoolteacher.

    "What's going to happen to them?" Keiko asked, the sound of concern in her small voice.

    "They can get the death penalty if they're found guilty of treason, but they'll probably just spend a few years in a nice safe jail cell."

    "But he's not a spy, he was--"

    "It's almost dark, we have to go," Henry said, cutting her and the agent off, tugging at Keiko's elbow. "We can't be late, remember?"

    Her face was wrinkled with confusion and flushed with anger. "But--"

    "We have to go. Now." Henry urged her to the nearest exit. "Please ..."

    A bulky agent stood aside to let them out the front door. Henry looked back and saw Sheldon guarding Oscar near the front of the stage, keeping him quiet. Sheldon looked back and waved, urging them to get home.

    Past rows of dark police cars, Henry and Keiko stood on the stoop of an apartment building across the street. They watched as uniformed officers dispersed the crowd. A white reporter from The Seattle Times took notes and pictures, the flashbulbs from his camera sporadically lighting up the front of the Black Elks Club. He'd take out a handkerchief to change the hot bulb, dropping the old bulb on the ground, stepping on it, grinding it into the pavement. The reporter shouted questions at the nearest officer, whose

    only reply was "No comment."

    "I can't watch this anymore," Keiko said, stalking away.

    "I'm sorry I brought you here," Henry offered as they walked to the edge of South Main, where they would split up for their separate walks home. "I'm sorry our big night was ruined."

    Keiko halted and looked at Henry. She looked down at his button, the one his father made him wear. "You are Chinese, aren't you, Henry?"

    He nodded, not knowing how to answer.

    "That's fine. Be who you are," she said, turning away, a look of disappointment in her eyes. "But I'm an American."

    I Am Japanese
    (1986)

    Henry woke to the sound of a police cruiser, its siren wailing in the distance. He'd dozed off a bit, daydreaming, on the long bus ride from Lake View Cemetery all the way back down to the International District--the I.D., as Marty called it.
    Henry covered his mouth in a yawn and looked out the window. To him the area northeast of the Kingdome was simply Chinatown. That's what he'd called it growing up, and he wasn't likely to change now--despite the influx of Vietnamese karaoke clubs, Korean video stores, and the occasional sushi bar, frequented by a mainly Caucasian lunch crowd.

    Marty didn't know much about Henry's childhood. Henry talked about his youth only in reflection, as he told stories about his own parents--Marty's grandmother, mainly.
    Or occasionally the grandfather Marty never knew. The lack of meaningful communication between father and son was based on a lifetime of isolation. Henry had been an only child, without siblings around to talk to, to share things with constantly.
    And Marty was the same. Whatever stumbling methods of communication Henry had used with his own father seemed to have been passed down to Marty. Over the years, they'd both used Ethel to bridge that gap, but now Henry would have to ford the divide himself He just wasn't sure what to tell his son and when. For one growing up Chinese, decorum and timing were everything. After all, Henry hadn't spoken to his own parents, not much anyway, for three years--during the war.

    But now, deep down, Henry wanted to tell his son everything. How seemingly unfair life was in retrospect, and how remarkable it was that they'd all just accepted what they had and made the best of it. He wanted to tell his son about Keiko--and about the Panama Hotel. But Ethel had only been gone six months.