by Nina Revoyr
“I don’t recognize you,” said the sister. “Have you visited before?”
Lanier cleared his throat. “Actually, no. I live down in L.A. And I’m kind of a distant relative—I’m a nephew of her sister.”
The nun looked at him again, and then at Jackie. Jackie realized, suddenly, that the nun was scared of Lanier. The dress shirt and pants couldn’t hide the prominence of his muscles, the breadth of his athlete’s shoulders. She wondered, all of a sudden, what it was like to be him, to inspire fear in people he hardly even noticed. Finally, Sister Elizabeth instructed them to sign the guest sheet, then called an attendant over to take them in.
“She’s in the television room,” explained the attendant as they walked down the hall. Her name tag read “Sophia.” They passed several open doors, and when Jackie glanced in she saw old people, lying in bed or sitting in wheelchairs, almost all of them with their arms stretched out toward the door, crying “Help me” to whoever went by. She looked away from them in shame and thought of walking past jail cells, skinny arms held out through the bars. They soon reached a large room full of ratty couches and discolored chairs. Most of the residents in attendance sat in long-backed wheelchairs, set up in two rows to face the television. A morning talk show was on, and the volume was turned up so high that Sophia had to shout.
“Just a second,” she said, “I’ll tell her you’re here.”
She approached one of the chairs, bent down to talk into an ear. Then the wheelchair spun around. Jackie and Lanier stood quietly as the occupant wheeled herself over. Although Jackie knew the woman was her grandfather’s age—seventy or seventy-one—she looked younger. Her curly hair was only slightly gray, and her skin was barely wrinkled. She had funny black glasses, the kind that Jackie associated with phone operators from the 1950s. She wore a blue and green plaid robe over a pair of pink sweatpants. Althea Dickson did not have the withered, sunken look of the other people in the room; as she stopped in front of them, Jackie half-expected her to jump out of her chair.
“Hello,” the woman said, and her voice was loud, commanding—qualities that had nothing to do with her hearing. “I’m Althea Dickson. Who are you? I hear you supposed to know me.”
Jackie smiled, especially when she saw the look of surprise and slight alarm on Lanier’s face. He had expected—they’d both expected—someone elderly, deflated.
“I’m James Lanier,” he managed, collecting himself and offering her the paper bag. “I’m Bruce Martindale’s nephew.”
Althea’s eyebrows shot up and then lowered into a straight, suspicious line. She took the bag from him, opened it, and peered inside. Only one eyebrow rose this time, and she looked back up at them. “Ain’t really sure if I’ve heard of you,” she said. Then, to Jackie, “And I know I don’t know who you are.”
Jackie gave Althea her name, and Althea nodded in acknowledgment before looking back at Lanier.
“I’m wondering if I could talk to you,” he said politely. “About my uncle and aunt.”
She tapped her foot against the footrest. “Well, I don’t mean to be rude, young man, but I didn’t like your uncle too much.”
Lanier nodded. “That’s all right. Neither did I. I liked Alma a whole lot better.”
“She was my sister, you know.”
“I know,” Lanier said. “I’d like to know more about her.”
Althea looked at him hard, and Jackie thought she was about to tell them to leave. But then she wheeled around without saying a word and headed down the hall. Lanier and Jackie glanced at each other, then followed; they had to walk fast to keep up. About halfway down the hall, without appearing to slow down, Althea took a sharp right through an open door. Lanier and Jackie hesitated at the doorway and then stepped in.
There were two beds in the room, both with guard rails. Everything on the near side was heavy and dark—wooden dresser, velvet chair, pine-green duvet. The far side, near the window, was minimalist and neat, all the furnishings in black and white or light wood.
“I hate this shit,” Althea said, flinging her arm as if throwing a frisbee. She had rolled up in front of the window, which faced a small courtyard, and was pulling a crumpled pack of cigarettes from under her mattress. “My son Luther bought it for me. He sold all my old furniture and our house when I went into the hospital last year.”
“I’m sorry,” Lanier said. “How long have you been here?”
“Three years,” Althea answered. “Feels like thirty. Being around all these people make anyone feel old. And the staff!” She cranked the window open, lit her cigarette, puffed, and blew the smoke out through the crack. “They just as bad as the patients. Spend the day looking at the clock, you know, and thinking about their boyfriends.” She paused and took a long drag of her cigarette. “They treat us like we’re babies. You’re not even supposed to smoke. I wouldn’t be able to if my grandson Marcus didn’t sneak me my cigarettes. But he just went to jail last week to start a six-month sentence, and this here’s my final pack.”
Jackie did not have a thing to say; she stood self-consciously beside Lanier, who had taken the only chair. On the other side of him, on the white dresser, stood several framed photographs; Althea saw him glancing at them and said, “Go ahead, take a look.”
Jackie took this as an invitation for her to look as well. She and Lanier leaned over the dresser. One of pictures showed a much younger Althea in a plain white wedding dress, smiling widely next to her handsome and dazed-looking husband. Another one showed three young men, all sporting tight striped shirts and large afros; Althea informed them that they were her sons. Then there was a picture of an even younger Althea, with her arm thrown over the shoulder of a girl Jackie recognized as Alma. She looked the same as she had in the bowling-alley picture, but wider-eyed, more girl-like. Finally, there was a picture of Alma and her husband, sandwiching two young boys. Alma was much darker than her slightly overweight husband, with the children ranging somewhere in between. Cory, who looked about five or six, was staring off at something over the photographer’s shoulder. Curtis, who must have been fourteen or fifteen, stood proudly, hands behind his back, looking straight into the camera and smiling. He was a bit lighter-skinned than his brother, but still darker than Bruce—dignified and handsome. And he was wiry and slight—like Alma, but also, perhaps, like Frank. She tried to see signs of her grandfather in him—the set of his mouth looked familiar and there was something around his eyes. But she couldn’t tell for sure. All she knew was that even at this age he was self-possessed and confident; he looked more grown-up than he was. Then she thought, this is the boy that Grandpa loved, whatever the connection. She glanced at Lanier and saw that he was biting his lip. “That’s my cousin,” he said softly. “That’s my man.”
Althea had finished her cigarette now, and she cleared her throat to get their attention. “Listen, why exactly you here?”
Lanier moved forward in his chair. “A couple of things. See, the truth is, we’re trying to build a case against the man who murdered Curtis and the other boys. But it’s all gotten kind of personal, and Curtis was like a brother to me, and, well, I just want to know some more about him.”
Althea turned her wheelchair toward the window and squinted; Jackie couldn’t tell if she was upset or just trying to see more clearly. “There ain’t a word bad enough to describe the man who did that to them,” she said, “and I hope you do catch him and punish him good. But as for the rest of it, honey, I don’t know. Don’t know what good it would do. It ain’t gonna bring Curtis back.”
“I know,” replied Lanier. “But it would make me feel better. He was born up here, right? How did Alma meet my uncle, anyway? And what was he like?”
Althea continued to look out the window. “Your uncle,” she began, “was a catch. Least he was back then, anyway. He was strong and he was faithful and he had a good job. Didn’t smoke or drink at all—that started later.”
Lanier nodded, encouraging her to go on.
“Alma came
up to live with me at the end of the summer. She was eighteen years old. Bruce was a man then, twenty-eight or twenty-nine, and he’d been living here in Oakland for a couple of years. Every day, on her lunch break, she’d go across the street to this diner, and Bruce would be there—he was having coffee before he started his shift at the Corson factory. They started sitting together, and pretty soon Alma was going there after work, too, to meet Bruce for his dinner break. They met and got married in just a couple of months. I was glad for her—she got real lucky.”
“Why did Alma come to live with you?” asked Lanier.
Althea leaned forward, as if she spotted something moving outside. “She needed work. And a change of scenery. And the companies up here was hiring.”
“Why did you come up here?” Jackie asked.
Now Althea leaned back again and laughed. “Our daddy always took the car to a gas station over on Imperial Highway. One day, he brought home this skinny man said his car engine blew up. He was a sailor just back from the war and he was on his way home to Oakland. Anyway, he asked did I want to come with him, so I did. Stayed with him for forty-four years, till he passed back in ’88.”
Jackie smiled at this story, but Lanier didn’t seem to hear it. “Mrs. Dickson,” he started gently, “was work the only reason that your sister left L.A.?”
She turned to look at him now, and her eyebrows were raised. “What you trying to ask, young man?”
He bent forward, hands spread against his knees. “I found a wedding announcement that said that Bruce and Alma got married on November 17, 1946. And Curtis was born in March of ’47.”
“So she was pregnant when she married him. So what?”
He looked away for a moment, and then back. “You said that Alma came up to live with you at the end of the summer. But if Curtis was born the next March, then she must have gotten pregnant in June or July.”
Althea looked away and pulled another cigarette out of the pack. She lit it and kept her eyes on the burning tip.
“Do you have any idea,” asked Lanier, “who the father was?”
She took a long, slow drag before she answered. “It don’t matter. Bruce raised him. And I don’t think Curtis ever knew.”
Lanier looked at Jackie, who was still standing by the bed. “Mrs. Dickson,” he said gently, “it does matter. It matters to me, and it matters to Jackie here. Her grandfather was Frank Sakai.”
At the mention of this name, Althea swung her head around.
“Listen,” Lanier continued, “I’m sorry. I know this is a shock to you. But the more we look into this, the more we hear that Alma and Frank knew each other, and that they were…close.” He paused, but Althea didn’t say anything. “We’re just not sure how long they knew each other, or if—”
“I know all about that,” the old woman snapped. She puffed on her cigarette, not bothering, now, to blow the smoke out the window. Jackie and Lanier remained silent. When Althea spoke again, her voice sounded tired. “I knew Frank, you know. He was in my class at Dorsey. But I don’t think he knew Alma then—she was still in junior high. He sure noticed her later, though—after the war.” She paused and waved away the gathering smoke. “He was working at the store already, and I guess she would stop in there on her way home from work. I wasn’t around for most of this ’cos I came up north with Raymond—but it didn’t take long for our parents to figure out what was happening. They forbid her to see him, but that didn’t work. I don’t know how long they were together. But sometime in the summer of ’46, my mother realized Alma was pregnant and she sent her up here to live with Raymond and me.”
“Why didn’t she stay in L.A.?” Jackie asked.
The old woman gave her a look that made her feel naïve. “A lot of reasons that I can think of.”
Lanier nodded at Jackie. “And then she married Bruce, and Frank married your grandmother.”
“But they knew each other after,” Jackie said. “And Curtis started working in the store.”
Althea nodded. “What happened between the two of them, I don’t exactly know. Alma never talked to me about it. But I do know she didn’t say anything to Bruce or Curtis. Curtis never knew Bruce wasn’t his daddy, and Bruce never found out who the real daddy was. Resented it, though. And resented Curtis, too. Thought he saw the father hiding behind every tree.” She crushed out her cigarette. “I saw Frank again at Alma’s funeral. He seemed real sad.”
Jackie nodded—remembering, suddenly, Frank’s unexplained trip to San Francisco, the postcard he had sent her. “I had no idea about any of this,” she said. “I don’t think anyone in my family did.”
“That surprise you?”
Jackie realized, with a start, that the old woman didn’t like her grandfather. What was she thinking? Why was she upset? Did she think that Frank took advantage of Alma? “Mrs. Dickson, I think my grandfather really loved your sister. I mean, you said yourself that he came up here for the funeral.”
Althea swung around and looked at her. “Love ain’t something you feel, young lady. Love is something you do. And what’d Frank Sakai ever do for my sister?”
“A lot,” Jackie said.
“He did,” Lanier concurred.
Althea raised her eyebrows. “Hmph.”
Jackie and Lanier were silent as they drove back to San Francisco. Jackie had expected to feel exhilarated after talking to Althea; instead, she just felt sad. And so when they reached the hotel, she said she wanted to take a nap and retreated into her room. She had so many questions, so many things to mull over. Did Curtis ever know that Frank was his father? Did Jackie’s grandmother have any idea? Had Frank and Alma continued their affair after she’d moved back to L.A.? And this she kept coming back to, over and over: What had it been like for Frank to watch another man raise his son? These were not the kind of issues she wanted to talk about with Lanier. So she said goodbye to him, showered, and then, still wrapped in her towel, lay flat on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.
Lanier, for his part, didn’t want to be alone. He started walking—through the Mission, through the Castro, all the way up to Haight Street and over to Golden Gate Park. None of the people he saw left a mark on him, though; all he could think about was Curtis. Curtis, his cousin, who was also not his cousin. Curtis, who was, however, Jackie Ishida’s uncle. Curtis, his first and best example of what a man was supposed to be; his debt; his reason for doing all he did. Curtis, whose real father—unlike his own—was there right in front of him, but also just outside of his reach.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
FRANK, 1985
HE HAD no right to grieve. She wasn’t his wife, hadn’t even been his lover since before all his children were born. But when he heard of her passing, it was like a piece of shrapnel pierced his heart. Then there was an emptying. He felt nothing, vacated, the insides of him absent. And the world around him lost all texture and meaning, so that the thunk of the phone shocked him when he dropped it on the counter; the people in the street, when he stumbled outside, opened their mouths and spoke words he couldn’t hear.
It was Victor who had called and told him. Victor had been the one Alma wrote to when she finally left her husband, and she still sent him a Christmas card every year, which was how Frank had heard she’d moved back to Oakland. And Victor had found out about her death from her sister Althea, who’d called from Oakland and was arranging the funeral. Victor did not feel up to another funeral, and he hadn’t left L.A. in twenty years, but he suspected enough about Alma and his friend to know that Frank might want to make the trip. Ovarian cancer, Althea had said. She hadn’t even known until near the end that her sister was sick.
Victor’s call had come at eleven a.m., while Mary was out at the store. When she got back an hour later, she called out that she was home. No answer. She didn’t worry, because Frank often took walks on Saturday mornings or went to visit with a neighbor, although he usually told her first or left a note. After putting away the groceries, she began to prepare lunch. They always
had Japanese food on Saturday, and today’s fare was simple—broiled salmon, steamed rice, tsukemono. She had just turned the rice down to a simmer when she heard her husband come into the house and then enter the kitchen. She greeted him and he said hello. He seemed in a dark mood, but Mary didn’t worry—he would tell her what was wrong when he was ready. As he sat at the table, she turned her back to him, cutting open the sealed package of takuan. She told him of the new saleslady at the Japanese market, a serious young girl who reminded her of their Rose. Slowly, carefully, she squeezed out a few inches of the pickled yellow takuan. She laid it out on the cutting board, positioned her knife a centimeter from the end, and pressed down.
“I have to go out of town,” said Frank, suddenly, and his voice sounded strangely heavy.
Mary paused, then repositioned her knife and cut another piece. “Oh?”
“A funeral,” Frank said. “Up in Oakland.”
Her shoulders tightened and lifted, but he couldn’t tell if it was from nervousness, anger, or working the knife. She cut another piece. “Did she die?”
Frank started, but then discovered he wasn’t really surprised. It would be disrespectful, to both women, to give a long explanation. Things had been so much easier with Mary since Alma moved away; their marriage regained the calm, affectionate equilibrium it had had in the first few years. He knew how disappointing their life together had been, how he had lived elsewhere from her the years he was running the store. When Curtis was in the neighborhood, and Alma too, Frank had felt too guilty about what he wasn’t giving his wife to do anything but avoid her—after their first few years in the Mesa, she’d become as invisible to him as she had ever been in Little Tokyo. But after the store, the move to Gardena, he came back to her again, trying to fulfill the promise he’d made to her all those years ago, when he’d taken her out of her parents’ restaurant. The two of them would sit out on the porch drinking iced tea together, talking, or reading in easy silence. And he hated to disturb that calmness now, but he had to, there wasn’t a choice. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll be back in a couple of days.”
