Under the Silk Hibiscus

by Alice J. Wisler

  When our burgers arrived, we picked at them as though they were old grievances set before us, dressed up in disguises on white platters.

  Guardedly, we spoke of the weather, the economy, and candidates for the next presidential election. I thought it was safe to ask her about life in New York City, provided that I didn’t ask about her recordings or producer again. Her meticulous explanation of how to get on and off the subway made me smile, as did her attempt at a Brooklyn accent. But after that, she didn’t seem interested in continuing to share about the big city life. So I let it go and finished my Coke.

  Someone put a coin in the jukebox, and soon the music of Glenn Miller filled the diner. I thought of how Mama and Papa used to dance to “In the Mood” together. I thought of family and courage and how life could shatter in one single second.

  When it seemed like we had both had enough of sadness, we looked for something to laugh at. We watched a couple, who had just entered the restaurant, find a table nearby. They were dressed alike in matching blue sweatshirts that had WBO printed in large white letters across the chest.

  “What’s WBO?” Lucy whispered.

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, what is it?”

  Quickly, off the top of my head, I came up with a reply. “White Boys Only.”

  “Ohh, that’s bad.” She giggled.

  “Or it could be worse. White Body Odor.”

  “That’s worse! How about World Body Odor?”

  “I guess that’s better. That way we aren’t discriminating against anyone. Not boys or girls or any race.”

  “I hate discrimination,” she said flatly.

  But I didn’t want the conversation to go back to being one that was intense. I wanted humor, laughter, if possible. “Aunt Kazuko thinks we should sell matches and towels at our store.”

  “Matches and towels? Clean towels, I would hope?”

  “None with body odor.”

  “I like your humor. I always have.”

  I let her hold my hand and wished the moment could last, but my mind was spinning. Now, with Lucy back in my life, I couldn’t help but think of how Ken needed to be back in it, too. He was family. Mama would have wanted me to find him. Had Mama been here, she would have never let him get so far from us.

  “What’s going on in your mind?” Lucy asked.

  “I was thinking about Ken.” He was my brother. And Emi’s and Tom’s. How could I continue to deny them his presence in their lives? Jumping from the table, I said, “Let’s go find out about Ken.”

  Lucy looked confused. “How? He’s in London.”

  “Well, somebody in town has to know more about what he’s up to.” I grabbed her hand, paid the bill, left a tip, and together we exited the restaurant.

  I knew the Hashimoto family had a son in the 442nd regiment. They worked on a farm north of San Jose where they picked strawberries.

  We could take a cab to their house.

  Mr. and Mrs. Hashimoto were in the middle of a late dinner but welcomed us inside as they finished eating. They asked if we’d like something to drink, but we declined, and Lucy apologized for coming for an impromptu visit during the dinner hour.

  She and I sat in their modest living room on a sagging brown sofa that must have come from the same store ours had come from. The room held two wing-back chairs, a floor lamp and an oak coffee table with a few noticeable scratch marks. The clock on the mantle ticked loudly, and then when the nine o’clock hour hit, a little bird came out and sang, “Cukoo-cukoo,” nine times. Next to the clock was a framed photo on the mantle. Lucy and I decided that it must be Alex Hashimoto. There he was, in uniform, clean shaven and militant, standing by an army tank.

  “Isn’t he handsome?” Mrs. Hashimoto said, as she entered the room.

  “Yes,” said Lucy.

  “Ken looked just as handsome in his uniform, I bet,” said Mrs. Hashimoto.

  I cringed. I had no idea what Ken looked like in his army uniform. Only once had he written to us while enlisted, and I’d tossed the letter away after reading about his antics. I knew that, at that time, Lucy was hearing from him, too, and her gushy feelings toward him stopped me from wanting anything to do with him. Besides, he had betrayed me, our family. He had let a connection to our past slide through our fingers. And what made it worse was that he hadn’t cared.

  Mr. Hashimoto joined us. He was a little man with a chubby face and a dark beard. “You haven’t heard from Ken?” he asked me.

  “No, not in a while.”

  “He’s in London.”

  “I did hear that. But what is he doing there?”

  Mrs. Hashimoto smiled. “He’s in good health. He survived the war, as did Alex. The two of them have a Japanese restaurant in the East End.”

  From Lucy’s response, I gathered that she had no clue that this was what Ken was up to either. “Somebody mentioned something about a restaurant,” she said. “but I didn’t know that Ken was involved.”

  “Apparently, they are doing well,” said Mr. Hashimoto. “They found a Japanese chef who makes really good tempura and teriyaki. The local people like his cooking.”

  “I’m sure you miss him,” said Lucy, and I wondered if she said that because she missed Ken.

  “We do,” said Mr. Hashimoto. “But he is doing what he wants to. We hear from him about every two or three months.”

  “Not often enough,” said Mrs. Hashimoto. “But you know how boys can be when it comes to writing letters.”

  “Have you seen Alex since the war ended?” I asked.

  “He came to visit us at Christmas last year. He stayed a week. Then back to London.”

  “I would have liked to have talked with him,” I said.

  “I should have called you to let you know he was here.” Mrs. Hashimoto nudged her husband. “Get that review,” she said. “You know, the one from the magazine.”

  He grunted, heaved himself up, and plodded into the other room. When he returned, he had a page which he handed to me. Lucy slipped close and together we studied the paper which appeared to be from a magazine called London Style. The article was titled, “New Japanese restaurant offers tasty meals.” Under the title was a photo of Alex and Ken, both smiling, in front of their restaurant.

  “Do you see the name of the restaurant?” asked Mrs. Hashimoto.

  Lucy ran a finger along the curved letters of the front door of the restaurant. “He named it Nathan’s,” she said.

  “You may have the article,” said Mrs. Hashimoto. “You take it home and keep it safe.”

  “Thank you,” said Lucy.

  I blinked back tears.

  Mr. Hashimoto drove us to my house in his truck, and when we arrived, it was almost eleven. I invited Lucy in, and she said she could stay a little while.

  The house was quiet, and as I checked the bedrooms, I saw that everyone was asleep. Papa was now sleeping in Tom’s room on a bed the Shimizu family had given him.

  “I used to check the beds and do a head count at camp,” I said, as Lucy sat on the sofa. “Ken was rarely in his bed.”

  “That gang took a lot of his time.”

  “What exactly did they do?”

  “Oh, they did all sorts of crazy things. They fought the gang from L.A. Went to dances. Tried to appear tough. Flirted with girls.”

  The Hashimotos had a framed photo of their military son on their mantle. On top of ours, we had only a bare glass vase from some box of donations. I placed the article on the mantle and used the vase to hold it upright. “There,” I said proudly, “now we are just like the Hashimotos.”

  Lucy laughed. “Sit down.”

  I eased down next to her and put my arm around her shoulders. Here she was, here we were. Ken had named his restaurant after me. What was the next step? I’d write to him. I’d tell him that I had harbored resentment for too long. I’d tell him that Mekley brought the watch back. All was well.

  “I’m sorry that you’ve been estranged so long from your brother.” Lu
cy’s voice was soft against the dimly-lit room.

  “And you? You used to be close to him.”

  “Once. But I lost contact with him. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  “And with me?”

  “With you it has always been different. I told you that I admired you. From afar.”

  “Afar.”

  “With you, you were much more deep in your heart than Ken was. Ken teased and flirted. He charmed everyone. You,” she turned her face toward mine. “You were always thinking. Always seeing life with a pair of realistic glasses. You had this depth. You still have it, Nathan. People like Ken and me . . . we are so much alike. Yet we need people like you to keep us grounded.”

  Although my arm was around her, and she was here, right here, her mouth just inches from mine, I couldn’t kiss her. My mind was still restless with why and how come? Had I been a lion in a cage at the zoo, I would have paced. Ken was safe. Lucy was interested in me. But what about her producer? What about her glamorous life in Manhattan? Was she going to return to it and leave me again? And what did she mean that she and Ken were alike? What was people like you? What was she implying when she called me grounded? The word conjured up a ball and chain in my mind. I was stable, the one people came to after they had made mistakes, the one they returned to so that they could confess their sins and go out again.

  As though my swirling thoughts were an energetic force propelling me to action, I bolted off the sofa. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Can’t I get you a cup of tea?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “I just don’t get it,” I said. “You aren’t honest, Lucy. You used to tell the truth. You sang songs that were truthful and good, songs about God and country.”

  “What are you saying?”

  I ran a hand over my face and let it rub against the stubble on my chin. “You won’t talk about your life in Manhattan.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Are you going back?”

  “I don’t know. What do you want?”

  “You said you wanted to be at home. If home is here, then why would you return to New York?”

  “I have a contract to make another record.”

  “So you are going back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I’m going into the kitchen to get some coffee. While I make it, you can think.”

  In the kitchen, I opened the cupboard and took out the can of Maxwell. I measured the coffee and water, as I did every morning, only tonight I didn’t hum the songs she sang in camp. I didn’t hear her slip out either, but she did. When I went back to the living room, the sofa was bare, and she was gone.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The next day I called her parents’ home, but they said she wasn’t there. She had packed up and left in the morning.

  “Without telling you where she was going?” I asked.

  “Only a note that said she would be back and not to worry about her,” said Mrs. Yokota.

  “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”

  “Nathan, you can’t chase her. Please.”

  I wanted to say that I couldn’t let Lucy go, that I had already let her go once. Too many people had left my life. I wanted Lucy permanently in mine. Didn’t they know that I had once been willing to jump in front of a bomb for her? True, I’d been naïve then; I had been fifteen years old. But now at nearly twenty, I knew I needed her.

  But Mrs. Yokota just interrupted my thoughts before I could form them into words. “Just run your business, and take care of your family, Nathan. And pray. God will meet her. These things take time.”

  I had let her go again. She had been seated on our sofa in our house, and now she was gone.

  I kicked myself. Had I made her feel shameful? About Mekley? About the producer? About what she and Ken had done?

  What was wrong with me? Ken was not coming back. Now Lucy was gone again.

  Each time our phone rang at home or at the shop, my heart jumped. But she was never on the other end. I waited a few days and then called her parents to ask if they had heard from her.

  “She took a train to Seattle. My sister is there,” said Mrs. Yokota.

  I begged her for the phone number and, reluctantly, Mrs. Yokota gave it to me.

  When I called the first time, no one answered.

  I tried to smile at my customers, concentrate on their comments to me about how happy they were to have this general store, and respond accordingly. I calculated how much we had made this month in sales. I counted our money in the cash register and hoped that one day we’d be making enough to open a savings account.

  When I locked the door at five-fifteen, I took the opportunity of being alone to make a private phone call.

  Lucy’s aunt answered and passed the phone to her.

  My words tumbled out. “Come back. Work in the shop with me. If living with your parents is too hard, rent an apartment.”

  “Nathan, I can’t. I have no money. I spent the last of it on the train ticket to Seattle.”

  “I have money,” I blurted. “Come back. You can make a record here. You can go to L.A. to cut one and then come back to San Jose.” I knew I was making it all too simplistic because I wanted it to be, because I wanted her in my life.

  “Oh, Nathan,” she said, “I had my day in the sun. I tasted the small amount of fame. I had to fight and deny my own roots in order to get a contract. I feel like I sold my soul to the Devil. I lost a part of me; the me that I used to be.”

  Why was she talking this way? This was not how she should talk. She was talented and beautiful and had a godly soul. “What is it you want to do now?”

  “I want to find home,” she said. “I want to share it with the people I love. I want to know that I am right where God wants me to be.”

  For a few seconds we were silent.

  After a moment she asked, “How about you, Nathan?”

  “What?”

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  What did I want? I let a moment pass as I thought. I had been so busy trying to take care of everybody. I wondered if I had any desire that had not been worked to death out of me.

  So much of what I had wanted was lost . . . Gone was any hope of having a normal life like others got, a life with Mama, Papa, Emi, Tom, Ken, and me—all together as a family. I had felt broken, lost, confused. But with Lucy in my life once again, it seemed as though something right had been restored.

  “Come home, Lucy,” I whispered. “Come back to me.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Ken took it upon himself to give Mekley our watch so that the soldier would keep away from Lucy. I wanted to pawn the watch so that Lucy could be helped once again. But I had learned from Ken’s mistake. He acted on impulse. I wouldn’t make the same mistake. There are times when families need to do the right thing, and that often means bringing other members into the picture.

  So I went to my aunt. She was looking over Everything But Buttons’ revenues and expenses.

  “I have something to tell you,” I said.

  She glanced up at me through her reading glasses. “Okay, but make it quick-quick.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  She looked at my face and then closed the ledger.

  “I know you are busy.”

  “Never mind that. I have time. Put on the kettle for tea. And, oh, get the cookies.”

  Scanning the pantry, I saw no cookies.

  “Behind the jar of jelly,” she said. “In a paper bag.”

  “You hid them?” I saw the bag and pulled it out. Opening it, sure enough, there was a tin of chocolate cookies.

  “With all of you vultures in the house? I have to hide. What else is a poor woman to do?”

  Over cups of hot tea and chocolate cookies, I told her about Mekley’s visit. I included how he’d stuttered and been apologetic.

  “I remember that soldier,” she said
with disdain. “He never do any work. He only look at girls. I can’t imagine him stuttering or saying he was sorry.”

  I told her how in a bar in France, Mekley was convicted of his wrongdoings. “He asked God for forgiveness.”

  “Repented?” Aunt Kazuko’s eyes widened. “That is the power of God’s doing,” she said. “That is how God operates when He opens your eyes. God opens, and you see. You look at truth and after that, you know you must act in truth.” After having said that, she seemed pleased with herself for sharing, fluffed her hair with one hand, and waited for me to continue.

  At the end of my story, my aunt had finished all but two of the cookies. “I ate too much,” she said, patting her belly. “Hide the cookies from me, will you?”

  ““What about the watch?” I said. “Don’t you think it would be okay to let the money from it help us? Don’t you think we could all use some money to make a better life for us now?” I took in a breath before asking one last question. “Don’t you think I could get a train ticket to bring Lucy back?”

  “Talk to your Papa,” she said. “He will tell you what to do.”

  I found him on the porch with his cigarettes, the grey fedora on his head, and a slight smile against his lips.

  “Papa, I need to talk to you.” I sat on the porch railing facing him and saw the lines in his face, the creases that I had never noticed before. “It’s about the Mori watch.”

  He drew in a lungful of smoke and let it out. “Did that soldier return it?”

  “Yeah. I have it now. It’s safe.” The last time I had checked it was still on a shelf in my bedroom closet.

  “A few years ago I had a dream that it was lost.”

  “It was, remember?”

  He continued as though he hadn’t heard me. “At first the dream scared me, but then I realized it was only a watch.”

  “The watch isn’t lost. I know I told you that it once was. It’s here. That soldier did bring it back.”

  “Good, good.”

  I excused myself and left him to go and fetch it. When I returned, I sat next to him and placed the opened box with the watch on his lap.